Three Eyed Raven: "And I took that personally."
A Song of Sun and Stars (Man of Steel x ASOIAF)
- Thread starter OrangePanther01
- Start date
- Crossover Movies Fantasy
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
It's inevitable Caelum catches his tree eyes and starts getting visits in his dreams
Oh and if adding dates troubles you, don't botter with them. Just write in the way that fits your better like usual
Yup, it depends how Brynden Rivers is gonna be portrayed as a reasonable guy who found a new alternative to the White Walkers being defeated or see Caelum as a threat because his presence had thrown him off the loop and he is to be dispatched.
The Weight of Power
Chapter 21 –
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Citadel library, illuminating the worn wooden table where Caelum, Pylos, Yandel, and Nerf huddled over an ancient tome.
The air was thick with the scent of parchment and beeswax, a familiar and comforting aroma that had become a constant companion during their weeks of study.
"I still can't believe Maester Lorcas had us dissect a human heart today," Pylos exclaimed, a shudder running through him. "The way he sliced through those valves... it was fascinating, but gods, it made my stomach churn."
Yandel offered a different perspective. "Dissection is essential for understanding the intricacies of the human body," he said, tracing an inked-down sketch of the heart with his finger. "Without it, we'd be fumbling in the dark, relying on outdated theories and guesswork."
Nerf, his amethyst eyes alight with curiosity, nodded in agreement. "I find it fascinating how the different organs work together to sustain life. It's like a complex machine, each part playing a vital role."
Caelum listened intently, his mind racing.
He had a unique advantage in their anatomy lessons, his magical sight allowing him to peer beyond the surface, to see the intricate workings of the body in a way no other novice could.
He'd witnessed the tiny creatures that thrived within the body after death, their movements a constant dance of life and decay.
It was those creatures, he now understood, that caused the rot of flesh after death.
He hadn't shared this insight with the others, of course, but it gave him a deeper understanding of the subject, a knowledge that went beyond the words on the page.
It wasn't just the human body either.
Everything, from the water they drank to the very air they breathed, teemed with these minute entities. They inhabited every corner of the world, shaping and transforming it in ways most were blind to.
He could see even deeper, beyond the flesh and blood, into the very building blocks of existence.
Each organ was a collection of tiny, interconnected structures, a symphony of motion and purpose.
Within those structures, tiny suns danced and vibrated, their movements governed by unseen forces.
It was like peering into a miniature cosmos, each tiny speck a sun, revolving around a core.
He realized that the world was a tapestry of intricate connections, a delicate balance of opposing forces.
The pull that held them to the ground, the invisible threads that bound objects together, the energy that fueled life and decay – all were intertwined, each influencing the other in a never-ending dance.
He saw that everything, from the smallest grain of sand to the vast expanse of the sky, was connected by a common, unseen consciousness.
Everything was connected.
Everyone was connected, by their collective consciousness.
It was as if the world was a grand, cosmic joke – a chaotic symphony of order and disorder, life and death, creation and destruction.
If only he knew how to share this revelation, to convince the maesters that their understanding of the world was incomplete.
But how could he explain what he saw without revealing the true source of his knowledge?
The thought filled him with a familiar frustration.
"Caelum!" Yandel's voice cut through his musings. "Are you alright? You seem lost in thought."
Pylos grinned, nudging Caelum playfully. "He does that sometimes. Gets caught up in his own little world."
Caelum blinked, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "Sorry, I was just... thinking about the lesson."
"Well, don't think too hard," Pylos quipped. "We need to get back to the Learned Anchor. Fern will be wondering where we've disappeared to." He turned to Yandel and Nerf, his voice taking on a more formal tone. "We've been invited to the Starry Sept this evening for the seventh-day sermon. Would you care to join us?"
Yandel's face fell. "I'd love to, but Archmaester Ebrose has requested my assistance. He's negotiating a trade agreement with some Myrish merchants for a shipment of glass, and needs me to scribe the details."
"Myrish glass?" Pylos asked, intrigued. "What does the Archmaester need with that? It's expensive stuff."
"He's not saying," Yandel replied with a shrug. "Something about a device he's working on. He tried melting glass a few days ago, but didn't quite get what he wanted."
Pylos raised an eyebrow. "If he's trying to replicate their glassmaking techniques, he's out of luck. They guard those secrets closely."
Yandel shook his head. "It's not that. It's... something else. I don't fully understand it myself."
"Well, good luck with it, Yandel," Caelum offered.
"We'll see you later," Pylos added.
"Farewell, Yandel," Nerf chimed in, his voice soft.
Yandel smiled gratefully. "Thank you, friends. I'll see you all later." He hurried off, the heavy tome tucked under his arm.
"What about you, Nerf?" Pylos asked, turning to their new friend. "Will you join us at the Sept?"
Nerf hesitated, his eyes darting nervously between Caelum and Pylos. "I... I'm not sure," he stammered. "I have some... other matters to attend to."
Before Pylos could press further, a voice came from behind them. "Nerf!" The acolyte Patrick strode towards them. "Archmaester Marwyn requests your presence."
Nerf's amethyst eyes widened in surprise. "Archmaester Marwyn?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of confusion. "What could he possibly want with me?"
Caelum stiffened, a sense of foreboding washing over him. He glanced at Pylos, but his friend seemed oblivious to the tension in the air.
Patrick, clearly enjoying the attention he was garnering, shrugged nonchalantly. "Who knows what goes on in that mad old coot's head?" he said with a sneer. "But he's waiting for you by the glass candle chamber. You'd best not keep him waiting."
Nerf nodded, his composure returning. "Of course," he said, a polite smile gracing his lips. "Thank you for informing me, Acolyte Patrick." He turned to Caelum and Pylos, his smile widening. "Farewell, my friends. I hope we can continue our studies another time."
With a graceful bow, Nerf turned and followed Patrick towards the glass candle chamber, his long black hair swaying gently behind him.
Pylos sighed, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Well, it seems we've lost another companion for the evening." He turned to Caelum. "Shall we head to the Sept, then? Fern won't want to wait long."
Caelum nodded, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. "Go on ahead," he said, picking up the remaining books from the table. "I'll just return these to their shelves and catch up with you."
Pylos hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright. But don't take too long, Caelum. Fern said that the sermon should soon after sunset, and I don't want to miss our first sermon at the Starry Sept!"
Caelum watched as Pylos strode away, his mind racing. He quickly gathered the books from the table, his thoughts consumed by a growing concern for Nerf.
What could Marwyn possibly want with him?
As he headed for the shelves, he focused his senses, straining to hear the conversation unfolding in the glass candle chamber.
Caelum, his heart pounding, strained his hearing towards the glass candle chamber. The voices, though muffled, were still discernible to his heightened senses.
"Welcome, little sphinx," Marwyn's voice echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone.
A beat of silence, then Nerf's voice, laced with confusion: "I... I don't understand, Archmaester. I apologize for any offense I might have caused."
"No offense taken, child," Marwyn chuckled. "Your secret is safe with me, Fern."
Caelum's breath hitched.
Fern? He was so confused.
"But... how did you know?" Fern's voice was barely a whisper now, filled with a mixture of fear and defiance.
"Your disguise was good. If I hadn't visited the inn, I wouldn't have caught on. I would recognize Hop-Bean's work anywhere." Marwyn replied. "How is the little dwarf? Is he still afraid of us big folk?"
Caelum listened intently, his mind racing to catch up with the revelation that his friend Nerf was actually Fern.
A wave of emotions washed over him; surprise, and confusion most of all.
"...not as afraid of me as he is of other people," Fern's voice was strained, barely a whisper. "Please, Archmaester, I apologize for the deception. I will leave the Citadel at once. Just... please don't tell Lord Hightower."
"Keeping secrets isn't a crime, child," Marwyn chuckled. "Especially not when those secrets are born from a thirst for knowledge. Many here at the Citadel harbor their own hidden truths. Archmaester Theron keeps a mistress and a bastard child at the Quill and Tankard. Ser Garth Hightower, the heir to Oldtown, prefers the company of men over women.
Even your... friends," Marwyn paused, his words heavy with unspoken meaning, "have secrets they wouldn't want the world to know."
Caelum's blood ran cold. Was Marwyn about to expose him?
"What... what do you want from me?" Fern's voice was barely a whisper now.
"To learn more about you, child," Marwyn replied, his tone softening. "Those amethyst eyes of yours... they're quite striking. Tell me, who was your mother?"
"She was a... a whore," Fern stammered. "From Ragpicker's Wynd. My father, Liernen, told me that much."
"Liernen isn't your true father, is he?" Marwyn asked gently.
Fern hesitated, a wave of shame washing over her. "No," she admitted. "He took me in when my mother died. I... I'm sorry, Archmaester. I never meant to deceive anyone. I just wanted to help my father, to learn the skills I need to run the inn."
Marwyn's voice was surprisingly kind. "You have nothing to apologize for, child. Neither you nor Liernen are in any danger." He paused,. "Raising a child that's not your own... it's a noble act. Paying the hundred silver stags to sneak you into the Citadel... that's not something most innkeepers could afford. Why do you think he did it?"
Fern's voice was barely a whisper. "My father's sister... she died a whore. He didn't want that for me."
Marwyn nodded slowly. "Liernen is a good man."
Caelum, listening intently, felt a surge of warmth towards the innkeeper.
He'd always known Liernen to be gruff but fair, he had given him a room at his inn, in exchange for work during the late afternoons.
"Did Liernen ever tell you about your blood father?" Marwyn asked, his voice once again filled with curiosity.
"Only that he was a lord from the crownlands," Fern replied. "But I never knew his name."
Marwyn's voice took on a professorial tone. "Valyrian blood, perhaps. I sense the potential for sorcery within you, child. A spark waiting to be ignited."
"But... will you truly not report me to Lord Hightower?" Fern's voice quivered, her relief palpable.
"Of course not," Marwyn chuckled. "Instead, I'll offer you the same choice I offered your friend, Caelum. Become my apprentice." His tone was enticing, promising secrets and knowledge. "I can teach you more about healing than Ebrose ever could. My knowledge of medicine surpasses even his, in some aspects."
Fern's voice sharpened with suspicion. "Why would you do that? What did Caelum choose?"
"Magic is returning to the world, Fern," Marwyn explained. "Your Valyrian blood could be a powerful asset. Besides, I'm writing a book, 'The Book of Lost Books', and I need a skilled scribe to capture my thoughts. I'll teach you how to disguise yourself better, how to hide your secret. You'll have access to knowledge and power few could dream of."
Silence hung in the air as Caelum strained to hear Fern's response.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Marwyn was a dangerous mad man, obsessed with magic and the arcane.
Why would he choose Fern out of all the potential candidates in Oldtown? There were likely hundreds of other children in oldtown that had Valyrian blood in their veins.
"What did Caelum choose?" Fern repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
"He hasn't given me an answer yet," Marwyn admitted. "But I believe he'll come around. He's a smart boy, and he knows a good offer when he hears one."
"I... I need to think about it," Fern said. "I need to talk to my father. Thank you for not betraying my secret, Archmaester."
"I understand, child. Take your time. I'll await your decision." Marwyn's voice was calm, almost soothing. "But remember, the world is changing. Opportunities like this don't come along often."
Caelum listened as Fern's footsteps faded away.
He was both relieved and deeply troubled.
He wanted to believe Marwyn's intentions were good, but something about the Archmaester's words and demeanor set off warning bells in his mind.
He thought of Fern, her kindness and the trust she'd shown him. Meredith would have done the same thing if she had been in her position.
If anyone deserved a chance at a better life, it was her.
But was Marwyn the right person to guide her?
Caelum couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this offer than met the eye.
He had to warn Fern, protect her from whatever Marwyn had planned.
But how? How could he do that without revealing his own secret?
If it became necessary, and Marwyn proved dangerous, he would damn his secret and tell her.
Damn his fears.
The weight of his own magic, the power that set him apart, felt heavier than ever before.
He longed for a world where he could be just Caelum, the boy from the farm, not some anomaly with extraordinary abilities. But that world, it seemed, was slipping further and further away.
If Fern was truly in danger, he would tell her everything.
Damn his anxieties.
He hastily shoved the remaining books back onto the shelves, their haphazard arrangement a minor inconvenience compared to the worry gnawing at him. He practically sprinted through the library's labyrinthine corridors, his mind racing with thoughts of Marwyn and Fern.
As he reached a heavy wooden door leading out of the library, he grasped the iron handle and pulled. To his surprise, the entire door came off its hinges, the rusted metal screeching in protest. Caelum stumbled back, the door crashing to the floor with a resounding thud.
"What in the Seven Hells was that?" A gruff voice echoed through the corridor as a guard in Hightower livery rounded the corner, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"I... I just tried to open the door, and it came off," Caelum stammered, his face flushing with embarrassment.
The guard knelt down, examining the broken hinge. "Rusty old thing," he muttered. "No harm done, lad. I'll have someone fix it." He gave Caelum a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You best be on your way."
Caelum nodded, grateful for the guard's understanding.
He hurried away, the strange incident already fading from his mind as he focused on his mission. He couldn't be late for the seventh-day sermon. It was his first time visiting the Starry Sept since arriving in Oldtown, and he didn't want to miss it.
The sun was setting as Caelum made his way through the cobblestone streets, the golden light casting long shadows that danced and flickered like the flames he'd conjured in his room.
He reached the Learned Anchor just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon.
Liernen greeted him at the door. "You're just in time, lad. Fern's gone to run a few errands, but she should be back soon. Could you help me hitch up the wagon? We'll need it to get to the Sept."
Caelum nodded, a wave of affection washing over him. Caelum's respect for the innkeeper had grown even deeper after learning of his selfless act in raising Fern as his own.
"Pylos is inside, finishing up his supper," Liernen said, jerking his head towards the bustling common room. "You can join him if you like."
"Thank you, Liernen, but I'm not hungry right now," Caelum replied, his voice a touch higher than usual. "Where's the wagon? Is there anything else I can help with?"
Liernen pointed towards the back of the inn. "The horses are tied up behind the building. Hitch them to the wagon, and make sure the wheels are properly greased. They've been squeaking something awful lately."
"Will do," Caelum said, eager to keep his mind occupied. He strode towards the inn's back door, his thoughts still swirling with the cryptic conversation he'd overheard.
As he reached for the door handle, he pushed, expecting the usual resistance. Instead, the door flew open with a loud bang, nearly ripping off its hinges entirely. Caelum stumbled back, his eyes wide with alarm.
"What in the blazes was that?" Liernen shouted from the common room.
"Sorry, Liernen!" Caelum called back, his voice shaking. "I was rushing."
Liernen emerged from the inn, a bemused expression on his face. "Easy there, lad," he chuckled, shaking his head. "No need to tear the place down. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but slow down."
Caelum apologized again, his heart pounding in his chest.
He hadn't meant to fling the door open like that. That's the second time it had happened. Something was wrong.
Pylos, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, appeared in the doorway. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance," he quipped. "Thought you wouldn't make it back in time."
"I rushed as soon as I could," Caelum replied, his voice strained. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.
Pylos waved a dismissive hand. "Just call me if you need help, Caelum. I'll be here."
Caelum nodded, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach. He headed towards the back of the inn, his senses on high alert.
The two horses, their coats gleaming in the fading light, were tethered to a nearby post. Caelum approached the chestnut mare, his hands trembling as he reached for the rope. He untied it slowly, his gaze fixed on the horse's wary eyes.
As he began leading the mare towards the wagon, he gently tugged on the rope, intending to guide her into position. But the mare didn't budge. Caelum tugged again, harder this time.
Suddenly, the mare lurched forward, pulled with a force that should have been impossible for Caelum to muster. A cry of pain escaped the horse's mouth as it stumbled, its legs tangling in the rope.
Caelum froze, his eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, rushing to the mare's side. He quickly untied the rope, his hands shaking.
"Everything alright back there, Caelum?" Liernen's voice boomed from the inn.
"Yes, Liernen!" Caelum called back, his voice tight. "Just... just a bit of trouble with the mare."
Caelum crouched beside the mare, his hand trembling as he reached out to stroke her velvety nose. "Easy, girl," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
He focused on his touch, willing it to be as gentle as a feather's caress. His fingers brushed against the mare's warm flank, each stroke a conscious effort to control the strength that thrummed beneath his skin. To his relief, the mare's trembling subsided, her breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.
"There you go," Caelum soothed, his voice barely audible. "It's alright. I won't hurt you again."
He stood, his heart still pounding in his chest. This was new, this surge of power that seemed to respond to his every whim. Was this another gift from the gods?
He didn't know, but the fear of inadvertently harming someone else gnawed at him.
With renewed determination, he approached the black stallion, his movements cautious and deliberate. He spoke to the horse in a low, calming voice, his touch as light as a butterfly's wing. The stallion, sensing Caelum's intentions, lowered its head, its ears twitching in curiosity.
Caelum carefully attached the harness, his fingers fumbling with the buckles and straps. Every touch felt exaggerated, every movement magnified. Even a gentle tug on the reins felt like a powerful yank, but he persevered, his focus unwavering.
Finally, both horses were hitched to the wagon, their heads bowed and their bodies relaxed. Caelum stepped back, surveying his work with a mixture of pride and trepidation.
Next, Caelum turned his attention to the squeaking wheels. He approached the task with the same exaggerated care, treating the heavy wooden spokes as if they were as delicate as parchment.
He dipped his fingers into the grease, wincing at the sensation of the thick, oily substance on his skin. He carefully applied it to the axles, each turn a deliberate effort to control his newfound strength.
With a final grunt of exertion, he finished the task, wiping his greasy hands on a nearby rag. He stepped back, surveying the wagon with a mix of satisfaction and unease. The horses stood calmly, their harness secure, and the wheels no longer emitted their earsplitting squeal.
Just as Caelum finished, Fern emerged from the inn, a small basket slung over her arm. "All set?" she asked, a warm smile on her face.
It seems she had gotten her mummer's wig off, her short boyish brown hair were brushed, and her Amethyst eyes sparkled when they set upon him.
"Just in time, dear," Liernen boomed, clapping her on the back with a hearty laugh. "You did a fine job, Caelum. Let's be off to the Sept, then."
Caelum nodded, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.
The wagon was ready, and he'd managed to avoid any further mishaps with his uncontrollable strength. He vowed to himself that he wouldn't touch anyone on the way to the Sept, not until he could figure out what was happening to him. The thought of accidentally hurting someone, especially Fern, Pylos or any of his friends, filled him with dread.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The Starry Sept of Oldtown was a masterpiece of architecture, its domed ceiling soaring high above a sea of flickering candlelight. The seven statues of the gods, each carved from a single block of black marble, stood sentinel along the walls, their enigmatic faces bathed in the soft glow of the countless candles.
Caelum, however, found little solace in the serene beauty of the place. He fidgeted on the wooden bench, his eyes darting from one statue to the next.
A strange unease prickled at the back of his neck, a sensation he couldn't quite shake. The air itself felt thick, charged with an energy he couldn't define.
His gaze settled on the statues' eyes, each one a gleaming shard of obsidian. The star-like stones seemed to glint with an inner fire, a reflection of the same celestial power that had brought him to this world.
The sight left him uncomfortable.
His fingers tightened around the armrest, the smooth wood a stark contrast to the rough fabric of his tunic. He was acutely aware of his own body, the power that thrummed beneath his skin like a caged beast.
The incident with the horse had shaken him, leaving him with a lingering fear of what he might be capable of. He'd barely touched the door, the horse, and yet the results had been... excessive.
He glanced at Fern and Pylos, seated beside him, their faces serene as they listened to the Septon's words. They seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil, their faith a comforting anchor in the storm of his own doubts.
Caelum wished he could share their tranquility, but he was too afraid that even the faintest touch from him would break something, or hurt someone.
"...and in these dark times, let us turn to the Seven for guidance and strength, for they are our shield against despair and our beacon of hope," the Septon's voice echoed through the vast chamber, yet the words seemed to bounce off Caelum, failing to penetrate the swirling chaos of his thoughts.
Pylos, noticing Caelum's restless shifting and the way his fingers drummed a silent rhythm on his thigh, leaned closer and whispered, "Are you alright, Caelum? You seem on edge."
Caelum forced a smile, his gaze fixed on the flickering candles. "I'm fine, Pylos," he lied, his voice barely a whisper. "Just a bit tired, that's all."
Fern, her brow furrowed with concern, leaned closer to Caelum. "Are you sure you're alright?" she whispered. "You look a little pale. And you've been so jumpy ever since Archmaester Marwyn visited you at the inn. Did he say something to upset you?"
Caelum swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "It's nothing, Fern," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just a bit overwhelmed by the sermon, I suppose."
Fern nodded, her amethyst eyes filled with empathy. "I'll pray for you, Caelum. May the Seven guide you and bring you peace."
Caelum squeezed her hand, a wave of guilt washing over him.
He longed to tell her the truth, to confide in her about Marwyn's visit. He would if Marwyn proved dangerous, but the fear of rejection, of being seen as a monster, held him back.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. But his anxiety only grew, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He gripped the armrest of the bench, his fingers tightening involuntarily.
There was a sharp crack, followed by a loud snapping sound. The armrest, weakened by age and Caelum's unintentional strength, splintered under his grasp.
The bench tilted, sending Caelum, Fern, Pylos, and Liernen tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and startled cries.
The sermon came to an abrupt halt, the entire congregation turning to stare at the source of the commotion. A septa, her face etched with concern, rushed over, followed by a knight in gleaming Hightower armor.
"Are you alright?" the septa asked, helping Fern to her feet.
"We're fine, Septa," Liernen grumbled, rubbing his bruised elbow. "Just a bit shaken, that's all."
The knight examined the broken bench, his brow furrowed. "Must have been old and worn," he concluded. "No harm done." He offered them another bench, closer to the front this time.
Liernen apologized profusely, but the septa waved him off with a gentle smile. "It's no trouble at all," she assured him. "We should have been more diligent in our inspections."
The sermon resumed, but Caelum couldn't focus. His hands trembled, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He knew he couldn't stay here, not with this uncontrollable power coursing through him.
"I'm not feeling well," he whispered to Fern, his voice barely audible. "I think I should go home."
Fern's eyes widened with concern. "Would you like me to come with you?"
Caelum shook his head. "No, I'll be fine," he lied. "Just need some fresh air. You stay and enjoy the sermon."
He rose from the bench, his legs unsteady. With a final apologetic glance at Fern, he slipped out of the Starry Sept, leaving behind the flickering candlelight and the comforting words of the Septon.
Caelum practically fled the Starry Sept, the cool night air a welcome relief against his flushed skin. He stumbled through the open doors, the sounds of the sermon fading behind him as he emerged onto the vast marble plaza. The imposing silhouette of the Citadel, its towers and spires piercing the night sky, loomed over him like a watchful giant. It was a sight that had once filled him with awe and wonder, but now, it only served to amplify his growing sense of unease.
He hurried past the towering statues of the Seven, their white starry eyes seemingly following his every move. The thought of their gaze, imbued with the power of the same star that had brought him to this world, sent a shiver down his spine. He needed to get away, to find a place where he could be alone.
His feet carried him past the clustered mansions of the pious, their windows glowing with warm light that promised comfort and safety. But Caelum knew he couldn't seek refuge there.
Not tonight.
Not until he understood the strange power that surged within him, threatening to turn his every touch into a destructive force.
He quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. He passed beneath the arched gateway of the city walls, leaving behind the bustling streets and the comforting familiarity of Oldtown. The vast expanse of farmland stretched before him, bathed in the silvery light of the moon.
He followed a narrow path that wound alongside the Honeywine River, its gentle murmur a soothing counterpoint to the chaos raging within him.
As he walked, his mind raced, trying to make sense of the events of the day. The broken bench, the startled horse... it was clear that his magic had manifested in a new, frightening way. He didn't know how to control this newfound strength, and the fear of unintentionally harming someone he loved was almost unbearable.
He found a secluded spot by the riverbank, hidden from view by a cluster of willow trees. He sank to the ground, his head buried in his hands. He felt so lost, so alone. He had come to the Citadel seeking answers, but all he had found were more questions, more mysteries.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. He had to figure this out. He had to learn to control his power, to harness it for good.
But for now, he needed solitude, a space to grapple with the terrifying reality of his own strength.
Caelum breathed deeply, the scent of damp earth and river water filling his lungs. He needed to figure out how to control this new strength, but he had no idea where to start.
He wished Luke were here, his steady presence and calm wisdom a soothing balm against the chaos swirling within him. He longed for Meredith's gentle touch, her ability to ground him with a simple smile.
He glanced at a nearby willow tree, its branches drooping low over the water.
He reached out a hand, intending to brush a stray leaf from his face. Instead, his fingers closed around the trunk, a surge of power coursing through him. The tree groaned, its roots straining against the earth, then toppled over with a deafening crack, falling across the riverbank.
Caelum recoiled, his eyes wide with terror. He hadn't meant to do that, hadn't even realized the extent of his strength. What if he'd hurt someone? The thought sent a wave of nausea through him.
A muffled groan, faint but distinct, cut through the silence.
Caelum froze, his heart pounding.
Someone was in pain.
His magical hearing, honed by years of practice, allowed him to pinpoint the direction of the sound. It was coming from somewhere further along the river, a distant cry for help.
He hesitated.
He knew he should help, but he was terrified of his own strength. What if he made things worse? What if he accidentally hurt the person he was trying to save?
But then he remembered Luke's words, a mantra he'd repeated countless times during their training sessions back home: "Think, plan, weigh the dangers."
Caelum took a deep breath, steeling his resolve. First, he needed to understand the situation.
He followed the sound, his senses heightened, every rustle of leaves and splash of water amplified in his ears.
The groan led him to a small manse, a stone structure nestled amongst the rolling hills. Hightower guards patrolled the perimeter, their torches casting long, dancing shadows.
One of them, a knight in full armor, stood at the front door, his face a mask of stoic indifference.
Caelum used his magical sight, his vision piercing through the stone walls. What he saw inside chilled him to the bone. Maester Qyburn, his face pale and focused, stood over a table on which a man lay strapped down, his body exposed and his chest cavity opened wide.
The man's muffled cries echoed through the room, his eyes filled with terror as Qyburn's scalpel danced over his flesh.
Caelum's stomach churned.
This wasn't healing, this was... torture.
He scanned the room, his gaze falling on a small table cluttered with vials and instruments.
Among them, he recognized the distinctive shape of a milk of the poppy bottle. The man was being drugged, his pain dulled but not erased.
Caelum's anger flared.
He had to stop this, to rescue the man from Qyburn's cruel experiments.
But first, he had to assess the situation. His gaze swept through the manse, revealing more horrors: several cells, each containing a prisoner, their faces gaunt and their eyes filled with despair.
Caelum's eyes burned with a sudden, intense heat. A crimson glow filled his vision as he focused on a spot on the manse farthest from the cells, a section of the wall where no harm could come to the prisoners within. He inhaled sharply, ready to unleash the fiery power that surged within him.
But a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Caelum reacted on pure instinct, a surge of adrenaline fueling his muscles. He whipped around, his arm lashing out with a force he didn't fully comprehend. The figure behind him was sent flying, a startled cry escaping their lips as they slammed into a nearby tree.
Horror flooded Caelum's face as he rushed to the fallen figure. The moonlight illuminated a familiar face twisted in pain – Archmaester Marwyn.
"You... didn't mention that particular talent," Marwyn groaned, clutching his side.
Caelum's heart sank. He knelt beside the Archmaester, his magical sight revealing a fractured rib, a shard of bone pressing dangerously close to a lung. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with guilt and worry. "What are you doing here?"
Marwyn winced as he tried to sit up. "I'll live," he rasped, then coughed, a spray of blood staining his lips. "I had business outside the city. As I was returning, my glass candle ignited. It led me... to you." He looked up at Caelum, his eyes narrowed. "What are you doing out here, so far from the city?"
Caelum gestured towards the manse, his voice thick with anger. "Qyburn is in there. He's... he's cutting people open. Alive."
Marwyn's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
"It doesn't matter," Caelum retorted, his voice tight with urgency. "We have to stop him."
Marwyn raised a hand, his expression grim. "You don't understand what's happening here, boy. How did you know Qyburn was... experimenting?"
Caelum glared at him, his anger rising. "You knew about this, didn't you?"
Marwyn's face hardened. "Yes, I did. And I'm telling you, trying to interfere would be foolish. Take a moment, boy, and think. Who are those guards protecting the manse?"
Caelum's gaze shifted towards the Hightower banners fluttering in the night breeze. A cold realization washed over him. "Lord Hightower..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Marwyn nodded. "Leyton Hightower is a man of many interests, including magic. While Qyburn may not share that fascination, he is obsessed with understanding the mysteries of life and death. Lord Hightower has given him free rein to pursue his... research."
"Research?" Caelum spat out. "He's torturing people, Marwyn! That's not research, that's brutality!"
Marwyn's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "And how do you know that, boy? Did you simply stumble upon this place, or is there more to your abilities than meets the eye?"
Caelum clenched his fists, the anger threatening to consume him. "Yes," he hissed. "I can see through walls. I can hear whispers from miles away." He turned to Marwyn, his eyes blazing. "And I won't stand by while innocent people suffer!"
Marwyn's eyes gleamed with a newfound fascination, a predatory hunger replacing the earlier pain. "Most interesting," he murmured, clutching his injured rib. "So, the boy who fell from the stars possesses more than just dragonfire. You are a most intriguing find indeed."
He turned towards the manse, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Those 'innocent' souls you wish to save, boy? They are not as blameless as you think. Leyton Hightower delivers criminals to Qyburn – thieves, murderers, rapists. The dregs of society. Leyton has the right to punish them as he sees fit, and this is the method he has chosen."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "There are laws in this land, Marwyn. The King's laws. They can be sent to the Wall, or executed. But torture..." He shook his head, disgust rising in his throat. "Torture is not justice."
Marwyn laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the trees. "Your morality is... quaint, boy. But it's misplaced. Lords make the laws and enforce them as they see fit. Look there," he pointed towards the manse, "a knight stands guard. The very thing you aspire to. Do you think he questions his lord's orders? Knights are dogs, Caelum. Loyal only to their Lord. Which lord will you serve when you become a knight? Whose will will you enforce? Who will you make king?"
Caelum shook his head, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "He'll die, Marwyn! We have to stop him."
Marwyn raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He won't die, boy. Qyburn knows what he's doing. He needs his subjects alive for his... research."
"They're still in pain," Caelum retorted, his eyes blazing. "What do you propose I do, then? Just stand here and watch?"
"What can you do?" Marwyn countered. "Storm the manse, eyes blazing? Kill the guards? Kill Qyburn? And then what? Those guards are merely following orders. To them, they're simply carrying out the Lord's justice."
Caelum's hands clenched into fists. "We can get them out," he hissed. "Create a distraction, set the manse ablaze, free the prisoners..."
Marwyn's expression darkened. "You'd free criminals, boy? Thieves, murderers, rapists? Is that the kind of justice you seek?"
Caelum faltered, the weight of Marwyn's words sinking in.
He didn't know what to do.
His sense of right and wrong warred with the harsh reality of the situation.
Marwyn sighed, a hint of pity in his eyes. "Your morality is admirable, Caelum, but naive. These men are not innocent. They've committed heinous crimes, and Leyton Hightower has chosen a... unique form of punishment. However," his voice took on a conspiratorial tone, "there may be a way to stop this, but you'll owe me a favor."
Caelum's eyes narrowed. "Another one of your schemes, Marwyn? I heard you with Fern in the glass candle chamber. Your claim of Valyrian blood was nonsense. She may have Valyrian blood, but so do hundreds of others in Oldtown."
Marwyn chuckled, wincing slightly as his broken rib shifted. "You are a fascinating creature, Caelum Starborne. Yes, Fern is an intriguing little sphinx. I approached her to get closer to you, of course. And by helping me here, you'll be in my debt. A win-win situation, wouldn't you agree?"
Caelum weighed the proposal in his mind. His eyes glowed red for a moment, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. "If you harm Fern in any way," he said, his voice low and menacing, "I will not show you mercy."
Marwyn raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I have no intention of harming the girl. Quite the opposite, in fact. I see great potential in her." He paused, his gaze returning to the manse. "As for Qyburn... the best way to stop him is to expose his actions. Leyton Hightower may have given him tacit approval, but what he's doing goes beyond even a lord's right to punish. He's dabbling in necromancy, Caelum. Searching for the lingering essence of souls in the dead."
"How do we do that?" Caelum asked.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) I've been sitting on this chapter for over a week. I just haven't felt good at all. I'm very sick.
I am sorry for the cliff hanger, and I will continue it in the next chapter. Then we'll finally get to what's happening in the war. I had more planned for this chapter, but I just don't feel well enough to write for a while.
I hope this was worth the wait.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Citadel library, illuminating the worn wooden table where Caelum, Pylos, Yandel, and Nerf huddled over an ancient tome.
The air was thick with the scent of parchment and beeswax, a familiar and comforting aroma that had become a constant companion during their weeks of study.
"I still can't believe Maester Lorcas had us dissect a human heart today," Pylos exclaimed, a shudder running through him. "The way he sliced through those valves... it was fascinating, but gods, it made my stomach churn."
Yandel offered a different perspective. "Dissection is essential for understanding the intricacies of the human body," he said, tracing an inked-down sketch of the heart with his finger. "Without it, we'd be fumbling in the dark, relying on outdated theories and guesswork."
Nerf, his amethyst eyes alight with curiosity, nodded in agreement. "I find it fascinating how the different organs work together to sustain life. It's like a complex machine, each part playing a vital role."
Caelum listened intently, his mind racing.
He had a unique advantage in their anatomy lessons, his magical sight allowing him to peer beyond the surface, to see the intricate workings of the body in a way no other novice could.
He'd witnessed the tiny creatures that thrived within the body after death, their movements a constant dance of life and decay.
It was those creatures, he now understood, that caused the rot of flesh after death.
He hadn't shared this insight with the others, of course, but it gave him a deeper understanding of the subject, a knowledge that went beyond the words on the page.
It wasn't just the human body either.
Everything, from the water they drank to the very air they breathed, teemed with these minute entities. They inhabited every corner of the world, shaping and transforming it in ways most were blind to.
He could see even deeper, beyond the flesh and blood, into the very building blocks of existence.
Each organ was a collection of tiny, interconnected structures, a symphony of motion and purpose.
Within those structures, tiny suns danced and vibrated, their movements governed by unseen forces.
It was like peering into a miniature cosmos, each tiny speck a sun, revolving around a core.
He realized that the world was a tapestry of intricate connections, a delicate balance of opposing forces.
The pull that held them to the ground, the invisible threads that bound objects together, the energy that fueled life and decay – all were intertwined, each influencing the other in a never-ending dance.
He saw that everything, from the smallest grain of sand to the vast expanse of the sky, was connected by a common, unseen consciousness.
Everything was connected.
Everyone was connected, by their collective consciousness.
It was as if the world was a grand, cosmic joke – a chaotic symphony of order and disorder, life and death, creation and destruction.
If only he knew how to share this revelation, to convince the maesters that their understanding of the world was incomplete.
But how could he explain what he saw without revealing the true source of his knowledge?
The thought filled him with a familiar frustration.
"Caelum!" Yandel's voice cut through his musings. "Are you alright? You seem lost in thought."
Pylos grinned, nudging Caelum playfully. "He does that sometimes. Gets caught up in his own little world."
Caelum blinked, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "Sorry, I was just... thinking about the lesson."
"Well, don't think too hard," Pylos quipped. "We need to get back to the Learned Anchor. Fern will be wondering where we've disappeared to." He turned to Yandel and Nerf, his voice taking on a more formal tone. "We've been invited to the Starry Sept this evening for the seventh-day sermon. Would you care to join us?"
Yandel's face fell. "I'd love to, but Archmaester Ebrose has requested my assistance. He's negotiating a trade agreement with some Myrish merchants for a shipment of glass, and needs me to scribe the details."
"Myrish glass?" Pylos asked, intrigued. "What does the Archmaester need with that? It's expensive stuff."
"He's not saying," Yandel replied with a shrug. "Something about a device he's working on. He tried melting glass a few days ago, but didn't quite get what he wanted."
Pylos raised an eyebrow. "If he's trying to replicate their glassmaking techniques, he's out of luck. They guard those secrets closely."
Yandel shook his head. "It's not that. It's... something else. I don't fully understand it myself."
"Well, good luck with it, Yandel," Caelum offered.
"We'll see you later," Pylos added.
"Farewell, Yandel," Nerf chimed in, his voice soft.
Yandel smiled gratefully. "Thank you, friends. I'll see you all later." He hurried off, the heavy tome tucked under his arm.
"What about you, Nerf?" Pylos asked, turning to their new friend. "Will you join us at the Sept?"
Nerf hesitated, his eyes darting nervously between Caelum and Pylos. "I... I'm not sure," he stammered. "I have some... other matters to attend to."
Before Pylos could press further, a voice came from behind them. "Nerf!" The acolyte Patrick strode towards them. "Archmaester Marwyn requests your presence."
Nerf's amethyst eyes widened in surprise. "Archmaester Marwyn?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of confusion. "What could he possibly want with me?"
Caelum stiffened, a sense of foreboding washing over him. He glanced at Pylos, but his friend seemed oblivious to the tension in the air.
Patrick, clearly enjoying the attention he was garnering, shrugged nonchalantly. "Who knows what goes on in that mad old coot's head?" he said with a sneer. "But he's waiting for you by the glass candle chamber. You'd best not keep him waiting."
Nerf nodded, his composure returning. "Of course," he said, a polite smile gracing his lips. "Thank you for informing me, Acolyte Patrick." He turned to Caelum and Pylos, his smile widening. "Farewell, my friends. I hope we can continue our studies another time."
With a graceful bow, Nerf turned and followed Patrick towards the glass candle chamber, his long black hair swaying gently behind him.
Pylos sighed, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Well, it seems we've lost another companion for the evening." He turned to Caelum. "Shall we head to the Sept, then? Fern won't want to wait long."
Caelum nodded, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. "Go on ahead," he said, picking up the remaining books from the table. "I'll just return these to their shelves and catch up with you."
Pylos hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright. But don't take too long, Caelum. Fern said that the sermon should soon after sunset, and I don't want to miss our first sermon at the Starry Sept!"
Caelum watched as Pylos strode away, his mind racing. He quickly gathered the books from the table, his thoughts consumed by a growing concern for Nerf.
What could Marwyn possibly want with him?
As he headed for the shelves, he focused his senses, straining to hear the conversation unfolding in the glass candle chamber.
Caelum, his heart pounding, strained his hearing towards the glass candle chamber. The voices, though muffled, were still discernible to his heightened senses.
"Welcome, little sphinx," Marwyn's voice echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone.
A beat of silence, then Nerf's voice, laced with confusion: "I... I don't understand, Archmaester. I apologize for any offense I might have caused."
"No offense taken, child," Marwyn chuckled. "Your secret is safe with me, Fern."
Caelum's breath hitched.
Fern? He was so confused.
"But... how did you know?" Fern's voice was barely a whisper now, filled with a mixture of fear and defiance.
"Your disguise was good. If I hadn't visited the inn, I wouldn't have caught on. I would recognize Hop-Bean's work anywhere." Marwyn replied. "How is the little dwarf? Is he still afraid of us big folk?"
Caelum listened intently, his mind racing to catch up with the revelation that his friend Nerf was actually Fern.
A wave of emotions washed over him; surprise, and confusion most of all.
"...not as afraid of me as he is of other people," Fern's voice was strained, barely a whisper. "Please, Archmaester, I apologize for the deception. I will leave the Citadel at once. Just... please don't tell Lord Hightower."
"Keeping secrets isn't a crime, child," Marwyn chuckled. "Especially not when those secrets are born from a thirst for knowledge. Many here at the Citadel harbor their own hidden truths. Archmaester Theron keeps a mistress and a bastard child at the Quill and Tankard. Ser Garth Hightower, the heir to Oldtown, prefers the company of men over women.
Even your... friends," Marwyn paused, his words heavy with unspoken meaning, "have secrets they wouldn't want the world to know."
Caelum's blood ran cold. Was Marwyn about to expose him?
"What... what do you want from me?" Fern's voice was barely a whisper now.
"To learn more about you, child," Marwyn replied, his tone softening. "Those amethyst eyes of yours... they're quite striking. Tell me, who was your mother?"
"She was a... a whore," Fern stammered. "From Ragpicker's Wynd. My father, Liernen, told me that much."
"Liernen isn't your true father, is he?" Marwyn asked gently.
Fern hesitated, a wave of shame washing over her. "No," she admitted. "He took me in when my mother died. I... I'm sorry, Archmaester. I never meant to deceive anyone. I just wanted to help my father, to learn the skills I need to run the inn."
Marwyn's voice was surprisingly kind. "You have nothing to apologize for, child. Neither you nor Liernen are in any danger." He paused,. "Raising a child that's not your own... it's a noble act. Paying the hundred silver stags to sneak you into the Citadel... that's not something most innkeepers could afford. Why do you think he did it?"
Fern's voice was barely a whisper. "My father's sister... she died a whore. He didn't want that for me."
Marwyn nodded slowly. "Liernen is a good man."
Caelum, listening intently, felt a surge of warmth towards the innkeeper.
He'd always known Liernen to be gruff but fair, he had given him a room at his inn, in exchange for work during the late afternoons.
"Did Liernen ever tell you about your blood father?" Marwyn asked, his voice once again filled with curiosity.
"Only that he was a lord from the crownlands," Fern replied. "But I never knew his name."
Marwyn's voice took on a professorial tone. "Valyrian blood, perhaps. I sense the potential for sorcery within you, child. A spark waiting to be ignited."
"But... will you truly not report me to Lord Hightower?" Fern's voice quivered, her relief palpable.
"Of course not," Marwyn chuckled. "Instead, I'll offer you the same choice I offered your friend, Caelum. Become my apprentice." His tone was enticing, promising secrets and knowledge. "I can teach you more about healing than Ebrose ever could. My knowledge of medicine surpasses even his, in some aspects."
Fern's voice sharpened with suspicion. "Why would you do that? What did Caelum choose?"
"Magic is returning to the world, Fern," Marwyn explained. "Your Valyrian blood could be a powerful asset. Besides, I'm writing a book, 'The Book of Lost Books', and I need a skilled scribe to capture my thoughts. I'll teach you how to disguise yourself better, how to hide your secret. You'll have access to knowledge and power few could dream of."
Silence hung in the air as Caelum strained to hear Fern's response.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Marwyn was a dangerous mad man, obsessed with magic and the arcane.
Why would he choose Fern out of all the potential candidates in Oldtown? There were likely hundreds of other children in oldtown that had Valyrian blood in their veins.
"What did Caelum choose?" Fern repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
"He hasn't given me an answer yet," Marwyn admitted. "But I believe he'll come around. He's a smart boy, and he knows a good offer when he hears one."
"I... I need to think about it," Fern said. "I need to talk to my father. Thank you for not betraying my secret, Archmaester."
"I understand, child. Take your time. I'll await your decision." Marwyn's voice was calm, almost soothing. "But remember, the world is changing. Opportunities like this don't come along often."
Caelum listened as Fern's footsteps faded away.
He was both relieved and deeply troubled.
He wanted to believe Marwyn's intentions were good, but something about the Archmaester's words and demeanor set off warning bells in his mind.
He thought of Fern, her kindness and the trust she'd shown him. Meredith would have done the same thing if she had been in her position.
If anyone deserved a chance at a better life, it was her.
But was Marwyn the right person to guide her?
Caelum couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this offer than met the eye.
He had to warn Fern, protect her from whatever Marwyn had planned.
But how? How could he do that without revealing his own secret?
If it became necessary, and Marwyn proved dangerous, he would damn his secret and tell her.
Damn his fears.
The weight of his own magic, the power that set him apart, felt heavier than ever before.
He longed for a world where he could be just Caelum, the boy from the farm, not some anomaly with extraordinary abilities. But that world, it seemed, was slipping further and further away.
If Fern was truly in danger, he would tell her everything.
Damn his anxieties.
He hastily shoved the remaining books back onto the shelves, their haphazard arrangement a minor inconvenience compared to the worry gnawing at him. He practically sprinted through the library's labyrinthine corridors, his mind racing with thoughts of Marwyn and Fern.
As he reached a heavy wooden door leading out of the library, he grasped the iron handle and pulled. To his surprise, the entire door came off its hinges, the rusted metal screeching in protest. Caelum stumbled back, the door crashing to the floor with a resounding thud.
"What in the Seven Hells was that?" A gruff voice echoed through the corridor as a guard in Hightower livery rounded the corner, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"I... I just tried to open the door, and it came off," Caelum stammered, his face flushing with embarrassment.
The guard knelt down, examining the broken hinge. "Rusty old thing," he muttered. "No harm done, lad. I'll have someone fix it." He gave Caelum a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You best be on your way."
Caelum nodded, grateful for the guard's understanding.
He hurried away, the strange incident already fading from his mind as he focused on his mission. He couldn't be late for the seventh-day sermon. It was his first time visiting the Starry Sept since arriving in Oldtown, and he didn't want to miss it.
The sun was setting as Caelum made his way through the cobblestone streets, the golden light casting long shadows that danced and flickered like the flames he'd conjured in his room.
He reached the Learned Anchor just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon.
Liernen greeted him at the door. "You're just in time, lad. Fern's gone to run a few errands, but she should be back soon. Could you help me hitch up the wagon? We'll need it to get to the Sept."
Caelum nodded, a wave of affection washing over him. Caelum's respect for the innkeeper had grown even deeper after learning of his selfless act in raising Fern as his own.
"Pylos is inside, finishing up his supper," Liernen said, jerking his head towards the bustling common room. "You can join him if you like."
"Thank you, Liernen, but I'm not hungry right now," Caelum replied, his voice a touch higher than usual. "Where's the wagon? Is there anything else I can help with?"
Liernen pointed towards the back of the inn. "The horses are tied up behind the building. Hitch them to the wagon, and make sure the wheels are properly greased. They've been squeaking something awful lately."
"Will do," Caelum said, eager to keep his mind occupied. He strode towards the inn's back door, his thoughts still swirling with the cryptic conversation he'd overheard.
As he reached for the door handle, he pushed, expecting the usual resistance. Instead, the door flew open with a loud bang, nearly ripping off its hinges entirely. Caelum stumbled back, his eyes wide with alarm.
"What in the blazes was that?" Liernen shouted from the common room.
"Sorry, Liernen!" Caelum called back, his voice shaking. "I was rushing."
Liernen emerged from the inn, a bemused expression on his face. "Easy there, lad," he chuckled, shaking his head. "No need to tear the place down. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but slow down."
Caelum apologized again, his heart pounding in his chest.
He hadn't meant to fling the door open like that. That's the second time it had happened. Something was wrong.
Pylos, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, appeared in the doorway. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance," he quipped. "Thought you wouldn't make it back in time."
"I rushed as soon as I could," Caelum replied, his voice strained. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.
Pylos waved a dismissive hand. "Just call me if you need help, Caelum. I'll be here."
Caelum nodded, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach. He headed towards the back of the inn, his senses on high alert.
The two horses, their coats gleaming in the fading light, were tethered to a nearby post. Caelum approached the chestnut mare, his hands trembling as he reached for the rope. He untied it slowly, his gaze fixed on the horse's wary eyes.
As he began leading the mare towards the wagon, he gently tugged on the rope, intending to guide her into position. But the mare didn't budge. Caelum tugged again, harder this time.
Suddenly, the mare lurched forward, pulled with a force that should have been impossible for Caelum to muster. A cry of pain escaped the horse's mouth as it stumbled, its legs tangling in the rope.
Caelum froze, his eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, rushing to the mare's side. He quickly untied the rope, his hands shaking.
"Everything alright back there, Caelum?" Liernen's voice boomed from the inn.
"Yes, Liernen!" Caelum called back, his voice tight. "Just... just a bit of trouble with the mare."
Caelum crouched beside the mare, his hand trembling as he reached out to stroke her velvety nose. "Easy, girl," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
He focused on his touch, willing it to be as gentle as a feather's caress. His fingers brushed against the mare's warm flank, each stroke a conscious effort to control the strength that thrummed beneath his skin. To his relief, the mare's trembling subsided, her breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.
"There you go," Caelum soothed, his voice barely audible. "It's alright. I won't hurt you again."
He stood, his heart still pounding in his chest. This was new, this surge of power that seemed to respond to his every whim. Was this another gift from the gods?
He didn't know, but the fear of inadvertently harming someone else gnawed at him.
With renewed determination, he approached the black stallion, his movements cautious and deliberate. He spoke to the horse in a low, calming voice, his touch as light as a butterfly's wing. The stallion, sensing Caelum's intentions, lowered its head, its ears twitching in curiosity.
Caelum carefully attached the harness, his fingers fumbling with the buckles and straps. Every touch felt exaggerated, every movement magnified. Even a gentle tug on the reins felt like a powerful yank, but he persevered, his focus unwavering.
Finally, both horses were hitched to the wagon, their heads bowed and their bodies relaxed. Caelum stepped back, surveying his work with a mixture of pride and trepidation.
Next, Caelum turned his attention to the squeaking wheels. He approached the task with the same exaggerated care, treating the heavy wooden spokes as if they were as delicate as parchment.
He dipped his fingers into the grease, wincing at the sensation of the thick, oily substance on his skin. He carefully applied it to the axles, each turn a deliberate effort to control his newfound strength.
With a final grunt of exertion, he finished the task, wiping his greasy hands on a nearby rag. He stepped back, surveying the wagon with a mix of satisfaction and unease. The horses stood calmly, their harness secure, and the wheels no longer emitted their earsplitting squeal.
Just as Caelum finished, Fern emerged from the inn, a small basket slung over her arm. "All set?" she asked, a warm smile on her face.
It seems she had gotten her mummer's wig off, her short boyish brown hair were brushed, and her Amethyst eyes sparkled when they set upon him.
"Just in time, dear," Liernen boomed, clapping her on the back with a hearty laugh. "You did a fine job, Caelum. Let's be off to the Sept, then."
Caelum nodded, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.
The wagon was ready, and he'd managed to avoid any further mishaps with his uncontrollable strength. He vowed to himself that he wouldn't touch anyone on the way to the Sept, not until he could figure out what was happening to him. The thought of accidentally hurting someone, especially Fern, Pylos or any of his friends, filled him with dread.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The Starry Sept of Oldtown was a masterpiece of architecture, its domed ceiling soaring high above a sea of flickering candlelight. The seven statues of the gods, each carved from a single block of black marble, stood sentinel along the walls, their enigmatic faces bathed in the soft glow of the countless candles.
Caelum, however, found little solace in the serene beauty of the place. He fidgeted on the wooden bench, his eyes darting from one statue to the next.
A strange unease prickled at the back of his neck, a sensation he couldn't quite shake. The air itself felt thick, charged with an energy he couldn't define.
His gaze settled on the statues' eyes, each one a gleaming shard of obsidian. The star-like stones seemed to glint with an inner fire, a reflection of the same celestial power that had brought him to this world.
The sight left him uncomfortable.
His fingers tightened around the armrest, the smooth wood a stark contrast to the rough fabric of his tunic. He was acutely aware of his own body, the power that thrummed beneath his skin like a caged beast.
The incident with the horse had shaken him, leaving him with a lingering fear of what he might be capable of. He'd barely touched the door, the horse, and yet the results had been... excessive.
He glanced at Fern and Pylos, seated beside him, their faces serene as they listened to the Septon's words. They seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil, their faith a comforting anchor in the storm of his own doubts.
Caelum wished he could share their tranquility, but he was too afraid that even the faintest touch from him would break something, or hurt someone.
"...and in these dark times, let us turn to the Seven for guidance and strength, for they are our shield against despair and our beacon of hope," the Septon's voice echoed through the vast chamber, yet the words seemed to bounce off Caelum, failing to penetrate the swirling chaos of his thoughts.
Pylos, noticing Caelum's restless shifting and the way his fingers drummed a silent rhythm on his thigh, leaned closer and whispered, "Are you alright, Caelum? You seem on edge."
Caelum forced a smile, his gaze fixed on the flickering candles. "I'm fine, Pylos," he lied, his voice barely a whisper. "Just a bit tired, that's all."
Fern, her brow furrowed with concern, leaned closer to Caelum. "Are you sure you're alright?" she whispered. "You look a little pale. And you've been so jumpy ever since Archmaester Marwyn visited you at the inn. Did he say something to upset you?"
Caelum swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "It's nothing, Fern," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just a bit overwhelmed by the sermon, I suppose."
Fern nodded, her amethyst eyes filled with empathy. "I'll pray for you, Caelum. May the Seven guide you and bring you peace."
Caelum squeezed her hand, a wave of guilt washing over him.
He longed to tell her the truth, to confide in her about Marwyn's visit. He would if Marwyn proved dangerous, but the fear of rejection, of being seen as a monster, held him back.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. But his anxiety only grew, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He gripped the armrest of the bench, his fingers tightening involuntarily.
There was a sharp crack, followed by a loud snapping sound. The armrest, weakened by age and Caelum's unintentional strength, splintered under his grasp.
The bench tilted, sending Caelum, Fern, Pylos, and Liernen tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and startled cries.
The sermon came to an abrupt halt, the entire congregation turning to stare at the source of the commotion. A septa, her face etched with concern, rushed over, followed by a knight in gleaming Hightower armor.
"Are you alright?" the septa asked, helping Fern to her feet.
"We're fine, Septa," Liernen grumbled, rubbing his bruised elbow. "Just a bit shaken, that's all."
The knight examined the broken bench, his brow furrowed. "Must have been old and worn," he concluded. "No harm done." He offered them another bench, closer to the front this time.
Liernen apologized profusely, but the septa waved him off with a gentle smile. "It's no trouble at all," she assured him. "We should have been more diligent in our inspections."
The sermon resumed, but Caelum couldn't focus. His hands trembled, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He knew he couldn't stay here, not with this uncontrollable power coursing through him.
"I'm not feeling well," he whispered to Fern, his voice barely audible. "I think I should go home."
Fern's eyes widened with concern. "Would you like me to come with you?"
Caelum shook his head. "No, I'll be fine," he lied. "Just need some fresh air. You stay and enjoy the sermon."
He rose from the bench, his legs unsteady. With a final apologetic glance at Fern, he slipped out of the Starry Sept, leaving behind the flickering candlelight and the comforting words of the Septon.
Caelum practically fled the Starry Sept, the cool night air a welcome relief against his flushed skin. He stumbled through the open doors, the sounds of the sermon fading behind him as he emerged onto the vast marble plaza. The imposing silhouette of the Citadel, its towers and spires piercing the night sky, loomed over him like a watchful giant. It was a sight that had once filled him with awe and wonder, but now, it only served to amplify his growing sense of unease.
He hurried past the towering statues of the Seven, their white starry eyes seemingly following his every move. The thought of their gaze, imbued with the power of the same star that had brought him to this world, sent a shiver down his spine. He needed to get away, to find a place where he could be alone.
His feet carried him past the clustered mansions of the pious, their windows glowing with warm light that promised comfort and safety. But Caelum knew he couldn't seek refuge there.
Not tonight.
Not until he understood the strange power that surged within him, threatening to turn his every touch into a destructive force.
He quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. He passed beneath the arched gateway of the city walls, leaving behind the bustling streets and the comforting familiarity of Oldtown. The vast expanse of farmland stretched before him, bathed in the silvery light of the moon.
He followed a narrow path that wound alongside the Honeywine River, its gentle murmur a soothing counterpoint to the chaos raging within him.
As he walked, his mind raced, trying to make sense of the events of the day. The broken bench, the startled horse... it was clear that his magic had manifested in a new, frightening way. He didn't know how to control this newfound strength, and the fear of unintentionally harming someone he loved was almost unbearable.
He found a secluded spot by the riverbank, hidden from view by a cluster of willow trees. He sank to the ground, his head buried in his hands. He felt so lost, so alone. He had come to the Citadel seeking answers, but all he had found were more questions, more mysteries.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. He had to figure this out. He had to learn to control his power, to harness it for good.
But for now, he needed solitude, a space to grapple with the terrifying reality of his own strength.
Caelum breathed deeply, the scent of damp earth and river water filling his lungs. He needed to figure out how to control this new strength, but he had no idea where to start.
He wished Luke were here, his steady presence and calm wisdom a soothing balm against the chaos swirling within him. He longed for Meredith's gentle touch, her ability to ground him with a simple smile.
He glanced at a nearby willow tree, its branches drooping low over the water.
He reached out a hand, intending to brush a stray leaf from his face. Instead, his fingers closed around the trunk, a surge of power coursing through him. The tree groaned, its roots straining against the earth, then toppled over with a deafening crack, falling across the riverbank.
Caelum recoiled, his eyes wide with terror. He hadn't meant to do that, hadn't even realized the extent of his strength. What if he'd hurt someone? The thought sent a wave of nausea through him.
A muffled groan, faint but distinct, cut through the silence.
Caelum froze, his heart pounding.
Someone was in pain.
His magical hearing, honed by years of practice, allowed him to pinpoint the direction of the sound. It was coming from somewhere further along the river, a distant cry for help.
He hesitated.
He knew he should help, but he was terrified of his own strength. What if he made things worse? What if he accidentally hurt the person he was trying to save?
But then he remembered Luke's words, a mantra he'd repeated countless times during their training sessions back home: "Think, plan, weigh the dangers."
Caelum took a deep breath, steeling his resolve. First, he needed to understand the situation.
He followed the sound, his senses heightened, every rustle of leaves and splash of water amplified in his ears.
The groan led him to a small manse, a stone structure nestled amongst the rolling hills. Hightower guards patrolled the perimeter, their torches casting long, dancing shadows.
One of them, a knight in full armor, stood at the front door, his face a mask of stoic indifference.
Caelum used his magical sight, his vision piercing through the stone walls. What he saw inside chilled him to the bone. Maester Qyburn, his face pale and focused, stood over a table on which a man lay strapped down, his body exposed and his chest cavity opened wide.
The man's muffled cries echoed through the room, his eyes filled with terror as Qyburn's scalpel danced over his flesh.
Caelum's stomach churned.
This wasn't healing, this was... torture.
He scanned the room, his gaze falling on a small table cluttered with vials and instruments.
Among them, he recognized the distinctive shape of a milk of the poppy bottle. The man was being drugged, his pain dulled but not erased.
Caelum's anger flared.
He had to stop this, to rescue the man from Qyburn's cruel experiments.
But first, he had to assess the situation. His gaze swept through the manse, revealing more horrors: several cells, each containing a prisoner, their faces gaunt and their eyes filled with despair.
Caelum's eyes burned with a sudden, intense heat. A crimson glow filled his vision as he focused on a spot on the manse farthest from the cells, a section of the wall where no harm could come to the prisoners within. He inhaled sharply, ready to unleash the fiery power that surged within him.
But a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Caelum reacted on pure instinct, a surge of adrenaline fueling his muscles. He whipped around, his arm lashing out with a force he didn't fully comprehend. The figure behind him was sent flying, a startled cry escaping their lips as they slammed into a nearby tree.
Horror flooded Caelum's face as he rushed to the fallen figure. The moonlight illuminated a familiar face twisted in pain – Archmaester Marwyn.
"You... didn't mention that particular talent," Marwyn groaned, clutching his side.
Caelum's heart sank. He knelt beside the Archmaester, his magical sight revealing a fractured rib, a shard of bone pressing dangerously close to a lung. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with guilt and worry. "What are you doing here?"
Marwyn winced as he tried to sit up. "I'll live," he rasped, then coughed, a spray of blood staining his lips. "I had business outside the city. As I was returning, my glass candle ignited. It led me... to you." He looked up at Caelum, his eyes narrowed. "What are you doing out here, so far from the city?"
Caelum gestured towards the manse, his voice thick with anger. "Qyburn is in there. He's... he's cutting people open. Alive."
Marwyn's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
"It doesn't matter," Caelum retorted, his voice tight with urgency. "We have to stop him."
Marwyn raised a hand, his expression grim. "You don't understand what's happening here, boy. How did you know Qyburn was... experimenting?"
Caelum glared at him, his anger rising. "You knew about this, didn't you?"
Marwyn's face hardened. "Yes, I did. And I'm telling you, trying to interfere would be foolish. Take a moment, boy, and think. Who are those guards protecting the manse?"
Caelum's gaze shifted towards the Hightower banners fluttering in the night breeze. A cold realization washed over him. "Lord Hightower..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Marwyn nodded. "Leyton Hightower is a man of many interests, including magic. While Qyburn may not share that fascination, he is obsessed with understanding the mysteries of life and death. Lord Hightower has given him free rein to pursue his... research."
"Research?" Caelum spat out. "He's torturing people, Marwyn! That's not research, that's brutality!"
Marwyn's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "And how do you know that, boy? Did you simply stumble upon this place, or is there more to your abilities than meets the eye?"
Caelum clenched his fists, the anger threatening to consume him. "Yes," he hissed. "I can see through walls. I can hear whispers from miles away." He turned to Marwyn, his eyes blazing. "And I won't stand by while innocent people suffer!"
Marwyn's eyes gleamed with a newfound fascination, a predatory hunger replacing the earlier pain. "Most interesting," he murmured, clutching his injured rib. "So, the boy who fell from the stars possesses more than just dragonfire. You are a most intriguing find indeed."
He turned towards the manse, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Those 'innocent' souls you wish to save, boy? They are not as blameless as you think. Leyton Hightower delivers criminals to Qyburn – thieves, murderers, rapists. The dregs of society. Leyton has the right to punish them as he sees fit, and this is the method he has chosen."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "There are laws in this land, Marwyn. The King's laws. They can be sent to the Wall, or executed. But torture..." He shook his head, disgust rising in his throat. "Torture is not justice."
Marwyn laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the trees. "Your morality is... quaint, boy. But it's misplaced. Lords make the laws and enforce them as they see fit. Look there," he pointed towards the manse, "a knight stands guard. The very thing you aspire to. Do you think he questions his lord's orders? Knights are dogs, Caelum. Loyal only to their Lord. Which lord will you serve when you become a knight? Whose will will you enforce? Who will you make king?"
Caelum shook his head, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "He'll die, Marwyn! We have to stop him."
Marwyn raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He won't die, boy. Qyburn knows what he's doing. He needs his subjects alive for his... research."
"They're still in pain," Caelum retorted, his eyes blazing. "What do you propose I do, then? Just stand here and watch?"
"What can you do?" Marwyn countered. "Storm the manse, eyes blazing? Kill the guards? Kill Qyburn? And then what? Those guards are merely following orders. To them, they're simply carrying out the Lord's justice."
Caelum's hands clenched into fists. "We can get them out," he hissed. "Create a distraction, set the manse ablaze, free the prisoners..."
Marwyn's expression darkened. "You'd free criminals, boy? Thieves, murderers, rapists? Is that the kind of justice you seek?"
Caelum faltered, the weight of Marwyn's words sinking in.
He didn't know what to do.
His sense of right and wrong warred with the harsh reality of the situation.
Marwyn sighed, a hint of pity in his eyes. "Your morality is admirable, Caelum, but naive. These men are not innocent. They've committed heinous crimes, and Leyton Hightower has chosen a... unique form of punishment. However," his voice took on a conspiratorial tone, "there may be a way to stop this, but you'll owe me a favor."
Caelum's eyes narrowed. "Another one of your schemes, Marwyn? I heard you with Fern in the glass candle chamber. Your claim of Valyrian blood was nonsense. She may have Valyrian blood, but so do hundreds of others in Oldtown."
Marwyn chuckled, wincing slightly as his broken rib shifted. "You are a fascinating creature, Caelum Starborne. Yes, Fern is an intriguing little sphinx. I approached her to get closer to you, of course. And by helping me here, you'll be in my debt. A win-win situation, wouldn't you agree?"
Caelum weighed the proposal in his mind. His eyes glowed red for a moment, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. "If you harm Fern in any way," he said, his voice low and menacing, "I will not show you mercy."
Marwyn raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I have no intention of harming the girl. Quite the opposite, in fact. I see great potential in her." He paused, his gaze returning to the manse. "As for Qyburn... the best way to stop him is to expose his actions. Leyton Hightower may have given him tacit approval, but what he's doing goes beyond even a lord's right to punish. He's dabbling in necromancy, Caelum. Searching for the lingering essence of souls in the dead."
"How do we do that?" Caelum asked.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) I've been sitting on this chapter for over a week. I just haven't felt good at all. I'm very sick.
I am sorry for the cliff hanger, and I will continue it in the next chapter. Then we'll finally get to what's happening in the war. I had more planned for this chapter, but I just don't feel well enough to write for a while.
I hope this was worth the wait.
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
I hope you get better
And this was a Great chapter despite being shorter.
Caelum's newfound super strengh will very likely the factor that exposes his secret, since it's so difficult to supress/hide
And yeah, His ideal of Knighthood Will die or change as soon he realices how you just become the enforcers of your Lord's Will, no questions asked and consequences be damned
Untamed Power
Chapter 22 –
Marwyn's gaze fixed on Caelum, his eyes sharp and calculating. "Tell me, boy," he said, his voice barely a whisper above the gentle murmur of the river, "how many guards protect this... establishment?"
Caelum nodded focusing his magical sight on the manse. He counted silently, his mind racing as his vision pierced through the stone walls of the manse.
"Eleven guards," he reported, his voice steady, "and one knight. There's also a stable around the back, with several horses."
Marwyn nodded, a grim satisfaction settling on his face. "Good," he said. "Your task is simple, if not easy. Sneak into the courtyard, unseen. Lock all possible exits, ensuring Qyburn has no way to leave."
Caelum's brows furrowed. "And then?"
"Then, release the horses from the stable," Marwyn continued, his voice low and urgent. "Create a distraction. Something... spectacular. Something that will draw attention from the city."
Caelum stared at him, incredulous. "How am I supposed to do that?"
Marwyn's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "You claim to see through walls and hear whispers from miles away, boy. It's time to put those abilities to the test." He paused, his gaze raking over Caelum's form. "I know you have no experience sneaking about like a common thief, but those gifts should prove useful."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "I'll do it," he said, his voice firm. He was still unnerved by his uncontrolled strength, but a flicker of determination ignited in his eyes. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll get it done."
Marwyn nodded approvingly. "Good. As for me, my cart is by the river. It's a half-hour ride to the city, and another ten minutes to the Citadel. I should be able to convince the Seneschal, Archmaester Theron, and a few others to investigate. The Seneschal has the power to put an end to Qyburn's... activities."
A flicker of doubt crossed Caelum's face. "Can you ride with a broken rib?"
Marwyn waved a dismissive hand. "I've had worse. Besides, this is more important." He rummaged through his satchel, producing a mask of Valyrian steel, its intricate design shimmering in the moonlight. It was the same mask he wore as the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries, a symbol of his authority and knowledge. He extended it towards Caelum.
Caelum eyed the mask warily. "What's this for?"
"To hide your identity," Marwyn replied.
Caelum scoffed. "I thought you said my magic wasn't something to hide like a shameful disease."
Marwyn's lips twitched in amusement. "The mask is a precaution, boy. Should you get caught, unlikely as it is, you will be caught acting against Lord Hightower's guards. That could have... consequences."
"But this mask..." Caelum protested, gesturing towards the ornate design. "It's too recognizable."
"Only if you get caught," Marwyn countered. "And there's no chance of that, is there? Not with your abilities." His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger. "If you are spotted, the mask will paint a picture of a thief who made away with my belongings. I should have no issue corroborating that."
Caelum reluctantly took the mask, his fingers tracing the cool metal. "Alright," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'll do it."
He wrapped his head and body in cloth, leaving only his eyes and hands exposed. He donned the mask, the cold steel a stark reminder of the danger he was about to face.
"Remember," Marwyn said, his voice a chilling whisper, "be swift, be silent, and leave no trace."
With a final nod, Marwyn turned and limped towards his waiting cart, the pain in his side evident in every labored step. Caelum watched him go, a mixture of gratitude and unease churning within him.
He had no love for the enigmatic Archmaester, but he knew that Marwyn's help was essential if they were to stop Qyburn's horrific experiments.
As the sound of the cart wheels faded into the distance, Caelum turned towards the manse, his eyes scanning the imposing structure for a point of entry. His magical sight pierced the stone walls, revealing the layout of the building and the positions of the guards within. He circled the manse, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
The longest section of wall, on the west side of the property, faced the Honeywine River. Caelum noted the guard positioned on the upper floor, he looked bored beyond belief. He carefully avoided that side regardless, his eyes searching for a blind spot.
He crept along the edge of the wall, his senses heightened. He could hear the voices of the guards patrolling the grounds, as they made merry with their conversation, keeping themselves occupied, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. He could see through the walls, their silhouettes shifting and flickering like shadows in a lantern's glow.
Caelum's gaze settled on the stable on the south side of the manse. It was the only structure attached to the main building, its stone walls seamlessly merging with the rest of the estate.
"That's it," he whispered to himself, a spark of hope igniting in his chest.
The stable offered a potential entry point, a way to bypass the guards and the guard's watchful eye.
He moved towards it, his movements swift and silent. He pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to be careful. One wrong move, one careless touch, and he could alert the guards or worse, cause unintended damage with his newfound strength.
He reached the stable door, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign of movement.
The coast was clear.
He pressed closer to the wall, each step a measured calculation of risk and reward. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot drew nearer, punctuated by the low murmur of voices. Caelum held his breath, straining to hear their conversation.
"Heard the Lyseni slavers are getting bolder," a gruff voice said, a hint of unease in its tone. "With the Royal Fleet smashed, who's to stop them?"
"Aye," another voice chimed in, rough and weathered. "Those Myrish dogs are emboldened too. They say their ships are patrolling the Stepstones, some have even grown bold enough to sail towards the coasts of Dragonstone, preying on any merchant unlucky enough to cross their path."
Caelum listened intently, a frown creasing his brow. The war had indeed emboldened the slavers, giving them the opportunity to exploit the chaos and instability that gripped the realm.
The destruction of the Royal Fleet at Gulltown, and white harbor had been a devastating blow, not only for the Targaryen cause but for the safety and security of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole.
"They'll get what's coming to them," a third voice interjected, its tone laced with contempt. "The Targaryens won't stand for it. The King will see to it that those slavers are brought to justice."
"The King?" the first guard scoffed. "He's locked up in the Red Keep, hiding behind his Kingsguard. It's the lords who are fighting this war, not him."
A fourth voice, younger and tinged with bitterness, joined the conversation. "I wanted to sail with the Hightower fleet," he grumbled. "Join the blockade at Shipbreaker Bay. But no, I'm stuck here, guarding prisoners for Maester Qyburn." He sighed, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Can't say I'm too dismayed, though. It's peaceful out here, at least."
Caelum's heart pounded in his chest.
He turned his attention to the stable door, a massive wooden structure locked shut by a massive wooden beam. He had managed to hitch up the horses at the Learned Anchor, but only with the utmost care, his touch as delicate as a butterfly's wing. He didn't know if he could exert that same level of control on such a large object.
The fear of his uncontrolled strength gnawed at him. He couldn't risk breaking the door down. The noise would surely alert the guards. He had to find a way to open it gently, without causing any damage.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He reached out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above the beam. He focused on the sensation of his own power. He imagined his hand as a feather, a gentle breeze, a whisper of touch.
With the utmost care, he grasped the wooden beam barring the exit of the stables. The beam felt lighter than parchment to him, and the door creaked open, the sound barely audible above the murmur of the river and the distant chatter of the guards.
The stable's interior was dimly lit, the only light coming from a few lanterns hanging from the rafters. The air was thick with the sweet scent of hay and the warm musk of horses. Six magnificent steeds stood in their stalls, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They were a mix of breeds, from sleek coursers to sturdy draft horses, each one a testament to the Hightowers' wealth and discerning taste.
A large, ornate carriage occupied one corner of the stable, its polished wood and gleaming metalwork reflecting the flickering lantern light.
Caelum's magical sight revealed two figures near the stables. One was a guard, stationed outside the main building, his back turned to the entrance. The other was a stable boy, curled up asleep in a small shed a few feet away.
Caelum moved silently through the stable, his bare feet barely making a sound on the straw-covered floor. He approached the horses, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out a hand, his touch feather-light as he stroked the nearest horse's velvety muzzle. The animal snorted softly, its warm breath tickling Caelum's skin.
One by one, he untied the horses, his fingers working with the precision of a seasoned groom. He took care to avoid any sudden movements, his every action a delicate dance of control and restraint.
The horses seemed to sense his intentions, their eyes following him with a curious gaze as he moved from one stall to the next.
After a sweat trickling amount of time, with such careful movements that Caelum was left shivering at the end, he was able to untie all the horses inside the stable.
Caelum listened as the guards' conversation shifted. Their voices echoed through the open stable door, carrying snippets of their plans for the next day.
"Going to the Quill and Tankard tomorrow?" one guard asked, he sounded a ways away from the stable, and with his sight he realized it was the sentinel posted atop the manse. "Heard they've got a new brew from the Arbor."
"Nah," the guard outside the stable replied. "I'm heading to Ragpicker's Wynd. There's a new girl at the Honeycomb, they say she's a real looker."
"Best be careful there," the sentinel warned. "Ragpicker's Wynd isn't as clean as it used to be... best try the docks. If you're looking for a good time, I hear Peach is back at the Sailor's Wife. The things she can do with her tongue, maiden help me, I woulda taken her to wife if she wasn't a whore!"
Caelum's eyes scanned the courtyard, his magical sight revealing a grove of large, leafy trees just outside the stable. High up in one of the trees atop a heavy sturdy branch, sat a heavy lemur clung to a thick limb, its eyes wide and droopy, as it chewed on the bark of the branch.
An idea sparked in Caelum's mind. He spotted a hefty rock lying near the stable wall. It looked heavy, but to him, it felt as light as a feather. He carefully picked it up, his movements precise and controlled.
He aimed for the upper branches of the tree, the spot where the lemur perched. With a powerful throw, he hurled the rock upward. It struck the branch with a resounding crack, splintering the wood and sending the startled lemur scrambling higher into the tree.
The guard outside jumped, his hand flying to his sword. "What in the Seven Hells was that?" he shouted, looking around wildly.
"Did you see anything?" he called up to the guard on top.
"Nothing," came the reply. "Best go check it yourself."
The guard frowned, his eyes scanning the courtyard. "I'll go check it out," he muttered, moving towards the tree.
As soon as the guard left his post, Caelum seized his chance.
He vaulted over the stable window, landing silently in the flower-filled courtyard. He crouched low, weaving between fragrant jasmine bushes and fruit trees laden. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of jasmines, a stark contrast to the grim task at hand.
He reached the wall of the manse, his heart pounding in his chest.
He slipped into a dense cluster of jasmine, his body concealed by the lush foliage.
He could still hear the guards' voices, their confusion growing as they investigated the fallen branch.
"Damn lemur must have knocked it down," the guard grumbled. "Strong little beast."
Caelum smirked to himself. Now for the difficult part.
Caelum's magical sight swept through the manse, his vision unhindered by the thick stone walls. He identified two main doors, one at the front and one at the back, both crafted from heavy metal and reinforced with thick bolts.
Several windows dotted the façade, but each was barred with iron grates, a testament to the building's function as a prison as much as a residence.
Inside, Qyburn was meticulously stitching the unconscious man's chest closed. The Maester's movements were swift and precise, his hands steady as he manipulated the needle and thread. There was a clinical detachment in his demeanor, a focus that bordered on obsession.
Caelum's stomach churned as he watched Qyburn tie off the last stitch, his work a grotesque parody of a healer's art.
"Lyonel," Qyburn called out, his voice surprisingly gentle, "would you be so kind as to have our friend here taken back to his cell? And perhaps prepare for the next subject? A woman this time, if you please. And see to it that this table is thoroughly cleaned. I will be in my study."
"Of course, Maester Qyburn," Lyonel replied, his voice echoing from the hallway.
Caelum watched as two guards entered the room, their faces impassive as they lifted the unconscious man onto a stretcher and carried him away.
There were three guards inside the manse, one on top and seven outside. A Knight was on guard near the front gate, by the outer wall of the manse.
Caelum refocused on his task, his eyes tracing the path to the back door. He moved along the wall, his footsteps light as a whisper.
He avoided the flower beds, the fruit trees, and the wall of the manse, hidden as he was behind the jasmine hedge bushes.
Each step was a conscious effort to control his strength, a delicate dance between power and restraint. He couldn't risk alerting the guards.
Crouched behind the fragrant barrier of jasmine, Caelum shifted his focus to the front of the manse. Through the tangle of leaves and blossoms, his magical sight pierced the night, revealing a knight and a guard stationed near the outer wall. A crackling fire burned beside them, casting long, flickering shadows that danced in the darkness.
The knight leaned back against the wall, his polished Hightower armor gleaming in the firelight. His heavy castle steel shield and sword were placed beside him. His companion, a younger guard with a mop of unruly brown hair, sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes fixed on the flames.
"...and then she says, 'My lord, you're as fiery as a Dornishman,'" the Knight chuckled, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. "Gods, I love that woman. She's got a spirit, a passion that my wife lacks."
"Aye," the guard replied, a hint of envy in his voice. "Sounds like you've got yourself a real firecracker, Ser Elmar."
"Firecracker indeed," Ser Elmar agreed. "Like a warm blanket on a cold night." He sighed, a wistful expression clouding his face. "What I wouldn't give to have a woman like that here, by the fire, on a night like this."
Caelum rolled his eyes. He needed to focus on the task at hand.
He crept closer to the front door, his eyes scanning the heavy iron surface. There was no obvious way to lock it from the outside. He couldn't step out into the moonlight to find something heavy to lock or barricade it.
He had to find a way to seal the door, to prevent anyone from leaving or entering the manse. A memory flashed through his mind, a history lesson about the dragonlords of Valyria, how they used dragonfire to forge their mighty weapons and towering cities.
Could he do the same? Could he use his own fire to melt the metal, fusing the door shut?
He took a deep breath, his eyes glowing with a fiery intensity. He focused his power, channeling the heat that surged within him. A searing beam of red energy shot from his eyes, striking the iron door with a hiss. The metal glowed white-hot, then began to melt and drip, the edges warping and contorting under the intense heat.
With a final sweep of his gaze across the warped and sealed door, Caelum cut off the flow of fire from his eyes. He stepped back, expecting the metal to cool and harden quickly.
To his horror, it continued to slowly drip and pool, threatening to leave the entrance completely open.
Panic welled up within him. He had to act fast.
Desperation drove him to a rash decision. He ripped off the cloth and the Valyrian steel mask, exposing his face to the cool night air. He leaned forward and blew on the molten iron, a desperate attempt to cool it.
A chilling sensation washed over his lungs, as if he had inhaled a lungful of ice. A blast of frosty air rushed from his lips, instantly solidifying the molten metal. It hardened into a jagged, misshapen mass, sealing the door shut.
Caelum stared in disbelief. He touched the frozen metal, his fingers tingling with the residual cold. He hadn't just melted the door; he had also frozen it solid with his breath. A new wave of astonishment washed over him.
Had the Seven blessed him with yet another magical ability?
His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. He had never heard of anyone with such power, not even in the ancient tales of Valyria. What did the gods have in store for him? He felt less human, more like an anomaly, a creature of myth and legend.
The thought of his destiny, whatever the Seven had in store for him, filled him with a sense of dread.
What danger would cause them to send down someone with power that he was being gifted with?
He had always dreamed of being a knight, a hero who earned his place in the world through hard work and valor.
But with each new revelation, that dream seemed to slip further away.
He shook his head, pushing aside the doubts and fears. He had a task to complete, a promise to keep.
"And the way she seasons that boar," Ser Elmar's voice drifted through the night, a hint of longing in his tone. "Sweet as honey, with a hint of spice. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it."
"Aye," the guard agreed, " Makes me wonder why you even bother with the kitchen at home."
"The wife is no slouch either," Ser Elmar chuckled in reply. "She may not be the firecracker that Alys is, but her cooking is heavenly."
Silently thanking the Seven that the Knight and guard had not spotted him, Caelum quickly donned the mask and cloth, concealing his identity once more.
He moved swiftly along the wall, keeping to the shadows as he made his way towards the back of the manse, shadowed behind the same thicket of jasmines he had used hugging the walls of the manse.
Caelum moved swiftly along the wall, his eyes fixed on the back of the manse. He passed by the distracted guard, who had returned to his post and resumed his conversation with the sentineled guard atop the manse.
"...and her arse," the guard on top was saying, his voice a low chuckle, "shaped like the finest peaches. Soft, round, and oh-so inviting. It's a sight to see when its red and shiny."
"Aye," the guard replied, a hint of longing in his voice. "I've heard tales of this Peach. They say she's the most sought-after woman in all of Oldtown."
"More than that," the sentinel insisted. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. Skin like porcelain, eyes like pools of molten gold. And those nipples..." He paused, a dreamy expression clouding his face. "Pink as cherries, they are. Sweet as summer wine."
Caelum grimaced, a wave of disgust washing over him. He had no desire to hear the intimate details of the sentinel's exploits. He quickened his pace, eager to put some distance between himself and the crude conversation.
"And her cunt, Gods, her cunt" the sentinel continued, oblivious to Caelum's presence, "pink and velvety, softer than anything I've ever touched. Even my wife's..." He trailed off, a low whistle escaping his lips.
Caelum reached the back door, his senses heightened. The guard stationed there was slumped in his chair, his head lolled to one side, a half-empty flagon of ale clutched in his hand. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicated he was fast asleep.
Caelum moved closer, careful to avoid the lantern that hung above the guard's head. He could smell the stale ale on the man's breath, a pungent aroma that mingled with the scent of sweat and leather.
He removed the cloth covering his face, then the Valyrian steel mask. His eyes glowed crimson as he unleashed a torrent of fire, the heat searing the metal door. It melted quickly, a drop dripping and pooling at the base.
With a gasp, he cut off the flow of fire and blew on the molten metal, the icy chill filling his lungs. The metal solidified instantly, forming a crude but effective seal.
The sudden change in temperature seemed to stir the guard. He grunted, swatting at the air as if fending off a bothersome fly. "Damn... breeze..." he mumbled, his words slurring together.
Caelum held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Had he been discovered?
The guard shifted in his seat, pulling the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, trying to ward off the unexpected chill, and settled back into his slumber, his snores resuming with renewed vigor.
Caelum exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
Caelum quickly donned the mask and cloth, once again cloaking his identity in shadow. Now, he had to enact the final stages of the plan. The horses were ready to bolt, and all that remained was to create a distraction large enough to draw attention from the city and make his escape.
The question of how to leave the compound gnawed at him. He couldn't risk another distraction near the stable, and he couldn't scale the walls with his uncontrolled strength. He needed a way out that wouldn't draw attention to himself.
But then, as he watched the flames flicker in the lantern above the sleeping guard, a daring idea took root in his mind.
It was a risky move, but it was the only idea that came to mind.
His eyes blazed crimson once more, a surge of power coursing through him. He focused his fiery gaze on the interior of the stable, igniting the hay within. The flames roared to life, quickly engulfing the dry straw and wood. The horses, startled by the sudden heat and light, neighed in terror and bolted out the open door, their hooves thundering across the courtyard.
"Fire!" the sentinel shouted from the roof. "The stable's ablaze!"
The peaceful night erupted into chaos.
The guards in the courtyard scrambled to their feet, their relaxed demeanor replaced by panic. Ser Elmar barked out orders, his voice sharp and authoritative.
"Get water!" he commanded. "Someone fetch buckets from the well!"
"The horses!" the guard at the stable shouted, his voice filled with alarm. "Gods damn it! They're loose!"
The guard who had been dozing by the back door stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. "The door!" he yelled, as he tried to open it to get water from within. "It's sealed shut!"
Three guards crowded around the door, their faces pale in the firelight. "How did this happen?" one of them asked, his voice panicked.
"It looks like it was melted," another replied, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Inside the manse, Qyburn's voice rose above the din, a note of panic edging into his normally calm demeanor. "What's happening out there?" he demanded. "Open this door!"
The stable fire raged, the flames leaping high into the night sky, a beacon visible for miles around.
Caelum watched from his hiding place, his heart pounding in his chest.
The courtyard was now a scene of utter confusion. The guards, realizing they had no way to extinguish the blaze, were now desperately trying to break down the sealed doors.
Caelum saw his chance. He darted from his hiding place, keeping low to the ground as he made his way towards the western wall.
He reached the base of the wall, his eyes scanning the towering stone structure. He took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, praying to the Seven that his strength was indeed something he could rely on right now.
With a mighty roar, he slammed his fist into the wall.
The impact sent shockwaves through the stone, a deafening crack echoing through the night. A massive section of the wall crumbled, raining down debris as Caelum stumbled back.
He had done it. He had created an opening.
Panicked shouts echoed through the courtyard, cutting through the roar of the flames. "What was that?" a guard yelled, his voice filled with fear. "Sounded like a thunderclap!"
"By the Seven!" Ser Elmar exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "The wall! It's been breached!" He paused, his brow furrowed in thought. "Did someone bring a siege engine to the bloody manse?"
Caelum didn't wait to hear the rest.
He sprinted away from the chaos, his feet pounding against the hard-packed earth. He raced towards the river, the cool night air whipping through his hair as he ran.
He hoped Marwyn had made it back to the Citadel in time, that he would soon return with the seneschal to apprehend Qyburn.
But then, his magical hearing picked up a new sound, a desperate cry for help that cut through the din of the fire and the shouts of the guards.
"Help! Someone, please!" The voice was high-pitched and terrified, choked with smoke.
Caelum's blood ran cold. He had forgotten about the stable boy. The shed he had been sleeping in was attached to the stable, and now it was engulfed in flames.
"The boy!" a guard yelled. "He's trapped in the shed!"
"We're coming!" Ser Elmar's voice boomed through the courtyard. "Hold on, lad!"
Caelum's heart hammered in his chest. He couldn't let the boy die. He had caused this, and he had to fix it.
He spun around, without another though, and raced back towards the manse, his eyes fixed on the inferno that now consumed the stable.
Ignoring the gaping hole he'd created in the wall, Caelum sprinted past two dumbfounded guards. Their voices reached him in a jumble of panic and confusion.
"There is no siege engine here. Gods help us." one of them shouted "Who would attack a manse?"
"The gods are angry!" the first guard shouted, his voice trembling. "This is a sign of their wrath!"
Caelum paid them no mind. He raced towards the south side of the manse, towards the burning stable.
The horses were long gone, their hoofbeats fading into the distance. But the stable boy's cries for help still echoed through the night.
"Help! Please!" The boy's voice was raspy, choked with smoke. "I can't breathe!"
"Hold on, lad!" Ser Elmar's voice boomed from the other side of the inferno. "We're coming!"
Caelum skidded to a halt at the open stable door.
The flames hadn't reached this side yet, but the heat was intense. He could see the boy through his magical sight, huddled in the corner of the shed, his body trembling. The hay outside the shed was ablaze, the flames licking at the wooden walls.
"Everyone to the river!" Ser Elmar ordered. "Fetch water! Now!"
The guards obeyed, their figures silhouetted against the fire as they raced towards the Honeywine.
Caelum took a deep breath, his eyes glowing with a chilling light. He lowered the mask from his face, exposing his mouth, and exhaled a blast of icy air. A wave of frost extinguished the flames nearest the shed, creating a temporary barrier between the boy and the inferno.
He quickly readjusted the mask and rushed into the shed. The boy screamed, his eyes wide with terror. "Demon!" he shrieked, scrambling back into the corner. "Gods! Ser Elmar! Please! Demon! Stay away! STAY AWAY!"
"Calm down," Caelum urged, his voice muffled by the mask. "I'm here to help you."
The boy didn't seem to hear him. He continued to sob hysterically, his cries for Ser Elmar growing louder.
"Ser Elmar!" he wailed. "Help me!"
"Just a moment, lad!" Ser Elmar called from outside. "The guards are getting water!"
Caelum lowered the mask again, unleashing another blast of icy breath.
The flames retreated further, the temperature in the shed dropping noticeably. The boy's sobs grew weaker, his body going limp as he succumbed to the shock and smoke.
Caelum scooped the unconscious boy into his arms and rushed out of the shed, his heart pounding in his chest.
He sprinted towards Ser Elmar, who was waiting anxiously on the other side of the burning stable. The flames licking at his clothes.
Caelum dropped the limp boy outside the stable, a wave of relief washing over him as he saw the boy's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. But before he could catch his own breath, Ser Elmar lunged at him, his sword flashing in the firelight.
"Demon!" the knight screamed, his eyes wide with terror. "You came out of the flames! You're a monster!"
He swung his sword wildly, the blade whistling through the air.
"Stop!" Caelum shouted, dodging the attacks. "You're mistaken! I saved the boy!"
But Ser Elmar was beyond reason, his fear blinding him. "Liar!" he snarled, his voice choked with emotion. "You must have set the fire! You're a demon sent from the Seven Hells!"
Caelum weaved and bobbed, his movements almost effortless as he evaded the knight's swift attacks.
He could see the fear in Ser Elmar's eyes, the way his hands trembled as he gripped the sword hilt.
He knew he could easily overpower the knight, but he couldn't bring himself to harm him.
"Please!" he pleaded, his voice rising above the roar of the flames. "I'm not your enemy! I'm trying to help!"
But Ser Elmar wouldn't listen. "Die, demon!" he shrieked, lunging forward with a desperate thrust.
Caelum slapped the blade aside, the force of his blow sending the sword flying from Ser Elmar's grasp.
The knight stumbled back, his eyes widening in shock.
"I'm sorry!" Caelum cried, "I didn't mean to..."
But Ser Elmar cut him off with a roar, his face contorted with rage.
He charged at Caelum, bracing behind his shiny steel shield.
Caelum panicked, his instincts taking over. He thrust out his hand, his palm meeting the center of the shield with a sickening crunch.
The metal buckled and warped, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across its surface. Ser Elmar's arm, trapped beneath the shield, twisted at an unnatural angle.
The knight screamed, his body collapsing as his arm detached from his shoulder, the severed limb clattering to the ground.
Caelum stared in horror at the mangled mess before him, his stomach churning. He had done it again.
He had hurt someone, and this time, it was far worse than a broken bench or a spooked horse.
He had crippled a man.
He staggered back, his legs trembling. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he vomited onto the cobblestones, the acidic taste of bile filling his mouth.
Caelum stumbled back from the gruesome scene, his stomach heaving once more. He fell to his knees, his body wracked with dry sobs. The taste of bile lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of his own power, a power he couldn't control.
Ser Elmar's moans filled the night air, a symphony of pain and terror. "Stay away," he whimpered, his voice barely audible. "Please... don't hurt me anymore."
Caelum knew he couldn't leave the knight to bleed out. Despite the horror of what he had done, a sense of duty, a healer's instinct, stirred within him. He had to try to help.
He crawled towards Ser Elmar, his eyes fixed on the gruesome wound. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Ser Elmar whimpered again, his eyes fluttering open. "Please..." he begged, his voice barely a whisper. "Help me..."
Caelum's magical sight revealed the extent of the damage. The knight's arm had been severed cleanly at the shoulder, the wound a gaping maw of torn flesh and exposed bone. Caelum knew he had to stop the bleeding, but he had no bandages, no clean cloth.
The flames from the stable roared behind him, casting a flickering glow on the scene. The heat was intense, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and horsehair. Caelum's mind raced, searching for a solution.
He remembered a lesson from Maester Lorcas that wounds could be burnt shut with hot metal to stop such bleeding.
He didn't have any hot metal, but he had something far more potent.
"Forgive me," he whispered to Ser Elmar, his voice barely a breath. "Forgive me, Ser Elmar."
He closed his eyes, focusing his power once more. A crimson glow emanated from beneath the mask as his eyes blazed with fiery energy. He directed the heat towards the wound, the flesh sizzling and sealing shut under the intense heat.
Ser Elmar screamed, his body convulsing before falling still.
He quickly checked Ser Elmar's pulse, his magical sight confirming that the man's heart was still beating, though faintly.
He was alive, but unconscious.
The pounding on the manse doors intensified. "Ser Elmar!" Qyburn's voice called out, filled with urgency. "What's happening? Open the door! Ser Elmar!"
Caelum peered inside, Qyburn and four guards were trying to break the door down from the inside. The sentinel stationed on top with them.
Caelum glanced back at the inferno.
The flames were spreading through the stable.
He couldn't risk the fire spreading further, endangering the lives of the prisoners trapped inside the manse. The flames hadn't yet reached the main structure, but he couldn't afford to take any chances.
He willed himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness washing over him as he did so. He stumbled towards the southern wall of the manse, the one connected to the burning stable. The western wall was already breached, but he needed to ensure the flames didn't spread further.
He raised his fist, his eyes burning with a fiery resolve..
With a guttural cry, he unleashed his power, his fist connecting with the wall in a thunderous impact.
The stone cracked and splintered, a massive section collapsing inward, creating another gaping hole. The fire, now contained within the stable, roared in defiance, but it would spread no further.
Caelum cast a final glance at the unconscious Ser Elmar, a pang of guilt twisting in his gut. He had saved the boy, but at a terrible cost. He had to get away from this place, from the violence and destruction he had wrought.
With a heavy heart, he turned and fled through the newly created opening in the wall, his tears mingling with the sweat on his face. The inferno behind him raged on, a fiery testament to his power and his desperation.
He didn't look back, his only thought was a prayer of forgiveness from the Seven, as he rushed to put as much distance between himself and the manse as possible as he rushed back to the city.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
That's the rest of the chapter.
Caelum's made mistakes. Mistakes have consequences.
Too much power in the hands of a child, an untrained on at that. Not everything is going to be easy.
Superman had to spend years, learning control. I don't know about MoS, but in every iteration of Superman, control is either taught by Jor-El (Superman and Lois) or, by the Kents at the farm (most comics)
As for the conversations between the guards, locker room talk I imagine. I hope it wasn't too crude, or off-putting.
Marwyn's gaze fixed on Caelum, his eyes sharp and calculating. "Tell me, boy," he said, his voice barely a whisper above the gentle murmur of the river, "how many guards protect this... establishment?"
Caelum nodded focusing his magical sight on the manse. He counted silently, his mind racing as his vision pierced through the stone walls of the manse.
"Eleven guards," he reported, his voice steady, "and one knight. There's also a stable around the back, with several horses."
Marwyn nodded, a grim satisfaction settling on his face. "Good," he said. "Your task is simple, if not easy. Sneak into the courtyard, unseen. Lock all possible exits, ensuring Qyburn has no way to leave."
Caelum's brows furrowed. "And then?"
"Then, release the horses from the stable," Marwyn continued, his voice low and urgent. "Create a distraction. Something... spectacular. Something that will draw attention from the city."
Caelum stared at him, incredulous. "How am I supposed to do that?"
Marwyn's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "You claim to see through walls and hear whispers from miles away, boy. It's time to put those abilities to the test." He paused, his gaze raking over Caelum's form. "I know you have no experience sneaking about like a common thief, but those gifts should prove useful."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "I'll do it," he said, his voice firm. He was still unnerved by his uncontrolled strength, but a flicker of determination ignited in his eyes. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll get it done."
Marwyn nodded approvingly. "Good. As for me, my cart is by the river. It's a half-hour ride to the city, and another ten minutes to the Citadel. I should be able to convince the Seneschal, Archmaester Theron, and a few others to investigate. The Seneschal has the power to put an end to Qyburn's... activities."
A flicker of doubt crossed Caelum's face. "Can you ride with a broken rib?"
Marwyn waved a dismissive hand. "I've had worse. Besides, this is more important." He rummaged through his satchel, producing a mask of Valyrian steel, its intricate design shimmering in the moonlight. It was the same mask he wore as the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries, a symbol of his authority and knowledge. He extended it towards Caelum.
Caelum eyed the mask warily. "What's this for?"
"To hide your identity," Marwyn replied.
Caelum scoffed. "I thought you said my magic wasn't something to hide like a shameful disease."
Marwyn's lips twitched in amusement. "The mask is a precaution, boy. Should you get caught, unlikely as it is, you will be caught acting against Lord Hightower's guards. That could have... consequences."
"But this mask..." Caelum protested, gesturing towards the ornate design. "It's too recognizable."
"Only if you get caught," Marwyn countered. "And there's no chance of that, is there? Not with your abilities." His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger. "If you are spotted, the mask will paint a picture of a thief who made away with my belongings. I should have no issue corroborating that."
Caelum reluctantly took the mask, his fingers tracing the cool metal. "Alright," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'll do it."
He wrapped his head and body in cloth, leaving only his eyes and hands exposed. He donned the mask, the cold steel a stark reminder of the danger he was about to face.
"Remember," Marwyn said, his voice a chilling whisper, "be swift, be silent, and leave no trace."
With a final nod, Marwyn turned and limped towards his waiting cart, the pain in his side evident in every labored step. Caelum watched him go, a mixture of gratitude and unease churning within him.
He had no love for the enigmatic Archmaester, but he knew that Marwyn's help was essential if they were to stop Qyburn's horrific experiments.
As the sound of the cart wheels faded into the distance, Caelum turned towards the manse, his eyes scanning the imposing structure for a point of entry. His magical sight pierced the stone walls, revealing the layout of the building and the positions of the guards within. He circled the manse, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
The longest section of wall, on the west side of the property, faced the Honeywine River. Caelum noted the guard positioned on the upper floor, he looked bored beyond belief. He carefully avoided that side regardless, his eyes searching for a blind spot.
He crept along the edge of the wall, his senses heightened. He could hear the voices of the guards patrolling the grounds, as they made merry with their conversation, keeping themselves occupied, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. He could see through the walls, their silhouettes shifting and flickering like shadows in a lantern's glow.
Caelum's gaze settled on the stable on the south side of the manse. It was the only structure attached to the main building, its stone walls seamlessly merging with the rest of the estate.
"That's it," he whispered to himself, a spark of hope igniting in his chest.
The stable offered a potential entry point, a way to bypass the guards and the guard's watchful eye.
He moved towards it, his movements swift and silent. He pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to be careful. One wrong move, one careless touch, and he could alert the guards or worse, cause unintended damage with his newfound strength.
He reached the stable door, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign of movement.
The coast was clear.
He pressed closer to the wall, each step a measured calculation of risk and reward. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot drew nearer, punctuated by the low murmur of voices. Caelum held his breath, straining to hear their conversation.
"Heard the Lyseni slavers are getting bolder," a gruff voice said, a hint of unease in its tone. "With the Royal Fleet smashed, who's to stop them?"
"Aye," another voice chimed in, rough and weathered. "Those Myrish dogs are emboldened too. They say their ships are patrolling the Stepstones, some have even grown bold enough to sail towards the coasts of Dragonstone, preying on any merchant unlucky enough to cross their path."
Caelum listened intently, a frown creasing his brow. The war had indeed emboldened the slavers, giving them the opportunity to exploit the chaos and instability that gripped the realm.
The destruction of the Royal Fleet at Gulltown, and white harbor had been a devastating blow, not only for the Targaryen cause but for the safety and security of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole.
"They'll get what's coming to them," a third voice interjected, its tone laced with contempt. "The Targaryens won't stand for it. The King will see to it that those slavers are brought to justice."
"The King?" the first guard scoffed. "He's locked up in the Red Keep, hiding behind his Kingsguard. It's the lords who are fighting this war, not him."
A fourth voice, younger and tinged with bitterness, joined the conversation. "I wanted to sail with the Hightower fleet," he grumbled. "Join the blockade at Shipbreaker Bay. But no, I'm stuck here, guarding prisoners for Maester Qyburn." He sighed, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Can't say I'm too dismayed, though. It's peaceful out here, at least."
Caelum's heart pounded in his chest.
He turned his attention to the stable door, a massive wooden structure locked shut by a massive wooden beam. He had managed to hitch up the horses at the Learned Anchor, but only with the utmost care, his touch as delicate as a butterfly's wing. He didn't know if he could exert that same level of control on such a large object.
The fear of his uncontrolled strength gnawed at him. He couldn't risk breaking the door down. The noise would surely alert the guards. He had to find a way to open it gently, without causing any damage.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He reached out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above the beam. He focused on the sensation of his own power. He imagined his hand as a feather, a gentle breeze, a whisper of touch.
With the utmost care, he grasped the wooden beam barring the exit of the stables. The beam felt lighter than parchment to him, and the door creaked open, the sound barely audible above the murmur of the river and the distant chatter of the guards.
The stable's interior was dimly lit, the only light coming from a few lanterns hanging from the rafters. The air was thick with the sweet scent of hay and the warm musk of horses. Six magnificent steeds stood in their stalls, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They were a mix of breeds, from sleek coursers to sturdy draft horses, each one a testament to the Hightowers' wealth and discerning taste.
A large, ornate carriage occupied one corner of the stable, its polished wood and gleaming metalwork reflecting the flickering lantern light.
Caelum's magical sight revealed two figures near the stables. One was a guard, stationed outside the main building, his back turned to the entrance. The other was a stable boy, curled up asleep in a small shed a few feet away.
Caelum moved silently through the stable, his bare feet barely making a sound on the straw-covered floor. He approached the horses, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out a hand, his touch feather-light as he stroked the nearest horse's velvety muzzle. The animal snorted softly, its warm breath tickling Caelum's skin.
One by one, he untied the horses, his fingers working with the precision of a seasoned groom. He took care to avoid any sudden movements, his every action a delicate dance of control and restraint.
The horses seemed to sense his intentions, their eyes following him with a curious gaze as he moved from one stall to the next.
After a sweat trickling amount of time, with such careful movements that Caelum was left shivering at the end, he was able to untie all the horses inside the stable.
Caelum listened as the guards' conversation shifted. Their voices echoed through the open stable door, carrying snippets of their plans for the next day.
"Going to the Quill and Tankard tomorrow?" one guard asked, he sounded a ways away from the stable, and with his sight he realized it was the sentinel posted atop the manse. "Heard they've got a new brew from the Arbor."
"Nah," the guard outside the stable replied. "I'm heading to Ragpicker's Wynd. There's a new girl at the Honeycomb, they say she's a real looker."
"Best be careful there," the sentinel warned. "Ragpicker's Wynd isn't as clean as it used to be... best try the docks. If you're looking for a good time, I hear Peach is back at the Sailor's Wife. The things she can do with her tongue, maiden help me, I woulda taken her to wife if she wasn't a whore!"
Caelum's eyes scanned the courtyard, his magical sight revealing a grove of large, leafy trees just outside the stable. High up in one of the trees atop a heavy sturdy branch, sat a heavy lemur clung to a thick limb, its eyes wide and droopy, as it chewed on the bark of the branch.
An idea sparked in Caelum's mind. He spotted a hefty rock lying near the stable wall. It looked heavy, but to him, it felt as light as a feather. He carefully picked it up, his movements precise and controlled.
He aimed for the upper branches of the tree, the spot where the lemur perched. With a powerful throw, he hurled the rock upward. It struck the branch with a resounding crack, splintering the wood and sending the startled lemur scrambling higher into the tree.
The guard outside jumped, his hand flying to his sword. "What in the Seven Hells was that?" he shouted, looking around wildly.
"Did you see anything?" he called up to the guard on top.
"Nothing," came the reply. "Best go check it yourself."
The guard frowned, his eyes scanning the courtyard. "I'll go check it out," he muttered, moving towards the tree.
As soon as the guard left his post, Caelum seized his chance.
He vaulted over the stable window, landing silently in the flower-filled courtyard. He crouched low, weaving between fragrant jasmine bushes and fruit trees laden. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of jasmines, a stark contrast to the grim task at hand.
He reached the wall of the manse, his heart pounding in his chest.
He slipped into a dense cluster of jasmine, his body concealed by the lush foliage.
He could still hear the guards' voices, their confusion growing as they investigated the fallen branch.
"Damn lemur must have knocked it down," the guard grumbled. "Strong little beast."
Caelum smirked to himself. Now for the difficult part.
Caelum's magical sight swept through the manse, his vision unhindered by the thick stone walls. He identified two main doors, one at the front and one at the back, both crafted from heavy metal and reinforced with thick bolts.
Several windows dotted the façade, but each was barred with iron grates, a testament to the building's function as a prison as much as a residence.
Inside, Qyburn was meticulously stitching the unconscious man's chest closed. The Maester's movements were swift and precise, his hands steady as he manipulated the needle and thread. There was a clinical detachment in his demeanor, a focus that bordered on obsession.
Caelum's stomach churned as he watched Qyburn tie off the last stitch, his work a grotesque parody of a healer's art.
"Lyonel," Qyburn called out, his voice surprisingly gentle, "would you be so kind as to have our friend here taken back to his cell? And perhaps prepare for the next subject? A woman this time, if you please. And see to it that this table is thoroughly cleaned. I will be in my study."
"Of course, Maester Qyburn," Lyonel replied, his voice echoing from the hallway.
Caelum watched as two guards entered the room, their faces impassive as they lifted the unconscious man onto a stretcher and carried him away.
There were three guards inside the manse, one on top and seven outside. A Knight was on guard near the front gate, by the outer wall of the manse.
Caelum refocused on his task, his eyes tracing the path to the back door. He moved along the wall, his footsteps light as a whisper.
He avoided the flower beds, the fruit trees, and the wall of the manse, hidden as he was behind the jasmine hedge bushes.
Each step was a conscious effort to control his strength, a delicate dance between power and restraint. He couldn't risk alerting the guards.
Crouched behind the fragrant barrier of jasmine, Caelum shifted his focus to the front of the manse. Through the tangle of leaves and blossoms, his magical sight pierced the night, revealing a knight and a guard stationed near the outer wall. A crackling fire burned beside them, casting long, flickering shadows that danced in the darkness.
The knight leaned back against the wall, his polished Hightower armor gleaming in the firelight. His heavy castle steel shield and sword were placed beside him. His companion, a younger guard with a mop of unruly brown hair, sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes fixed on the flames.
"...and then she says, 'My lord, you're as fiery as a Dornishman,'" the Knight chuckled, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. "Gods, I love that woman. She's got a spirit, a passion that my wife lacks."
"Aye," the guard replied, a hint of envy in his voice. "Sounds like you've got yourself a real firecracker, Ser Elmar."
"Firecracker indeed," Ser Elmar agreed. "Like a warm blanket on a cold night." He sighed, a wistful expression clouding his face. "What I wouldn't give to have a woman like that here, by the fire, on a night like this."
Caelum rolled his eyes. He needed to focus on the task at hand.
He crept closer to the front door, his eyes scanning the heavy iron surface. There was no obvious way to lock it from the outside. He couldn't step out into the moonlight to find something heavy to lock or barricade it.
He had to find a way to seal the door, to prevent anyone from leaving or entering the manse. A memory flashed through his mind, a history lesson about the dragonlords of Valyria, how they used dragonfire to forge their mighty weapons and towering cities.
Could he do the same? Could he use his own fire to melt the metal, fusing the door shut?
He took a deep breath, his eyes glowing with a fiery intensity. He focused his power, channeling the heat that surged within him. A searing beam of red energy shot from his eyes, striking the iron door with a hiss. The metal glowed white-hot, then began to melt and drip, the edges warping and contorting under the intense heat.
With a final sweep of his gaze across the warped and sealed door, Caelum cut off the flow of fire from his eyes. He stepped back, expecting the metal to cool and harden quickly.
To his horror, it continued to slowly drip and pool, threatening to leave the entrance completely open.
Panic welled up within him. He had to act fast.
Desperation drove him to a rash decision. He ripped off the cloth and the Valyrian steel mask, exposing his face to the cool night air. He leaned forward and blew on the molten iron, a desperate attempt to cool it.
A chilling sensation washed over his lungs, as if he had inhaled a lungful of ice. A blast of frosty air rushed from his lips, instantly solidifying the molten metal. It hardened into a jagged, misshapen mass, sealing the door shut.
Caelum stared in disbelief. He touched the frozen metal, his fingers tingling with the residual cold. He hadn't just melted the door; he had also frozen it solid with his breath. A new wave of astonishment washed over him.
Had the Seven blessed him with yet another magical ability?
His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. He had never heard of anyone with such power, not even in the ancient tales of Valyria. What did the gods have in store for him? He felt less human, more like an anomaly, a creature of myth and legend.
The thought of his destiny, whatever the Seven had in store for him, filled him with a sense of dread.
What danger would cause them to send down someone with power that he was being gifted with?
He had always dreamed of being a knight, a hero who earned his place in the world through hard work and valor.
But with each new revelation, that dream seemed to slip further away.
He shook his head, pushing aside the doubts and fears. He had a task to complete, a promise to keep.
"And the way she seasons that boar," Ser Elmar's voice drifted through the night, a hint of longing in his tone. "Sweet as honey, with a hint of spice. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it."
"Aye," the guard agreed, " Makes me wonder why you even bother with the kitchen at home."
"The wife is no slouch either," Ser Elmar chuckled in reply. "She may not be the firecracker that Alys is, but her cooking is heavenly."
Silently thanking the Seven that the Knight and guard had not spotted him, Caelum quickly donned the mask and cloth, concealing his identity once more.
He moved swiftly along the wall, keeping to the shadows as he made his way towards the back of the manse, shadowed behind the same thicket of jasmines he had used hugging the walls of the manse.
Caelum moved swiftly along the wall, his eyes fixed on the back of the manse. He passed by the distracted guard, who had returned to his post and resumed his conversation with the sentineled guard atop the manse.
"...and her arse," the guard on top was saying, his voice a low chuckle, "shaped like the finest peaches. Soft, round, and oh-so inviting. It's a sight to see when its red and shiny."
"Aye," the guard replied, a hint of longing in his voice. "I've heard tales of this Peach. They say she's the most sought-after woman in all of Oldtown."
"More than that," the sentinel insisted. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. Skin like porcelain, eyes like pools of molten gold. And those nipples..." He paused, a dreamy expression clouding his face. "Pink as cherries, they are. Sweet as summer wine."
Caelum grimaced, a wave of disgust washing over him. He had no desire to hear the intimate details of the sentinel's exploits. He quickened his pace, eager to put some distance between himself and the crude conversation.
"And her cunt, Gods, her cunt" the sentinel continued, oblivious to Caelum's presence, "pink and velvety, softer than anything I've ever touched. Even my wife's..." He trailed off, a low whistle escaping his lips.
Caelum reached the back door, his senses heightened. The guard stationed there was slumped in his chair, his head lolled to one side, a half-empty flagon of ale clutched in his hand. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicated he was fast asleep.
Caelum moved closer, careful to avoid the lantern that hung above the guard's head. He could smell the stale ale on the man's breath, a pungent aroma that mingled with the scent of sweat and leather.
He removed the cloth covering his face, then the Valyrian steel mask. His eyes glowed crimson as he unleashed a torrent of fire, the heat searing the metal door. It melted quickly, a drop dripping and pooling at the base.
With a gasp, he cut off the flow of fire and blew on the molten metal, the icy chill filling his lungs. The metal solidified instantly, forming a crude but effective seal.
The sudden change in temperature seemed to stir the guard. He grunted, swatting at the air as if fending off a bothersome fly. "Damn... breeze..." he mumbled, his words slurring together.
Caelum held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Had he been discovered?
The guard shifted in his seat, pulling the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, trying to ward off the unexpected chill, and settled back into his slumber, his snores resuming with renewed vigor.
Caelum exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
Caelum quickly donned the mask and cloth, once again cloaking his identity in shadow. Now, he had to enact the final stages of the plan. The horses were ready to bolt, and all that remained was to create a distraction large enough to draw attention from the city and make his escape.
The question of how to leave the compound gnawed at him. He couldn't risk another distraction near the stable, and he couldn't scale the walls with his uncontrolled strength. He needed a way out that wouldn't draw attention to himself.
But then, as he watched the flames flicker in the lantern above the sleeping guard, a daring idea took root in his mind.
It was a risky move, but it was the only idea that came to mind.
His eyes blazed crimson once more, a surge of power coursing through him. He focused his fiery gaze on the interior of the stable, igniting the hay within. The flames roared to life, quickly engulfing the dry straw and wood. The horses, startled by the sudden heat and light, neighed in terror and bolted out the open door, their hooves thundering across the courtyard.
"Fire!" the sentinel shouted from the roof. "The stable's ablaze!"
The peaceful night erupted into chaos.
The guards in the courtyard scrambled to their feet, their relaxed demeanor replaced by panic. Ser Elmar barked out orders, his voice sharp and authoritative.
"Get water!" he commanded. "Someone fetch buckets from the well!"
"The horses!" the guard at the stable shouted, his voice filled with alarm. "Gods damn it! They're loose!"
The guard who had been dozing by the back door stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. "The door!" he yelled, as he tried to open it to get water from within. "It's sealed shut!"
Three guards crowded around the door, their faces pale in the firelight. "How did this happen?" one of them asked, his voice panicked.
"It looks like it was melted," another replied, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Inside the manse, Qyburn's voice rose above the din, a note of panic edging into his normally calm demeanor. "What's happening out there?" he demanded. "Open this door!"
The stable fire raged, the flames leaping high into the night sky, a beacon visible for miles around.
Caelum watched from his hiding place, his heart pounding in his chest.
The courtyard was now a scene of utter confusion. The guards, realizing they had no way to extinguish the blaze, were now desperately trying to break down the sealed doors.
Caelum saw his chance. He darted from his hiding place, keeping low to the ground as he made his way towards the western wall.
He reached the base of the wall, his eyes scanning the towering stone structure. He took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, praying to the Seven that his strength was indeed something he could rely on right now.
With a mighty roar, he slammed his fist into the wall.
The impact sent shockwaves through the stone, a deafening crack echoing through the night. A massive section of the wall crumbled, raining down debris as Caelum stumbled back.
He had done it. He had created an opening.
Panicked shouts echoed through the courtyard, cutting through the roar of the flames. "What was that?" a guard yelled, his voice filled with fear. "Sounded like a thunderclap!"
"By the Seven!" Ser Elmar exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "The wall! It's been breached!" He paused, his brow furrowed in thought. "Did someone bring a siege engine to the bloody manse?"
Caelum didn't wait to hear the rest.
He sprinted away from the chaos, his feet pounding against the hard-packed earth. He raced towards the river, the cool night air whipping through his hair as he ran.
He hoped Marwyn had made it back to the Citadel in time, that he would soon return with the seneschal to apprehend Qyburn.
But then, his magical hearing picked up a new sound, a desperate cry for help that cut through the din of the fire and the shouts of the guards.
"Help! Someone, please!" The voice was high-pitched and terrified, choked with smoke.
Caelum's blood ran cold. He had forgotten about the stable boy. The shed he had been sleeping in was attached to the stable, and now it was engulfed in flames.
"The boy!" a guard yelled. "He's trapped in the shed!"
"We're coming!" Ser Elmar's voice boomed through the courtyard. "Hold on, lad!"
Caelum's heart hammered in his chest. He couldn't let the boy die. He had caused this, and he had to fix it.
He spun around, without another though, and raced back towards the manse, his eyes fixed on the inferno that now consumed the stable.
Ignoring the gaping hole he'd created in the wall, Caelum sprinted past two dumbfounded guards. Their voices reached him in a jumble of panic and confusion.
"There is no siege engine here. Gods help us." one of them shouted "Who would attack a manse?"
"The gods are angry!" the first guard shouted, his voice trembling. "This is a sign of their wrath!"
Caelum paid them no mind. He raced towards the south side of the manse, towards the burning stable.
The horses were long gone, their hoofbeats fading into the distance. But the stable boy's cries for help still echoed through the night.
"Help! Please!" The boy's voice was raspy, choked with smoke. "I can't breathe!"
"Hold on, lad!" Ser Elmar's voice boomed from the other side of the inferno. "We're coming!"
Caelum skidded to a halt at the open stable door.
The flames hadn't reached this side yet, but the heat was intense. He could see the boy through his magical sight, huddled in the corner of the shed, his body trembling. The hay outside the shed was ablaze, the flames licking at the wooden walls.
"Everyone to the river!" Ser Elmar ordered. "Fetch water! Now!"
The guards obeyed, their figures silhouetted against the fire as they raced towards the Honeywine.
Caelum took a deep breath, his eyes glowing with a chilling light. He lowered the mask from his face, exposing his mouth, and exhaled a blast of icy air. A wave of frost extinguished the flames nearest the shed, creating a temporary barrier between the boy and the inferno.
He quickly readjusted the mask and rushed into the shed. The boy screamed, his eyes wide with terror. "Demon!" he shrieked, scrambling back into the corner. "Gods! Ser Elmar! Please! Demon! Stay away! STAY AWAY!"
"Calm down," Caelum urged, his voice muffled by the mask. "I'm here to help you."
The boy didn't seem to hear him. He continued to sob hysterically, his cries for Ser Elmar growing louder.
"Ser Elmar!" he wailed. "Help me!"
"Just a moment, lad!" Ser Elmar called from outside. "The guards are getting water!"
Caelum lowered the mask again, unleashing another blast of icy breath.
The flames retreated further, the temperature in the shed dropping noticeably. The boy's sobs grew weaker, his body going limp as he succumbed to the shock and smoke.
Caelum scooped the unconscious boy into his arms and rushed out of the shed, his heart pounding in his chest.
He sprinted towards Ser Elmar, who was waiting anxiously on the other side of the burning stable. The flames licking at his clothes.
Caelum dropped the limp boy outside the stable, a wave of relief washing over him as he saw the boy's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. But before he could catch his own breath, Ser Elmar lunged at him, his sword flashing in the firelight.
"Demon!" the knight screamed, his eyes wide with terror. "You came out of the flames! You're a monster!"
He swung his sword wildly, the blade whistling through the air.
"Stop!" Caelum shouted, dodging the attacks. "You're mistaken! I saved the boy!"
But Ser Elmar was beyond reason, his fear blinding him. "Liar!" he snarled, his voice choked with emotion. "You must have set the fire! You're a demon sent from the Seven Hells!"
Caelum weaved and bobbed, his movements almost effortless as he evaded the knight's swift attacks.
He could see the fear in Ser Elmar's eyes, the way his hands trembled as he gripped the sword hilt.
He knew he could easily overpower the knight, but he couldn't bring himself to harm him.
"Please!" he pleaded, his voice rising above the roar of the flames. "I'm not your enemy! I'm trying to help!"
But Ser Elmar wouldn't listen. "Die, demon!" he shrieked, lunging forward with a desperate thrust.
Caelum slapped the blade aside, the force of his blow sending the sword flying from Ser Elmar's grasp.
The knight stumbled back, his eyes widening in shock.
"I'm sorry!" Caelum cried, "I didn't mean to..."
But Ser Elmar cut him off with a roar, his face contorted with rage.
He charged at Caelum, bracing behind his shiny steel shield.
Caelum panicked, his instincts taking over. He thrust out his hand, his palm meeting the center of the shield with a sickening crunch.
The metal buckled and warped, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across its surface. Ser Elmar's arm, trapped beneath the shield, twisted at an unnatural angle.
The knight screamed, his body collapsing as his arm detached from his shoulder, the severed limb clattering to the ground.
Caelum stared in horror at the mangled mess before him, his stomach churning. He had done it again.
He had hurt someone, and this time, it was far worse than a broken bench or a spooked horse.
He had crippled a man.
He staggered back, his legs trembling. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he vomited onto the cobblestones, the acidic taste of bile filling his mouth.
Caelum stumbled back from the gruesome scene, his stomach heaving once more. He fell to his knees, his body wracked with dry sobs. The taste of bile lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of his own power, a power he couldn't control.
Ser Elmar's moans filled the night air, a symphony of pain and terror. "Stay away," he whimpered, his voice barely audible. "Please... don't hurt me anymore."
Caelum knew he couldn't leave the knight to bleed out. Despite the horror of what he had done, a sense of duty, a healer's instinct, stirred within him. He had to try to help.
He crawled towards Ser Elmar, his eyes fixed on the gruesome wound. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Ser Elmar whimpered again, his eyes fluttering open. "Please..." he begged, his voice barely a whisper. "Help me..."
Caelum's magical sight revealed the extent of the damage. The knight's arm had been severed cleanly at the shoulder, the wound a gaping maw of torn flesh and exposed bone. Caelum knew he had to stop the bleeding, but he had no bandages, no clean cloth.
The flames from the stable roared behind him, casting a flickering glow on the scene. The heat was intense, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and horsehair. Caelum's mind raced, searching for a solution.
He remembered a lesson from Maester Lorcas that wounds could be burnt shut with hot metal to stop such bleeding.
He didn't have any hot metal, but he had something far more potent.
"Forgive me," he whispered to Ser Elmar, his voice barely a breath. "Forgive me, Ser Elmar."
He closed his eyes, focusing his power once more. A crimson glow emanated from beneath the mask as his eyes blazed with fiery energy. He directed the heat towards the wound, the flesh sizzling and sealing shut under the intense heat.
Ser Elmar screamed, his body convulsing before falling still.
He quickly checked Ser Elmar's pulse, his magical sight confirming that the man's heart was still beating, though faintly.
He was alive, but unconscious.
The pounding on the manse doors intensified. "Ser Elmar!" Qyburn's voice called out, filled with urgency. "What's happening? Open the door! Ser Elmar!"
Caelum peered inside, Qyburn and four guards were trying to break the door down from the inside. The sentinel stationed on top with them.
Caelum glanced back at the inferno.
The flames were spreading through the stable.
He couldn't risk the fire spreading further, endangering the lives of the prisoners trapped inside the manse. The flames hadn't yet reached the main structure, but he couldn't afford to take any chances.
He willed himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness washing over him as he did so. He stumbled towards the southern wall of the manse, the one connected to the burning stable. The western wall was already breached, but he needed to ensure the flames didn't spread further.
He raised his fist, his eyes burning with a fiery resolve..
With a guttural cry, he unleashed his power, his fist connecting with the wall in a thunderous impact.
The stone cracked and splintered, a massive section collapsing inward, creating another gaping hole. The fire, now contained within the stable, roared in defiance, but it would spread no further.
Caelum cast a final glance at the unconscious Ser Elmar, a pang of guilt twisting in his gut. He had saved the boy, but at a terrible cost. He had to get away from this place, from the violence and destruction he had wrought.
With a heavy heart, he turned and fled through the newly created opening in the wall, his tears mingling with the sweat on his face. The inferno behind him raged on, a fiery testament to his power and his desperation.
He didn't look back, his only thought was a prayer of forgiveness from the Seven, as he rushed to put as much distance between himself and the manse as possible as he rushed back to the city.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
That's the rest of the chapter.
Caelum's made mistakes. Mistakes have consequences.
Too much power in the hands of a child, an untrained on at that. Not everything is going to be easy.
Superman had to spend years, learning control. I don't know about MoS, but in every iteration of Superman, control is either taught by Jor-El (Superman and Lois) or, by the Kents at the farm (most comics)
As for the conversations between the guards, locker room talk I imagine. I hope it wasn't too crude, or off-putting.
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
Oh I believe it's the opposite problem for Caleum
Everything and everyone Is just too easy to break
Most people struggle with not being strong enough.
Caleum Will have to deal with both being too strong and finding problems his strength would not actually help.
And the conversations were perfectly fine
Fire, Blood and Growth
Chapter 23 –
It all happened too suddenly.
He should have left with the princess and her children the very moment the Spider's letter had arrived. He should have left the moment he had come to know of the Prince's demise at the hands of the Seven damned Starks.
If he had, Princess Elia would still be alive.
But he hadn't.
He had instead given the princess a day to say farewell to the home that would soon be far behind her, once the King secured her and her children at King's Landing. It was to be a day of quiet remembrance, a final pilgrimage to Dragonstone, a place of beauty and solace amidst the gathering storm of war.
Instead, it had become a day of fire and blood.
Slavers, disguised as merchants from Lys, had launched a sudden and brutal attack on the fishing village. Their torches had set the docks ablaze, turning the harbor into an inferno.
Among the princess's party was the novice Septa, Pia, a young woman who had become something of a handmaiden to Prince Viserys. The young prince himself, however, had remained behind at the Red Keep, feeling the need to be by his mother, Queen Rhaella's side so late into her pregnancy.
She had been the first to spot them, trying desperately to keep little Prince Aegon who had been secured in her arms safe from the ambush.
Prince Lewyn Martell, a valiant knight of the Kingsguard, had fought like a lion, his spear flashing in the dying light. He had managed to secure the escape of little Princess Rhaenys, sending her galloping back to the castle with a trusted rider. But his heroism had come at a terrible price.
The Princess Elia had perished amidst the flames, her lifeblood spilling onto the cobblestones as she fought to shield her infant son from the slavers' grasping hands. Prince Lewyn had fallen beside her, his body riddled with wounds.
The slavers had captured many of the villagers, women and children dragged away screaming.
And little Prince Aegon, barely a year old, had vanished into the smoke and shadows, alongside the little septa who tried in vain to protect the innocent babe. Both, in the end, were carried off by the slavers.
The fishing village now lay in ruins.
Jon Connington stood on the deck of the Sea Dragon, the wind whipping at his cloak as he gazed out at the darkening horizon.
Beside him stood Laenor Waters, the captain of the ship and a man Jon did not entirely trust. Waters had returned from the North claiming to have journeyed to Skaagos, yet before his departure he had been seen with Prince Rhaegar feasting at Driftmark.
The Sea Dragon, the Barrow captained by Ser Willem Darry, and the Swiftwing under the command of Omer Blackberry, were all that remained of the royal fleet after the slavers' attack.
They were swift vessels, some of the fastest in the realm's Royal Fleet, and they had given chase through the broiling storm that had arisen in the Narrow Sea.
They were almost to Essos, somewhere near the coast of Pentos.
As the waves crashed against the hull, Jon's mind raced.
He could not shake the image of Princess Elia's lifeless body, nor the cries of the villagers as they were dragged away. He had been one of the first to rouse the Garrison after the rider had returned to the castle with Princess Rhaenys.
The Spider's missive had warned of a Stark plot to kidnap the royal children, he should have departed then, but Jon had hesitated, consumed by grief and anger over Rhaegar's death. Now, the consequences of his inaction were laid bare.
But he would not fail again.
Of the five slaver ships that had once swarmed the harbor, three now drifted aimlessly, their sails ablaze like funeral pyres. Jon felt a grim satisfaction at the sight, but it was fleeting.
"The Swiftwing is moving to board, my lord," Laenor Waters reported, his voice barely audible above the crashing waves. "Blackberry will rescue the captives on board."
Jon nodded, his gaze fixed on the remaining two slaver ships. "May he find the prince among them."
A vicious cheer erupted from the Swiftwing as Blackberry's men swarmed onto the first disabled ship, their swords flashing in the firelight. Jon watched as the slavers were cut down, a small measure of vengeance for the innocents they had stolen.
His attention snapped back to the battle at hand as a volley of flaming arrows arced from the Barrow, finding their mark on the deck of the next slaver ship. The pirates scrambled to douse the flames, but the distraction gave Willem Darry the opening he needed.
"Loose the sail!" Laenor Waters barked, his command echoing across the deck of the Sea Dragon. "Oarsmen, give me speed!"
The ship surged forward, its battering ram aimed at the starboard quarter of the last remaining slaver vessel. The air crackled with tension as the thunder rumbled again, closer now, a warning growl from the heavens.
"Archers, knock!" Laenor commanded, his voice rising above the storm. "Aim for the sails! Fire!"
The flaming arrows flew as the Sea Dragon gathered momentum. The slavers turned to meet the threat, their eyes wide with fear.
"Brace for impact!"
The battering ram slammed into the slaver ship with a sickening crunch of wood and metal, sending splinters flying and the vessel lurching violently.
Laenor was quick to rally his men.
Helmed and armored, they were a burly, hardened lot, likely honed by years at sea and the grim realities of war. More of his men surged up from the depths of the ship, muscles corded from their labor at the oars, their faces grim with battle fury.
"Board them!" The man bellowed, his voice a thunderclap above the storm. "Cut down every slaver you find! We'll secure the captives and find the prince."
Jon nodded, drawing his sword. "I'm with you."
With a roar, they charged across the splintered wood, leaping onto the slaver ship as a volley of arrows rained down, thinning the enemy ranks.
The deck became a maelstrom of steel and blood.
Laenor's men, well-trained and disciplined, fought with the ferocity of cornered wolves. The slavers, though outnumbered, were desperate and cunning.
"Douse the flames!" a slaver captain roared, his face blackened by smoke. "Get those sails down before the whole ship goes up!"
"Push them off!" another cried, straining against the Sea Dragon's ram. "Don't let them board!"
Jon found himself surrounded, three slavers pressing in on him. He parried a wild swing, then thrust forward, his blade finding its mark in a slaver's throat. Another lunged, but Jon sidestepped and drove his sword through the man's chest.
As he fought, he caught glimpses of Laenor, his movements swift and deadly, like a dancer amidst the chaos. But the slavers were relentless, and soon Jon was separated from his ally.
"Over here, you whoreson!" a slaver snarled, shoving a terrified villager in front of him, a young woman with tears streaming down her face. "Another step, and the girl dies!"
Jon's advance faltered. He was hemmed in, a wall of hardened flesh between him and the slaver's captive.
The woman cowered before her captor, her terror palpable in the stormy air.
Her dress was torn and soiled, revealing the pale skin of her chest, marred by a bloody gash across her left breast, as the lump of flesh hung loosely by the nipple. Dried blood stained between her legs.
"Don't be a fool," Jon said, his voice low and steady. "Your ship is lost. Surrender, and I promise you a swift death."
The slaver laughed, a harsh sound that grated against the roar of the sea. "Surrender? To the likes of you? My men will have your ship dislodged soon enough. And then, you'll be the one begging for mercy."
Jon's eyes narrowed, taking in the scene.
Jon's eyes narrowed, taking in the scene. Behind the slaver, the main mast burned fiercely, the flames licking at the rigging. The wood groaned and creaked ominously, bending under the heat.
Three more slavers circled warily, their Lyseni features etched in the flickering firelight. Thunder crackled overhead, a drumbeat to the impending doom.
The mast let out a deafening groan, bowing further. The slaver, his attention momentarily diverted, barked, "Miklaz, see to the mast!"
In that split second of distraction, the woman acted. With a desperate cry, she snatched a dirk from the slaver's belt and plunged it upwards, burying the blade in his jaw. His scream was cut short as he crumpled to the deck, blood gurgling from his mouth.
"You bitch!" one of the circling slavers roared, raising his sword.
Jon didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword a blur of motion. The slaver to his right fell with a gurgle, his lifeblood staining the deck. Jon reached the woman, his arm wrapping around her waist as he pulled her behind him.
"Get down!" he yelled, his voice barely audible over the storm and the clash of steel.
The two remaining slavers attacked, their blades flashing. Jon parried one blow, then another, but they were relentless. A third slaver joined the fray, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Die, you Targaryen dog!" he spat, swinging his axe with a mighty roar.
Jon barely managed to deflect the blow, stumbling back as the axe bit into the wood of the deck. He was open, vulnerable. He braced for the killing stroke, but it never came.
A figure materialized beside him, deflecting the axe with a clang of steel. It was Laenor Waters, his face a mask of fury as he drove the slaver back.
"You're outnumbered, you fools!" Laenor bellowed. "Throw down your weapons"
The remaining slavers exchanged glances, their resolve wavering. One of them dropped his sword with a clatter. The other hesitated, then followed suit.
Jon, catching his breath, turned to Laenor. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff with gratitude.
Laenor nodded, his eyes scanning the deck. "We need to secure the rest of the captives. And find the prince."
The burning mast groaned one last time, a tortured shriek before it finally gave way. With a deafening crash, it toppled over the port side, its blazing sails trailing smoke as it plunged into the churning sea.
Jon turned to the men, his voice ringing out with authority. "Round up the slavers! Tie them and put them to the sword. No mercy for these scum."
The remaining slavers, faces pale with fear, fell to their knees. "Mercy, my lord!" one cried, his voice cracking. "The Wall! Send us to the Wall! We'll take the black and atone for our sins!"
Jon, who had moved to the woman's side, knelt beside her. He procured a strip of cloth from the burning sail of the ship, and gently bound her wounded breast, then draped his cloak over her shoulders to shield her shattered nakedness.
"Silence! We will not spare you to rape and pillage in the North," he said, his voice cold and hard. "You will face justice for your crimes."
The wall wasn't an option available to him anyway. The war with the damned Starks meant that the wall was effectively out of the question to send scum like these to spend the rest of their lives in misery.
The woman looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered. "You saved my life."
"Maester Gormon and Maester Gerard will tend to your wounds when we return to Dragonstone," Jon assured her. He signaled to one of his men, who gently lifted the woman and carried her to the safety of the Sea Dragon.
Jon turned to Laenor Waters, who was already directing his men in securing the deck and executing the slavers. "I'm ready to search below," Jon said.
Laenor nodded. "I've already sent men down to clear the lower decks. Any slavers hiding among the oarsmen and captives will be dealt with."
Jon's lips tightened in a grim line. "Good thinking. Let's find the prince."
They descended into the dimly lit lower deck with some of their men.
The air was thick with the stench of stale sweat and fear. Bodies of slavers who had resisted capture lay scattered across the floorboards, their weapons clattering as Laenor's men secured the remaining prisoners.
The hold was a scene of utter misery.
Women and children, most likely destined for the pleasure houses of Lys, were huddled together, their eyes wide with terror.
Some bore the same marks of rape as the woman Jon had saved on deck, their torn clothes and skin bruised.
Jon and Laenor pushed through the crowd, their eyes searching.
As they reached the aft section of the ship, they found a group of children huddled together in a corner. Among them, Jon spotted a silver-haired babe, barely a year old, clutched in the arms of a trembling woman.
He knelt beside her. "Is this child yours?" he asked gently.
The woman shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "Nay, m'lord. They gave 'im to me to quiet 'im. They said a Valyrian babe fetches a higher price."
Jon examined the child. His silver hair and purple eyes marked him as Targaryen, as royal.
It was Prince Aegon.
"Thank the gods," Jon breathed, a wave of relief washing over him. He looked at the woman, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for keeping him safe."
The woman sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "Thank ye, m'lord. Fer saving us."
Jon gently lifted the prince from the woman's arms, cradling him close. "Come, my men will take you to the Sea Dragon. Rest assured, you are safe."
The woman sobbed harder, "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye!"
He turned to Laenor, a relieved smile on his face. "I have him."
"Let's get him safe aboard the Sea Dragon then." The man said as he turned to his men.
"Get these people to the Sea Dragon!" He barked to his men, gesturing towards the huddled figures of the rescued slaves. "Every man, woman, and child. See them safely aboard."
Jon added his own commands, "Carefully, now! These people have suffered enough."
As they made their way back onto the main deck, the sight that greeted them was grim. The Barrow, once a proud vessel of the royal fleet, was now a floating inferno. Flames danced along its rigging, casting a hellish glow on the faces of the men still locked in bloody combat.
"Seven hells," Laenor swore, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Darry's ship is lost."
Jon's heart sank. "We have to help them," he said, his voice thick with desperation. "Can we get closer?"
Laenor shook his head grimly. "Not until the people are rescued and aboard the Sea Dragon. The storm is worsening, and the Barrow is too far gone."
A wave of despair washed over Jon.
There was still fighting on the slaver ship, but it was clear the tide had turned.
Thunder cracked overhead, and the rain began to pour, a cold, relentless deluge that lashed at the decks and blurred the horizon.
"Faster!" Laenor urged his men, his voice raised above the tumult. "Get everyone aboard! We need to move!"
Jon watched as the slaver ship, its sails tattered and burning, slowly pulled away from the wreckage of the Barrow.
It felt like a Pyrrhic victory.
"We have the prince, my lord," Laenor said, clapping a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "And we took down four of their ships. That slaver vessel won't last long in this storm. They're as good as lost."
Jon nodded, a flicker of hope kindling in his eyes. Laenor was right.
The slavers had paid a heavy price for their crimes, and their remaining ship was unlikely to survive the fury of the Narrow Sea.
"May the sea grant them a swift end," Jon murmured, a prayer whispered into the wind. For the sake of the innocent souls aboard that doomed vessel, he hoped their suffering would soon be over.
Once the rescued souls were safe aboard the Sea Dragon, Laenor Waters gave the order to rally and make for the Swiftwing. Omer Blackberry's ship had fared the best in the battle and had successfully boarded and rescued the captives from the three smaller slaver vessels.
Within a day, they returned to Dragonstone. The fires at the fishing village had been extinguished, but the charred ruins still smoldered, a grim reminder of the attack. Men patrolled the port, their faces hardened against the driving rain.
As they disembarked, they were met by the castellan, Ser Harrold Thorne. The man's relief at seeing Prince Aegon safe in Jon's arms was evident, but it quickly faded. "My lord," he said, his voice heavy, "I wish I had better news."
Jon's heart clenched. "What is it?"
"The queen... she is weakened. The Maesters did all they could, but... her previous losses took their toll. She gave birth to a daughter, Princess Daenerys, but..." Ser Harrold swallowed, his voice choked with emotion. "The maesters say she won't last the night."
Despair washed over Jon.
The queen was dying.
Dragonstone was no longer safe. He had to protect the remaining children, fulfill the king's orders, and secure the island against further raids of the like.
He turned to Laenor Waters, the man who had saved his life. "The king ordered me to bring Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys to King's Landing," Jon explained. "As hostages against Dorne. But Dragonstone is vulnerable now. The slavers... and the Starks... they both want the children."
Laenor stilled. "The Starks, my Lord?"
Jon nodded. "The Spider has informed me that have sent an agent seeking to kidnap Prince Rhaegar's children. I cannot risk their safety here."
Laenor was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stormy sea.
Then, he looked at Jon, his gaze unwavering. "I will not betray my family, Lord Connington."
Jon's heart swelled with gratitude. "Thank you, Laenor."
Within the hour, Laenor Waters set sail for King's Landing, the small figures of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys huddled on deck, their futures uncertain as the storm raged around them.
It would be a week when he realized that Laenor's family meant his wife, who had been hostage in the North, and Jon Connington failed his duty yet again as he lost Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys to the Starks.
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The salt stung Caelum's chapped lips, a lingering reminder of the endless tears shed throughout the night.
His small room at the Learned Anchor, usually a haven of warmth and familiarity, now felt like a prison cell. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the bed linens, echoed with the phantom sound of Ser Elmar's agonized screams.
He had bolted the door as soon as he'd stumbled back to the inn, his hands shaking so violently he nearly splintered the wood.
Sometime during the night he vaguely remembered muffled voices beyond the door—Pylos, Fern, and Liernen, likely having returned from the Starry Sept and come to check on him. But he couldn't face them, not with the weight of his actions crushing his soul.
As dawn painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, Caelum's tears finally ran dry, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest.
He sat hunched on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the Valyrian steel mask lying discarded on the floor. It seemed to mock him, a grotesque symbol of his monstrous power.
A sharp rap on the door jolted him from his bleak reverie.
He didn't move, his body frozen in place. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Caelum," a familiar voice boomed through the wood, the unmistakable tone of Maester Marwyn. "I know you're in there. Open this door, or I shall be forced to break it down."
Caelum flinched.
He knew the archmaester wasn't bluffing. With a sigh of resignation, he rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached for the door handle, his fingers trembling as they curled around the cool metal.
With the utmost care, he lifted the latch, the door creaking open just enough to reveal Marwyn's imposing figure.
Marwyn wasted no time, his bulk pushing past Caelum into the cramped room. He moved with surprising agility for a man nursing a broken rib, his eyes scanning the disheveled space before settling on Caelum's pale face.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice gruff but laced with an undercurrent of concern.
Caelum swallowed, his throat thick with emotion. "Is... is Ser Elmar alright?" he asked instead.
Marwyn's lips tightened. "He'll live," he said, "thanks to Archmaester Theron's swift intervention. But the man is... troubled. Raving about demons from the Seven Hells."
A shiver ran down Caelum's spine. "He is speaking of me."
Marwyn nodded grimly. "He claims a fiery creature emerged from the blaze and tore his arm off. The guards are calling it a demon attack, a sign of the Seven's wrath. The Seneschal doesn't much believe them, but there is evidence aplenty there for mystical sorcery." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, boy, what truly happened at that manse?"
Caelum looked away, unable to meet the archmaester's gaze.
He recounted the events of the previous night, his voice halting and choked with emotion. He spoke of the chaos, melting the doors to the manse, and freezing them with his breath, setting the stable on fire, the fear shown by the stable boy he had accidentally trapped inside, and the horror of what he had done to Ser Elmar.
When he finished, silence hung heavy in the room. Marwyn stood motionless, his face a mask of contemplation.
After a long moment, Marwyn released a heavy sigh. "You should be glad to know, then, that Qyburn's trial at the seneschal's court is set for two days hence."
The news did little to lift the gloom that had settled over Caelum. "I should turn myself in," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "I... I hurt him. Crippled him." The images of Ser Elmar's twisted arm and the stable boy's terrified eyes flashed before his mind's eye, a gruesome slideshow of his own failures.
Marwyn scoffed, "Don't be a fool, boy. You saved the stable hand, didn't you? As for the knight, it was a mistake, an unfortunate accident. You mustn't punish yourself needlessly for such things."
"But I almost got him killed," Caelum protested, his voice rising in pitch. "I... I'm a danger to everyone around me. I'm a monster."
"Yes, you did," Marwyn agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But mistakes happen, Caelum. And Ser Elmar survived. He will live to see another day."
"But he won't be a knight anymore," Caelum lamented, his voice thick with despair. "Not without his arm."
"Nonsense," Marwyn countered. "He'll likely remain a knight, perhaps even garner more attention from Lord Baelor Hightower for his sacrifice. And he lost his left arm, boy. He can still wield a sword with his right."
Caelum remained unconvinced, his guilt gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. "But I..."
Marwyn cut him off with a raised hand. "Enough of this self-pity, boy. What's done is done. Put it out of your mind and focus on what you can control. Focus on becoming better, on mastering your gifts." He paused, his eyes boring into Caelum's. "You have a rare opportunity here, Caelum. You can use your abilities to do great things, to help people. But first, you must learn to harness your power, to wield it with precision and control."
Caelum nodded slowly, guilt still staining his soul. "Will you help me?" he asked. "I... I don't think I know how to do this on my own."
He desperately missed Luke and Meredith. They would know exactly what to do.
"Of course," Marwyn replied, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We can begin immediately, if you wish. There is no time like the present to face one's demons."
Caelum nodded, his throat too tight for words. Sleep was a dream for a guiltless mind, a luxury he couldn't afford until he had a semblance of control over his destructive abilities.
That took priority.
Marwyn moved swiftly, plucking the Valyrian steel mask from the floor where Caelum had discarded it. "I shall have this melted down," he said, turning the intricate object over in his hands. "Best not to have it recognized by anyone who may have spotted you."
"I'm sorry," Caelum winced.
Marwyn waved a dismissive hand. "Think nothing of it, boy. I never cared much for the mask anyway. Valyrian steel is wasted on such a thing anyway. There are far better uses for Valyrian Steel. I now have the opportunity to make better use of it."
He led Caelum out of the room and down the narrow stairs of the inn. In the common room below, Fern, and Liernen sat huddled around a table, as they ate their morning meal.
Liernen was working the counter, attending to the incoming stream of the morning patrons.
Fern's eyes widened as she saw Caelum, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a worried frown. "Caelum," she said, her voice soft and hesitant. "Are you alright? You look dreadful."
Pylos nodded in agreement, his gaze darting between Caelum and Marwyn. "You left the Sept in a hurry last night," he said. "Did you sleep at all?"
Caelum forced a weak smile, careful not to touch anything as he leaned against the wall. "I'll be fine," he reassured them, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "Just a bit... under the weather."
Marwyn stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Caelum's shoulder. The touch was light, barely there, but Caelum still flinched involuntarily. "I shall take care of the boy," Marwyn assured them, his voice calm. "He will be in good hands."
He turned to Liernen, who was busy wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. "I apologize for the inconvenience, good man," Marwyn said, producing a few silver coins from his pouch. "Caelum will be staying with me for the time being. This should cover his absence."
Liernen paused, his eyes flicking between the coins and Caelum's pale face. "There's no need for that, Archmaester," he said, a hint of concern in his voice. "Just take care of him. That's all that matters."
Marwyn smiled, a faint upturn of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course," he said, placing the coins on the counter nonetheless. "You have my word."
Caelum stepped outside, the cool morning air a welcome relief against his feverish skin.
As he reached the archmaester's cart, he heard Fern's voice behind him, she had followed them outside. "Archmaester Marwyn," she called out, her tone hesitant. "May I have a word?"
Marwyn paused, glancing back at Caelum before nodding curtly, telling him to wait for him by the cart. "Of course, child."
He resisted the urge to use his hearing, to listen in on the conversation unfolding behind him.
He knew what Fern was likely discussing with Marwyn, and the thought filled him with a bittersweet guilt. But he was strangely alright with the decision. Marwyn would teach her more than the citadel could in time.
She wouldn't have been able to take the Acolytes vows just like him, on account of being a girl. Someone was bound to find out eventually, Marwyn could shield her from that.
He leaned against the rough stone wall of the inn, his eyes closed as he took in the sounds of the bustling city.
The fire atop Hightower looked magnificent under the morning sun.
Marwyn returned a few moments later, a small smile playing on his lips, his red sharp teeth glittered beneath his lips, stained by chewing sourleaf.
He approached Caelum, gently lifting him into the cart. Caelum flinched at the contact, but Marwyn's touch was gentle, almost hesitant.
With a flick of the reins, the cart rumbled into motion, leaving the Learned Anchor and the bustling heart of Oldtown behind. As they journeyed towards the city's outskirts, Marwyn's voice broke the silence.
"I expect there will be rumors swirling through Oldtown soon, boy. Tales of demons and fiery apparitions."
Caelum's stomach churned. "I know," he replied, guilt gnawing at him once more.
Marwyn chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Don't fret, Caelum. The Citadel will see to it that those rumors are quelled. We've already laid the groundwork, attributing the blame to Qyburn's... unorthodox experiments. Magic is a sword without a hilt, as they say, and the Seneschal is already convinced that Qyburn was meddling with forces he shouldn't have."
Caelum nodded, but the reassurance did little to ease his troubled conscience. "Qyburn deserved it," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "He's evil. But... I still feel responsible for what happened."
Marwyn shook his head, his voice firm. "You succeeded in putting a stop to Qyburn's cruel experiments. The people he held captive will be transferred to the cells beneath the Hightower. As they were criminals, they will be judged by their crimes, regardless. Though most of the lesser criminals like the pickpockets will be let go. On account of having suffered enough."
He paused, his voice softening slightly. "The murderers and rapists in the lot will face the executioner's block. All in all, you did good work, Caelum. You may have made mistakes, but you succeeded in what you set out to do."
He reached out a gloved hand and placed it gently on Caelum's shoulder. "Don't lose sight of that, boy. You have the potential for great things, but you must learn to control your power."
"May I visit him?" Caelum asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Ser Elmar, I mean. I... I want to apologize." He knew he couldn't reveal his true identity, but perhaps even an anonymous expression of remorse would bring him some peace.
Marwyn paused, his hand tightening slightly on the reins of the cart. "It would be unwise," he said after a moment of contemplation. "The knight is in a fragile state, blaming his misfortune on a demon. Let that sink in, in time the truth will be a distant memory, and the people will build their own lies to give reason to last night in their own way." He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Perhaps in time, when the wounds have healed. Until then stay away. For now, it's best to let him rest."
Caelum nodded, accepting the wisdom in Marwyn's words.
The guilt still churned within him. Perhaps one day he could make amends, find a way to atone for the pain he had caused.
As the cart rattled along the cobblestone streets, leaving the towering walls of Oldtown behind,
"What about Qyburn?" Caelum asked, his voice tinged with apprehension. "What punishment will he face?"
Marwyn's expression darkened. "Qyburn was, and still is, under Baelor's protection," he said with a sigh. "So, I doubt there will be any imprisonment."
Caelum's heart sank. "But... his experiments..."
"At the very least," Marwyn continued, "Qyburn will no longer be a maester. He will be stripped of his chain and denied the resources of the Citadel to continue his research. Exile from Oldtown is a likely outcome. Both the Seneschal and the most devout of the Starry Sept will pressure Baelor to accomplish at least that much. Especially after all the blame for last night's sorcery will fall on the man's head."
Caelum nodded, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over him.
He didn't know whether Qyburn's punishment was just, he didn't think so. The guilt of his own actions remained a heavy burden.
He hoped being unable to use the resources of the citadel, Qyburn won't be able to carry out his experiments any further.
The cart eventually reached a secluded clearing a few miles from the city. The sun was high in the sky now, casting long shadows through the dappled leaves of the surrounding trees.
"We've arrived," Marwyn announced, his voice cutting through Caelum's troubled thoughts. "Far enough from the city, the Roseroad, and the Honeywine to ensure we're undisturbed by anyone. Travelers, guards and bandits alike."
Caelum nodded, his gaze sweeping over the secluded clearing.
Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of leaves, casting dancing patterns on the forest floor.
A sense of unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, but a spark of determination flickered to life as well. He needed to master his powers, for the sake of others and himself.
He clambered out of the cart, his movements still cautious and deliberate.
Marwyn led the way deeper into the woods, stopping at a spot sheltered by a cluster of ancient oaks.
With practiced efficiency, he unloaded supplies from the cart, setting up a makeshift camp.
Once the camp was established, Marwyn turned to Caelum, his eyes sharp and focused. "To help you gain control, we must first understand the extent of your strength," he said. "Show me what you can do."
Caelum nodded, his gaze swept across the clearing, searching for a suitable target. His eyes settled on a massive oak tree, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. He approached the tree, his heart pounding in his chest.
He drew back his fist, his muscles coiling with barely restrained strength.
With a guttural cry, he unleashed a thunderous punch, his knuckles connecting with the oak's rough bark.
The sound of splintering wood filled the air as a shockwave rippled through the tree. It shattered, its trunk splitting open like a ripe melon, and the force of the blow sent several neighboring trees toppling one after the other behind them.
Caelum stared in awe at the devastation he had wrought.
A cold dread settled over him as he realized the sheer magnitude of his power.
Marwyn's eyes widened as he surveyed the scene, his weathered face a mask of awe and disbelief. "By the Gods..." he breathed, "your strength... it's extraordinary." He shook his head, the awe not leaving his face. "I must confess, I was somewhat skeptical when you recounted the events of last night. Seeing those broken stone walls at the manse certainly gave me pause, but this..." He gestured towards the fallen trees, his voice trailing off in astonishment.
A flicker of worry crossed Marwyn's face. "This is but a fraction of your full potential, I imagine," he mused. "One can only wonder how much further your strength will grow as you age." He paused, his gaze returning to Caelum. "But this was merely striking strength. I'd like to see other manifestations of your power."
Caelum, feeling a mix of worry and apprehension, nodded slowly.
He approached one of the toppled trees, its massive trunk lying prone on the forest floor. He knelt beside it, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the bark.
With surprising ease, he lifted the entire tree, roots and all, hoisting it above his head as if it were a mere twig.
Marwyn watched intently, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "Impressive," he said. "Now, drop it. And then, grasp a thick branch—but only grasp it, do not attempt to lift."
Caelum lowered the tree back to the ground, the impact sending tremors through the earth. He then selected a sturdy branch, its thickness as wide as his wrist.
He wrapped his fingers around it, careful not to exert any pressure.
But even the slightest touch proved too much. The branch snapped with a sharp crack, the severed ends tumbling to the ground.
Marwyn nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin as he observed the splintered branch. "I believe I understand the issue," he said, a hint of a plan forming in his eyes. "This will take time, Caelum. A great deal of time. And the best method to learn anything is through practice."
Caelum braced himself, anticipating a tedious series of exercises and drills. He was determined to regain control, no matter the cost.
Marwyn's next words, however, caught him off guard. "Your first task is to gather all the fallen trees in this clearing," he instructed. "Strip them of their branches and leaves, carefully, mind you. Then, you will use the wood to build a shelter for our stay here."
Caelum stared at him, incredulous. "How am I supposed to do that?! I can barely handle one branch with care!" he sputtered. "... that could take ages!"
Marwyn arched an eyebrow. "Indeed," he replied with a sardonic smile. "What did you expect, boy? Did you think I had a magical solution to your strength? Control comes with patience, discipline, and a great deal of hard work. Now, get to it."
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(A/N) I am back! Exams are done! Hope that was worth the long wait!
Naval battles are hard. Anyway, Princess Elia is dead. The Kidnapping is successful. And Ned Stark wasn't even spotted, lol. He was one of the helmed guards under Laenor Waters.
Why would the Spider not inform them of the entire plan, I wonder.
As for Caelum. Superman, whenever he accidentally hurt an innocent person, has always ventured to turn himself into the authorities. Most often that's batman, lol. Or the military, so Lois Lane's dad.
Marwyn put a stop to that. More character growth.
It all happened too suddenly.
He should have left with the princess and her children the very moment the Spider's letter had arrived. He should have left the moment he had come to know of the Prince's demise at the hands of the Seven damned Starks.
If he had, Princess Elia would still be alive.
But he hadn't.
He had instead given the princess a day to say farewell to the home that would soon be far behind her, once the King secured her and her children at King's Landing. It was to be a day of quiet remembrance, a final pilgrimage to Dragonstone, a place of beauty and solace amidst the gathering storm of war.
Instead, it had become a day of fire and blood.
Slavers, disguised as merchants from Lys, had launched a sudden and brutal attack on the fishing village. Their torches had set the docks ablaze, turning the harbor into an inferno.
Among the princess's party was the novice Septa, Pia, a young woman who had become something of a handmaiden to Prince Viserys. The young prince himself, however, had remained behind at the Red Keep, feeling the need to be by his mother, Queen Rhaella's side so late into her pregnancy.
She had been the first to spot them, trying desperately to keep little Prince Aegon who had been secured in her arms safe from the ambush.
Prince Lewyn Martell, a valiant knight of the Kingsguard, had fought like a lion, his spear flashing in the dying light. He had managed to secure the escape of little Princess Rhaenys, sending her galloping back to the castle with a trusted rider. But his heroism had come at a terrible price.
The Princess Elia had perished amidst the flames, her lifeblood spilling onto the cobblestones as she fought to shield her infant son from the slavers' grasping hands. Prince Lewyn had fallen beside her, his body riddled with wounds.
The slavers had captured many of the villagers, women and children dragged away screaming.
And little Prince Aegon, barely a year old, had vanished into the smoke and shadows, alongside the little septa who tried in vain to protect the innocent babe. Both, in the end, were carried off by the slavers.
The fishing village now lay in ruins.
Jon Connington stood on the deck of the Sea Dragon, the wind whipping at his cloak as he gazed out at the darkening horizon.
Beside him stood Laenor Waters, the captain of the ship and a man Jon did not entirely trust. Waters had returned from the North claiming to have journeyed to Skaagos, yet before his departure he had been seen with Prince Rhaegar feasting at Driftmark.
The Sea Dragon, the Barrow captained by Ser Willem Darry, and the Swiftwing under the command of Omer Blackberry, were all that remained of the royal fleet after the slavers' attack.
They were swift vessels, some of the fastest in the realm's Royal Fleet, and they had given chase through the broiling storm that had arisen in the Narrow Sea.
They were almost to Essos, somewhere near the coast of Pentos.
As the waves crashed against the hull, Jon's mind raced.
He could not shake the image of Princess Elia's lifeless body, nor the cries of the villagers as they were dragged away. He had been one of the first to rouse the Garrison after the rider had returned to the castle with Princess Rhaenys.
The Spider's missive had warned of a Stark plot to kidnap the royal children, he should have departed then, but Jon had hesitated, consumed by grief and anger over Rhaegar's death. Now, the consequences of his inaction were laid bare.
But he would not fail again.
Of the five slaver ships that had once swarmed the harbor, three now drifted aimlessly, their sails ablaze like funeral pyres. Jon felt a grim satisfaction at the sight, but it was fleeting.
"The Swiftwing is moving to board, my lord," Laenor Waters reported, his voice barely audible above the crashing waves. "Blackberry will rescue the captives on board."
Jon nodded, his gaze fixed on the remaining two slaver ships. "May he find the prince among them."
A vicious cheer erupted from the Swiftwing as Blackberry's men swarmed onto the first disabled ship, their swords flashing in the firelight. Jon watched as the slavers were cut down, a small measure of vengeance for the innocents they had stolen.
His attention snapped back to the battle at hand as a volley of flaming arrows arced from the Barrow, finding their mark on the deck of the next slaver ship. The pirates scrambled to douse the flames, but the distraction gave Willem Darry the opening he needed.
"Loose the sail!" Laenor Waters barked, his command echoing across the deck of the Sea Dragon. "Oarsmen, give me speed!"
The ship surged forward, its battering ram aimed at the starboard quarter of the last remaining slaver vessel. The air crackled with tension as the thunder rumbled again, closer now, a warning growl from the heavens.
"Archers, knock!" Laenor commanded, his voice rising above the storm. "Aim for the sails! Fire!"
The flaming arrows flew as the Sea Dragon gathered momentum. The slavers turned to meet the threat, their eyes wide with fear.
"Brace for impact!"
The battering ram slammed into the slaver ship with a sickening crunch of wood and metal, sending splinters flying and the vessel lurching violently.
Laenor was quick to rally his men.
Helmed and armored, they were a burly, hardened lot, likely honed by years at sea and the grim realities of war. More of his men surged up from the depths of the ship, muscles corded from their labor at the oars, their faces grim with battle fury.
"Board them!" The man bellowed, his voice a thunderclap above the storm. "Cut down every slaver you find! We'll secure the captives and find the prince."
Jon nodded, drawing his sword. "I'm with you."
With a roar, they charged across the splintered wood, leaping onto the slaver ship as a volley of arrows rained down, thinning the enemy ranks.
The deck became a maelstrom of steel and blood.
Laenor's men, well-trained and disciplined, fought with the ferocity of cornered wolves. The slavers, though outnumbered, were desperate and cunning.
"Douse the flames!" a slaver captain roared, his face blackened by smoke. "Get those sails down before the whole ship goes up!"
"Push them off!" another cried, straining against the Sea Dragon's ram. "Don't let them board!"
Jon found himself surrounded, three slavers pressing in on him. He parried a wild swing, then thrust forward, his blade finding its mark in a slaver's throat. Another lunged, but Jon sidestepped and drove his sword through the man's chest.
As he fought, he caught glimpses of Laenor, his movements swift and deadly, like a dancer amidst the chaos. But the slavers were relentless, and soon Jon was separated from his ally.
"Over here, you whoreson!" a slaver snarled, shoving a terrified villager in front of him, a young woman with tears streaming down her face. "Another step, and the girl dies!"
Jon's advance faltered. He was hemmed in, a wall of hardened flesh between him and the slaver's captive.
The woman cowered before her captor, her terror palpable in the stormy air.
Her dress was torn and soiled, revealing the pale skin of her chest, marred by a bloody gash across her left breast, as the lump of flesh hung loosely by the nipple. Dried blood stained between her legs.
"Don't be a fool," Jon said, his voice low and steady. "Your ship is lost. Surrender, and I promise you a swift death."
The slaver laughed, a harsh sound that grated against the roar of the sea. "Surrender? To the likes of you? My men will have your ship dislodged soon enough. And then, you'll be the one begging for mercy."
Jon's eyes narrowed, taking in the scene.
Jon's eyes narrowed, taking in the scene. Behind the slaver, the main mast burned fiercely, the flames licking at the rigging. The wood groaned and creaked ominously, bending under the heat.
Three more slavers circled warily, their Lyseni features etched in the flickering firelight. Thunder crackled overhead, a drumbeat to the impending doom.
The mast let out a deafening groan, bowing further. The slaver, his attention momentarily diverted, barked, "Miklaz, see to the mast!"
In that split second of distraction, the woman acted. With a desperate cry, she snatched a dirk from the slaver's belt and plunged it upwards, burying the blade in his jaw. His scream was cut short as he crumpled to the deck, blood gurgling from his mouth.
"You bitch!" one of the circling slavers roared, raising his sword.
Jon didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword a blur of motion. The slaver to his right fell with a gurgle, his lifeblood staining the deck. Jon reached the woman, his arm wrapping around her waist as he pulled her behind him.
"Get down!" he yelled, his voice barely audible over the storm and the clash of steel.
The two remaining slavers attacked, their blades flashing. Jon parried one blow, then another, but they were relentless. A third slaver joined the fray, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Die, you Targaryen dog!" he spat, swinging his axe with a mighty roar.
Jon barely managed to deflect the blow, stumbling back as the axe bit into the wood of the deck. He was open, vulnerable. He braced for the killing stroke, but it never came.
A figure materialized beside him, deflecting the axe with a clang of steel. It was Laenor Waters, his face a mask of fury as he drove the slaver back.
"You're outnumbered, you fools!" Laenor bellowed. "Throw down your weapons"
The remaining slavers exchanged glances, their resolve wavering. One of them dropped his sword with a clatter. The other hesitated, then followed suit.
Jon, catching his breath, turned to Laenor. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff with gratitude.
Laenor nodded, his eyes scanning the deck. "We need to secure the rest of the captives. And find the prince."
The burning mast groaned one last time, a tortured shriek before it finally gave way. With a deafening crash, it toppled over the port side, its blazing sails trailing smoke as it plunged into the churning sea.
Jon turned to the men, his voice ringing out with authority. "Round up the slavers! Tie them and put them to the sword. No mercy for these scum."
The remaining slavers, faces pale with fear, fell to their knees. "Mercy, my lord!" one cried, his voice cracking. "The Wall! Send us to the Wall! We'll take the black and atone for our sins!"
Jon, who had moved to the woman's side, knelt beside her. He procured a strip of cloth from the burning sail of the ship, and gently bound her wounded breast, then draped his cloak over her shoulders to shield her shattered nakedness.
"Silence! We will not spare you to rape and pillage in the North," he said, his voice cold and hard. "You will face justice for your crimes."
The wall wasn't an option available to him anyway. The war with the damned Starks meant that the wall was effectively out of the question to send scum like these to spend the rest of their lives in misery.
The woman looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered. "You saved my life."
"Maester Gormon and Maester Gerard will tend to your wounds when we return to Dragonstone," Jon assured her. He signaled to one of his men, who gently lifted the woman and carried her to the safety of the Sea Dragon.
Jon turned to Laenor Waters, who was already directing his men in securing the deck and executing the slavers. "I'm ready to search below," Jon said.
Laenor nodded. "I've already sent men down to clear the lower decks. Any slavers hiding among the oarsmen and captives will be dealt with."
Jon's lips tightened in a grim line. "Good thinking. Let's find the prince."
They descended into the dimly lit lower deck with some of their men.
The air was thick with the stench of stale sweat and fear. Bodies of slavers who had resisted capture lay scattered across the floorboards, their weapons clattering as Laenor's men secured the remaining prisoners.
The hold was a scene of utter misery.
Women and children, most likely destined for the pleasure houses of Lys, were huddled together, their eyes wide with terror.
Some bore the same marks of rape as the woman Jon had saved on deck, their torn clothes and skin bruised.
Jon and Laenor pushed through the crowd, their eyes searching.
As they reached the aft section of the ship, they found a group of children huddled together in a corner. Among them, Jon spotted a silver-haired babe, barely a year old, clutched in the arms of a trembling woman.
He knelt beside her. "Is this child yours?" he asked gently.
The woman shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "Nay, m'lord. They gave 'im to me to quiet 'im. They said a Valyrian babe fetches a higher price."
Jon examined the child. His silver hair and purple eyes marked him as Targaryen, as royal.
It was Prince Aegon.
"Thank the gods," Jon breathed, a wave of relief washing over him. He looked at the woman, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for keeping him safe."
The woman sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "Thank ye, m'lord. Fer saving us."
Jon gently lifted the prince from the woman's arms, cradling him close. "Come, my men will take you to the Sea Dragon. Rest assured, you are safe."
The woman sobbed harder, "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye!"
He turned to Laenor, a relieved smile on his face. "I have him."
"Let's get him safe aboard the Sea Dragon then." The man said as he turned to his men.
"Get these people to the Sea Dragon!" He barked to his men, gesturing towards the huddled figures of the rescued slaves. "Every man, woman, and child. See them safely aboard."
Jon added his own commands, "Carefully, now! These people have suffered enough."
As they made their way back onto the main deck, the sight that greeted them was grim. The Barrow, once a proud vessel of the royal fleet, was now a floating inferno. Flames danced along its rigging, casting a hellish glow on the faces of the men still locked in bloody combat.
"Seven hells," Laenor swore, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Darry's ship is lost."
Jon's heart sank. "We have to help them," he said, his voice thick with desperation. "Can we get closer?"
Laenor shook his head grimly. "Not until the people are rescued and aboard the Sea Dragon. The storm is worsening, and the Barrow is too far gone."
A wave of despair washed over Jon.
There was still fighting on the slaver ship, but it was clear the tide had turned.
Thunder cracked overhead, and the rain began to pour, a cold, relentless deluge that lashed at the decks and blurred the horizon.
"Faster!" Laenor urged his men, his voice raised above the tumult. "Get everyone aboard! We need to move!"
Jon watched as the slaver ship, its sails tattered and burning, slowly pulled away from the wreckage of the Barrow.
It felt like a Pyrrhic victory.
"We have the prince, my lord," Laenor said, clapping a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "And we took down four of their ships. That slaver vessel won't last long in this storm. They're as good as lost."
Jon nodded, a flicker of hope kindling in his eyes. Laenor was right.
The slavers had paid a heavy price for their crimes, and their remaining ship was unlikely to survive the fury of the Narrow Sea.
"May the sea grant them a swift end," Jon murmured, a prayer whispered into the wind. For the sake of the innocent souls aboard that doomed vessel, he hoped their suffering would soon be over.
Once the rescued souls were safe aboard the Sea Dragon, Laenor Waters gave the order to rally and make for the Swiftwing. Omer Blackberry's ship had fared the best in the battle and had successfully boarded and rescued the captives from the three smaller slaver vessels.
Within a day, they returned to Dragonstone. The fires at the fishing village had been extinguished, but the charred ruins still smoldered, a grim reminder of the attack. Men patrolled the port, their faces hardened against the driving rain.
As they disembarked, they were met by the castellan, Ser Harrold Thorne. The man's relief at seeing Prince Aegon safe in Jon's arms was evident, but it quickly faded. "My lord," he said, his voice heavy, "I wish I had better news."
Jon's heart clenched. "What is it?"
"The queen... she is weakened. The Maesters did all they could, but... her previous losses took their toll. She gave birth to a daughter, Princess Daenerys, but..." Ser Harrold swallowed, his voice choked with emotion. "The maesters say she won't last the night."
Despair washed over Jon.
The queen was dying.
Dragonstone was no longer safe. He had to protect the remaining children, fulfill the king's orders, and secure the island against further raids of the like.
He turned to Laenor Waters, the man who had saved his life. "The king ordered me to bring Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys to King's Landing," Jon explained. "As hostages against Dorne. But Dragonstone is vulnerable now. The slavers... and the Starks... they both want the children."
Laenor stilled. "The Starks, my Lord?"
Jon nodded. "The Spider has informed me that have sent an agent seeking to kidnap Prince Rhaegar's children. I cannot risk their safety here."
Laenor was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stormy sea.
Then, he looked at Jon, his gaze unwavering. "I will not betray my family, Lord Connington."
Jon's heart swelled with gratitude. "Thank you, Laenor."
Within the hour, Laenor Waters set sail for King's Landing, the small figures of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys huddled on deck, their futures uncertain as the storm raged around them.
It would be a week when he realized that Laenor's family meant his wife, who had been hostage in the North, and Jon Connington failed his duty yet again as he lost Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys to the Starks.
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The salt stung Caelum's chapped lips, a lingering reminder of the endless tears shed throughout the night.
His small room at the Learned Anchor, usually a haven of warmth and familiarity, now felt like a prison cell. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the bed linens, echoed with the phantom sound of Ser Elmar's agonized screams.
He had bolted the door as soon as he'd stumbled back to the inn, his hands shaking so violently he nearly splintered the wood.
Sometime during the night he vaguely remembered muffled voices beyond the door—Pylos, Fern, and Liernen, likely having returned from the Starry Sept and come to check on him. But he couldn't face them, not with the weight of his actions crushing his soul.
As dawn painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, Caelum's tears finally ran dry, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest.
He sat hunched on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the Valyrian steel mask lying discarded on the floor. It seemed to mock him, a grotesque symbol of his monstrous power.
A sharp rap on the door jolted him from his bleak reverie.
He didn't move, his body frozen in place. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Caelum," a familiar voice boomed through the wood, the unmistakable tone of Maester Marwyn. "I know you're in there. Open this door, or I shall be forced to break it down."
Caelum flinched.
He knew the archmaester wasn't bluffing. With a sigh of resignation, he rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached for the door handle, his fingers trembling as they curled around the cool metal.
With the utmost care, he lifted the latch, the door creaking open just enough to reveal Marwyn's imposing figure.
Marwyn wasted no time, his bulk pushing past Caelum into the cramped room. He moved with surprising agility for a man nursing a broken rib, his eyes scanning the disheveled space before settling on Caelum's pale face.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice gruff but laced with an undercurrent of concern.
Caelum swallowed, his throat thick with emotion. "Is... is Ser Elmar alright?" he asked instead.
Marwyn's lips tightened. "He'll live," he said, "thanks to Archmaester Theron's swift intervention. But the man is... troubled. Raving about demons from the Seven Hells."
A shiver ran down Caelum's spine. "He is speaking of me."
Marwyn nodded grimly. "He claims a fiery creature emerged from the blaze and tore his arm off. The guards are calling it a demon attack, a sign of the Seven's wrath. The Seneschal doesn't much believe them, but there is evidence aplenty there for mystical sorcery." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, boy, what truly happened at that manse?"
Caelum looked away, unable to meet the archmaester's gaze.
He recounted the events of the previous night, his voice halting and choked with emotion. He spoke of the chaos, melting the doors to the manse, and freezing them with his breath, setting the stable on fire, the fear shown by the stable boy he had accidentally trapped inside, and the horror of what he had done to Ser Elmar.
When he finished, silence hung heavy in the room. Marwyn stood motionless, his face a mask of contemplation.
After a long moment, Marwyn released a heavy sigh. "You should be glad to know, then, that Qyburn's trial at the seneschal's court is set for two days hence."
The news did little to lift the gloom that had settled over Caelum. "I should turn myself in," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "I... I hurt him. Crippled him." The images of Ser Elmar's twisted arm and the stable boy's terrified eyes flashed before his mind's eye, a gruesome slideshow of his own failures.
Marwyn scoffed, "Don't be a fool, boy. You saved the stable hand, didn't you? As for the knight, it was a mistake, an unfortunate accident. You mustn't punish yourself needlessly for such things."
"But I almost got him killed," Caelum protested, his voice rising in pitch. "I... I'm a danger to everyone around me. I'm a monster."
"Yes, you did," Marwyn agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But mistakes happen, Caelum. And Ser Elmar survived. He will live to see another day."
"But he won't be a knight anymore," Caelum lamented, his voice thick with despair. "Not without his arm."
"Nonsense," Marwyn countered. "He'll likely remain a knight, perhaps even garner more attention from Lord Baelor Hightower for his sacrifice. And he lost his left arm, boy. He can still wield a sword with his right."
Caelum remained unconvinced, his guilt gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. "But I..."
Marwyn cut him off with a raised hand. "Enough of this self-pity, boy. What's done is done. Put it out of your mind and focus on what you can control. Focus on becoming better, on mastering your gifts." He paused, his eyes boring into Caelum's. "You have a rare opportunity here, Caelum. You can use your abilities to do great things, to help people. But first, you must learn to harness your power, to wield it with precision and control."
Caelum nodded slowly, guilt still staining his soul. "Will you help me?" he asked. "I... I don't think I know how to do this on my own."
He desperately missed Luke and Meredith. They would know exactly what to do.
"Of course," Marwyn replied, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We can begin immediately, if you wish. There is no time like the present to face one's demons."
Caelum nodded, his throat too tight for words. Sleep was a dream for a guiltless mind, a luxury he couldn't afford until he had a semblance of control over his destructive abilities.
That took priority.
Marwyn moved swiftly, plucking the Valyrian steel mask from the floor where Caelum had discarded it. "I shall have this melted down," he said, turning the intricate object over in his hands. "Best not to have it recognized by anyone who may have spotted you."
"I'm sorry," Caelum winced.
Marwyn waved a dismissive hand. "Think nothing of it, boy. I never cared much for the mask anyway. Valyrian steel is wasted on such a thing anyway. There are far better uses for Valyrian Steel. I now have the opportunity to make better use of it."
He led Caelum out of the room and down the narrow stairs of the inn. In the common room below, Fern, and Liernen sat huddled around a table, as they ate their morning meal.
Liernen was working the counter, attending to the incoming stream of the morning patrons.
Fern's eyes widened as she saw Caelum, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a worried frown. "Caelum," she said, her voice soft and hesitant. "Are you alright? You look dreadful."
Pylos nodded in agreement, his gaze darting between Caelum and Marwyn. "You left the Sept in a hurry last night," he said. "Did you sleep at all?"
Caelum forced a weak smile, careful not to touch anything as he leaned against the wall. "I'll be fine," he reassured them, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "Just a bit... under the weather."
Marwyn stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Caelum's shoulder. The touch was light, barely there, but Caelum still flinched involuntarily. "I shall take care of the boy," Marwyn assured them, his voice calm. "He will be in good hands."
He turned to Liernen, who was busy wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. "I apologize for the inconvenience, good man," Marwyn said, producing a few silver coins from his pouch. "Caelum will be staying with me for the time being. This should cover his absence."
Liernen paused, his eyes flicking between the coins and Caelum's pale face. "There's no need for that, Archmaester," he said, a hint of concern in his voice. "Just take care of him. That's all that matters."
Marwyn smiled, a faint upturn of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course," he said, placing the coins on the counter nonetheless. "You have my word."
Caelum stepped outside, the cool morning air a welcome relief against his feverish skin.
As he reached the archmaester's cart, he heard Fern's voice behind him, she had followed them outside. "Archmaester Marwyn," she called out, her tone hesitant. "May I have a word?"
Marwyn paused, glancing back at Caelum before nodding curtly, telling him to wait for him by the cart. "Of course, child."
He resisted the urge to use his hearing, to listen in on the conversation unfolding behind him.
He knew what Fern was likely discussing with Marwyn, and the thought filled him with a bittersweet guilt. But he was strangely alright with the decision. Marwyn would teach her more than the citadel could in time.
She wouldn't have been able to take the Acolytes vows just like him, on account of being a girl. Someone was bound to find out eventually, Marwyn could shield her from that.
He leaned against the rough stone wall of the inn, his eyes closed as he took in the sounds of the bustling city.
The fire atop Hightower looked magnificent under the morning sun.
Marwyn returned a few moments later, a small smile playing on his lips, his red sharp teeth glittered beneath his lips, stained by chewing sourleaf.
He approached Caelum, gently lifting him into the cart. Caelum flinched at the contact, but Marwyn's touch was gentle, almost hesitant.
With a flick of the reins, the cart rumbled into motion, leaving the Learned Anchor and the bustling heart of Oldtown behind. As they journeyed towards the city's outskirts, Marwyn's voice broke the silence.
"I expect there will be rumors swirling through Oldtown soon, boy. Tales of demons and fiery apparitions."
Caelum's stomach churned. "I know," he replied, guilt gnawing at him once more.
Marwyn chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Don't fret, Caelum. The Citadel will see to it that those rumors are quelled. We've already laid the groundwork, attributing the blame to Qyburn's... unorthodox experiments. Magic is a sword without a hilt, as they say, and the Seneschal is already convinced that Qyburn was meddling with forces he shouldn't have."
Caelum nodded, but the reassurance did little to ease his troubled conscience. "Qyburn deserved it," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "He's evil. But... I still feel responsible for what happened."
Marwyn shook his head, his voice firm. "You succeeded in putting a stop to Qyburn's cruel experiments. The people he held captive will be transferred to the cells beneath the Hightower. As they were criminals, they will be judged by their crimes, regardless. Though most of the lesser criminals like the pickpockets will be let go. On account of having suffered enough."
He paused, his voice softening slightly. "The murderers and rapists in the lot will face the executioner's block. All in all, you did good work, Caelum. You may have made mistakes, but you succeeded in what you set out to do."
He reached out a gloved hand and placed it gently on Caelum's shoulder. "Don't lose sight of that, boy. You have the potential for great things, but you must learn to control your power."
"May I visit him?" Caelum asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Ser Elmar, I mean. I... I want to apologize." He knew he couldn't reveal his true identity, but perhaps even an anonymous expression of remorse would bring him some peace.
Marwyn paused, his hand tightening slightly on the reins of the cart. "It would be unwise," he said after a moment of contemplation. "The knight is in a fragile state, blaming his misfortune on a demon. Let that sink in, in time the truth will be a distant memory, and the people will build their own lies to give reason to last night in their own way." He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Perhaps in time, when the wounds have healed. Until then stay away. For now, it's best to let him rest."
Caelum nodded, accepting the wisdom in Marwyn's words.
The guilt still churned within him. Perhaps one day he could make amends, find a way to atone for the pain he had caused.
As the cart rattled along the cobblestone streets, leaving the towering walls of Oldtown behind,
"What about Qyburn?" Caelum asked, his voice tinged with apprehension. "What punishment will he face?"
Marwyn's expression darkened. "Qyburn was, and still is, under Baelor's protection," he said with a sigh. "So, I doubt there will be any imprisonment."
Caelum's heart sank. "But... his experiments..."
"At the very least," Marwyn continued, "Qyburn will no longer be a maester. He will be stripped of his chain and denied the resources of the Citadel to continue his research. Exile from Oldtown is a likely outcome. Both the Seneschal and the most devout of the Starry Sept will pressure Baelor to accomplish at least that much. Especially after all the blame for last night's sorcery will fall on the man's head."
Caelum nodded, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over him.
He didn't know whether Qyburn's punishment was just, he didn't think so. The guilt of his own actions remained a heavy burden.
He hoped being unable to use the resources of the citadel, Qyburn won't be able to carry out his experiments any further.
The cart eventually reached a secluded clearing a few miles from the city. The sun was high in the sky now, casting long shadows through the dappled leaves of the surrounding trees.
"We've arrived," Marwyn announced, his voice cutting through Caelum's troubled thoughts. "Far enough from the city, the Roseroad, and the Honeywine to ensure we're undisturbed by anyone. Travelers, guards and bandits alike."
Caelum nodded, his gaze sweeping over the secluded clearing.
Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of leaves, casting dancing patterns on the forest floor.
A sense of unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, but a spark of determination flickered to life as well. He needed to master his powers, for the sake of others and himself.
He clambered out of the cart, his movements still cautious and deliberate.
Marwyn led the way deeper into the woods, stopping at a spot sheltered by a cluster of ancient oaks.
With practiced efficiency, he unloaded supplies from the cart, setting up a makeshift camp.
Once the camp was established, Marwyn turned to Caelum, his eyes sharp and focused. "To help you gain control, we must first understand the extent of your strength," he said. "Show me what you can do."
Caelum nodded, his gaze swept across the clearing, searching for a suitable target. His eyes settled on a massive oak tree, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. He approached the tree, his heart pounding in his chest.
He drew back his fist, his muscles coiling with barely restrained strength.
With a guttural cry, he unleashed a thunderous punch, his knuckles connecting with the oak's rough bark.
The sound of splintering wood filled the air as a shockwave rippled through the tree. It shattered, its trunk splitting open like a ripe melon, and the force of the blow sent several neighboring trees toppling one after the other behind them.
Caelum stared in awe at the devastation he had wrought.
A cold dread settled over him as he realized the sheer magnitude of his power.
Marwyn's eyes widened as he surveyed the scene, his weathered face a mask of awe and disbelief. "By the Gods..." he breathed, "your strength... it's extraordinary." He shook his head, the awe not leaving his face. "I must confess, I was somewhat skeptical when you recounted the events of last night. Seeing those broken stone walls at the manse certainly gave me pause, but this..." He gestured towards the fallen trees, his voice trailing off in astonishment.
A flicker of worry crossed Marwyn's face. "This is but a fraction of your full potential, I imagine," he mused. "One can only wonder how much further your strength will grow as you age." He paused, his gaze returning to Caelum. "But this was merely striking strength. I'd like to see other manifestations of your power."
Caelum, feeling a mix of worry and apprehension, nodded slowly.
He approached one of the toppled trees, its massive trunk lying prone on the forest floor. He knelt beside it, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the bark.
With surprising ease, he lifted the entire tree, roots and all, hoisting it above his head as if it were a mere twig.
Marwyn watched intently, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "Impressive," he said. "Now, drop it. And then, grasp a thick branch—but only grasp it, do not attempt to lift."
Caelum lowered the tree back to the ground, the impact sending tremors through the earth. He then selected a sturdy branch, its thickness as wide as his wrist.
He wrapped his fingers around it, careful not to exert any pressure.
But even the slightest touch proved too much. The branch snapped with a sharp crack, the severed ends tumbling to the ground.
Marwyn nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin as he observed the splintered branch. "I believe I understand the issue," he said, a hint of a plan forming in his eyes. "This will take time, Caelum. A great deal of time. And the best method to learn anything is through practice."
Caelum braced himself, anticipating a tedious series of exercises and drills. He was determined to regain control, no matter the cost.
Marwyn's next words, however, caught him off guard. "Your first task is to gather all the fallen trees in this clearing," he instructed. "Strip them of their branches and leaves, carefully, mind you. Then, you will use the wood to build a shelter for our stay here."
Caelum stared at him, incredulous. "How am I supposed to do that?! I can barely handle one branch with care!" he sputtered. "... that could take ages!"
Marwyn arched an eyebrow. "Indeed," he replied with a sardonic smile. "What did you expect, boy? Did you think I had a magical solution to your strength? Control comes with patience, discipline, and a great deal of hard work. Now, get to it."
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(A/N) I am back! Exams are done! Hope that was worth the long wait!
Naval battles are hard. Anyway, Princess Elia is dead. The Kidnapping is successful. And Ned Stark wasn't even spotted, lol. He was one of the helmed guards under Laenor Waters.
Why would the Spider not inform them of the entire plan, I wonder.
As for Caelum. Superman, whenever he accidentally hurt an innocent person, has always ventured to turn himself into the authorities. Most often that's batman, lol. Or the military, so Lois Lane's dad.
Marwyn put a stop to that. More character growth.
A Knight's Valor
Chapter 24 –
Till the bitter end.
That was the reality of the man they were directly fighting. It had become clear to them that Stannis Baratheon would fight to the bitter end if he had to.
And Luke hated every moment of it.
He hated everything to do with this damned war in truth. The lie on which the war was built was discouraging enough, seeing the depravity and desperation that war brought onto men and women churned uglier in his gut.
He thought himself cruel because it was witnessing that brutal depravity that numbed him to his own father's death. What was his loss to the suffering he'd witnessed since?
Standing in the smoldering ruins of the Felwood forest village, he didn't think he could be disgusted any further.
That was a feeling that he had repeated to himself many times throughout the course of the war.
He had seen brutality, depravity, and insanity from both sides in the war. It had been evident ever since the Battle of Ashford, where he had been Knighted, for all the little good it did to his heart. It didn't bring his father back to life.
The Storm Landers had brutally culled the men, raped the women in the little time they had at the castle and its surrounding village during their siege.
It became clearer still seeing the brazen razing of towns such as this, by the men in the army of the Reach.
Homes reduced to charred skeletons, fields of grain torched to ash, and the stench of death clung to the air like a curse.
The Reach's army had looted them of every morsel of food that had survived the fire that Stannis Baratheon's slowly retreating army had set on their own crops.
The fields surrounding the Felwood now resembled a wasteland.
Even more horrifying was the rape of smallfolk violated by the Reach's soldiers - men, women, and even children.
He had seen enough violence, enough bloodshed, but this... this was a new depth of depravity.
It was a violation of the most innocent, the most vulnerable, and it filled him with a disgust that gnawed at his very soul.
It was a violation that he didn't think he would be able to rend from his mind, because all he saw every time he saw those men in the camps was the horror at the idea that it could have been his village, his mother… Meredith.
Seeing that had been the first time he had made use of his position as a proper Lord of the Reach, and punished the rapists among the men that Lord Tyrell had granted him to command as part of his Light Cavalry. Something his actions at Ashford had apparently deemed him worthy of.
He had taken swift and brutal action, ordering the perpetrators stripped off their manhood, eunuchs for the rest of their lives, and imprisoned alongside the captured Stormlanders.
It was a harsh punishment, one that had earned him the scorn and disapproval of some of the highborn lords.
"They're just peasants, my lord," one lord had sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let the men have their fun. It's a soldier's right."
"This is war," another had chided. "You were smallfolk yourself not too long ago. So it is no small wonder you feel for them. But you are a Lord now, and will soon have to watch over your own demesne. You need to learn to look at things from a bigger perspective. These things happen, don't let that blind you to what is necessary in war."
"Don't be a fool," a third had warned. "These harsh punishments will only breed resentment. We need the men focused on the fight, not nursing their wounded egos and grudges."
But there were also those who stood by him.
Lord Ashford, a man who understood the true cost of war, had offered his silent support. The man had lost his firstborn heir in the defense of the castle, before Luke and the armies of the Reach had arrived to relieve the castle from the siege.
He had become one of Luke's staunchest supporters
And even the stern Lord Randyll Tarly, known for his harsh discipline, had grudgingly admitted that Luke's actions were just.
The most surprising of them all had been Parmen Crane. The Knight, now the Lord of Red Lake, had become almost like an ally, if not a friend to Luke. He did not know how to feel about that.
The man had been quickly wed to his betrothed, Lady Elionora Ashford, after the battle. A rather somber affair, the woman had lost her elder brother mere weeks prior. And Parmen had lost his father just two days before the wedding.
His reverie was broken by a voice calling his name. "M'lord," the voice, a young man's, said "the last of the Stormlanders have fled. Shall we give chase?"
Luke turned to see his squire, a boy named Armen who had asked to train under him after witnessing his leadership at Ashford. The thought that he now had a squire still felt strange.
"No, Armen," Luke said, shaking his head. "We'll return to camp. Pressing further towards the Bronze Road will only lead us into an ambush. Stannis is not so foolish as to leave his rear unguarded."
Jon nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Yes, my lord," he said, then turned to relay the order to the rest of the light cavalry.
"One more thing, Jon," Luke added, his voice firm. "Keep an eye out for any stragglers, friend or foe. And leave the peasants be. Take no more than a third of the grain from what remains of their fields, enough to sustain our army, but leave them enough to survive the winter."
Armen saluted, a gesture he'd picked up from the knights. "As you command, m'lord."
Luke watched his men gather, their horses snorting and pawing at the scorched earth.
My Lord. Another change in the way people addressed him. Under the numb sensation of the war, it was a surprisingly pleasant feeling. He had not expected to ever be anything more than a squire, Knighthood had been his dream, but becoming a landed lord of a demesne of his own was a strange yet pleasant feeling.
Under the setting sun, Luke and his light cavalry returned to the main camp, their saddlebags laden with salvaged grain.
For weeks, the Reach's forces had been locked in a grueling campaign against Stannis Baratheon's stubborn defenders. It was a war of attrition, fought amidst the rugged hills and dense forests surrounding the ruined castle of Summerhall.
There were no grand sieges or pitched battles here. Instead, it was a relentless dance of skirmishes and ambushes.
The Stormlanders used their knowledge and familiarity with the terrain to their advantage, striking from the shadows and vanishing into the tangled wilderness.
The Reach's forces suffered heavy losses in the initial weeks.
But Lord Randyll Tarly had effectively taken charge of the Reach's war effort, and adapted their strategies.
He divided their forces into smaller, more mobile units, mirroring the Stormlander's tactics.
They learned to fight fire with fire, utilizing scouts and skirmishers to anticipate ambushes and counterattack with swift, decisive strikes.
The Stormlanders were worn down by the constant harassment.
Finally, after weeks of relentless pressure, the Stormlanders began a slow retreat towards the heart of their homeland. The Reach's forces, cautious of a trap, advanced cautiously, securing each foothold before moving on. They had broken through the Stormlander's first line of defense, the Felwood forests.
The familiar chaos of the camp washed over Luke as he and his men rode in. Tents, a patchwork of canvas and hide, stretched across the ravaged landscape, their silhouettes stark against the fading twilight.
Smoke from countless cooking fires mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat, a grim symphony that had become the soundtrack of his life. Horses whinnied and stamped, their flanks slick with sweat, while men, their faces etched with the weariness of war, went about their duties with a practiced efficiency.
"Armen," Luke instructed, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and the lingering grief for his father, "See that the grain and any other food we found is delivered to the cooks and quartermasters."
"Yes, m'lord," Armen replied, dismounting with practiced ease. He relayed the order to the other men, who quickly dispersed, their burdens heavy but their steps lightened by the promise of sustenance.
Luke, his own stomach growling with hunger, dismounted as well, his legs stiff and aching. He would see his uncle Harlon later, the man had lost his left arm at Ashford but refused to abandon the fight, choosing instead to serve as a cook for the army.
With a final nod to his men, Luke and Armen made their way towards the war tent, a large pavilion that served as the nerve center of the Reach's command. The guards outside snapped to attention, saluting smartly as Luke approached.
"Welcome back, m'lord," one of them greeted him.
Luke nodded, offering a curt smile.
He ducked under the flap of the war tent, stepping into the dimly lit interior. Lord Everard Ashford was the first to spot him.
"Ah! Lord Brightshield!" Lord Ashford greeted him warmly, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere that permeated the tent. "You are just the man we were hoping for."
Luke's eyes swept across the faces assembled around the war table. Lord Randyll Tarly, seated beside Lord Mace Tyrell, his expression a mask of calculated indifference. Lord Mathis Rowan, his brow furrowed in thought, and Lord Jon Fossoway, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a grim frown. Ser Baelor Hightower, Lord Moribald Chester, and a handful of other bannermen completed the somber tableau.
Lord Mace Tyrell turned to Luke, his voice a rumble that belied the tension in his eyes. "Tell me, Lord Brightshield," he began, "what news have you from your skirmish?"
"The Stormlanders have fled the Felwood, my lord," Luke replied, meeting the Highgarden lord's gaze. "They're retreating deeper into the Stormlands, towards the Bronze Road. I suspect they're making for either the Bronze Gate or Storms End itself."
Mace Tyrell stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes darting to Lord Randyll Tarly as if seeking confirmation. "A full retreat," he mused. "Perplexing, indeed. I had thought Stannis wouldn't yield so easily, not with the tenacity he's shown thus far. An ambush perhaps?"
Lord Mathis Rowan, the grizzled Lord of Goldengrove, nodded in agreement. "An ambush is a possibility, my lord," he said, his voice grave. "The Bronze Road is a natural chokepoint. They could be luring us into a trap, hoping to catch us between the Bronze Gate and the Red Mountains."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lord Mace's face. "Then we know what the enemy intends," he declared, a hint of triumph in his voice.
But before he could continue, Lord Randyll Tarly, ever the pragmatist, cut him off. "Stannis is not laying a trap, my lord," he said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention. "He's retreating to Storms End."
The interruption clearly irked Mace Tyrell, but he held his tongue, his eyes narrowing as Lord Tarly continued.
Luke, finding a seat beside Lord Ashford and Parmen Crane, exchanged a brief nod with the latter before turning his full attention to Lord Tarly.
"Our scouts report that the main Stormlander force has split," Tarly explained. "The bulk of their army is now marching through the Kingswood, towards King's Landing."
"King's Landing?" Mace Tyrell spluttered, his face a mask of disbelief. "But why? And who is leading them?"
Lord Tarly paused, his eyes meeting Mace Tyrell's with an unnerving intensity. "I believe," he said slowly, "that it is Lord Robert Baratheon."
A chorus of confused murmurs erupted around the table. "Impossible!" one lord exclaimed. "Robert Baratheon couldn't have arrived to take command. Not with our blockade at Shipbreaker's Bay and our army blocking the land route."
"Indeed," Lord Tarly agreed, his voice calm. "But it seems Lord Robert sailed from White Harbor after the royal fleet was destroyed in the North, and apparently used a smuggler's vessel from Tarth to evade our blockade. Stannis was forced to retreat from Summerhall when the bulk of his force was made to redirect to meet with Robert Baratheon, as they march to the capital."
Lord Rowan, after a moment of contemplation, broke into a jovial smile. "Well then," he declared, "that means Stannis is all on his own at Storm's End. We should march on the castle and finish this rebellion once and for all."
A wave of uncertainty washed over Lord Mace Tyrell's face. "Is that truly wise?" he questioned. "Storm's End is a formidable fortress. A siege could drag on for months, if not years."
Lord Jon Fossoway, the portly Lord of Cider Hall, vehemently shook his head. "Laying siege to Storm's End is folly," he proclaimed. "Stannis has scorched the earth in his retreat since Summerhall. A prolonged siege will cause to reach deep into our larders, if only someone" He sneered at Luke. "had not overreached with handling his men, we'd still have a good enough morale to make them stay for that siege."
Luke bristled at the implied accusation, but before he could retort Parmen Crane cut in.
"If the men under my command had behaved in such a manner, I'd have dealt with them the same way, as Ser Brightshield did," Parmen Crane interjected, his voice sharp and unwavering. "We are leading an army, not a band of rapists. If these men want to slake their lusts, they can visit the whores in the villages, or they could have indulged themselves back at Summerhall."
Luke was grateful for the support.
A tense silence settled over the tent. Lord Fossoway's face reddened with anger, but he held his tongue, perhaps sensing the disapproval in the eyes of his fellow lords.
Lord Ashford added his support. "Lord Crane speaks true. Discipline is the cornerstone of a strong army. We cannot allow our men to terrorize the people here, we are not Iron Born. Regardless we do not need to be called philanderers and rapists, should the war's end fall in the rebel's favor."
Lord Randyll Tarly nodded in agreement. "Unruly soldiers are a liability," he said. "They undermine our authority and weaken our cause. Ser Brightshield's actions, though harsh, were necessary to maintain order and uphold the honor of the Reach."
Mace Tyrell, visibly uncomfortable with the confrontation, shifted in his seat. He was not a man who relished conflict, especially among his own bannermen. "Ser Brightshield's actions were... perhaps a bit extreme," he conceded, his voice hesitant. "But I cannot fault his intentions. We must maintain discipline and ensure that our men conduct themselves with honor."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "The matter is settled," he declared, his voice firm. "We will not tolerate such behavior in our ranks. Now, let us return to the matter at hand."
"Apart, from the unnecessary accusations, Lord Fossoway's words carry wisdom, but we cannot ignore Stannis Baratheon entirely. He has proven himself a cunning and dangerous adversary," Lord Tarly reminded them. "Even with a reduced force, he could harry our rearguard and disrupt our supply lines if we leave him unchecked."
Silence descended upon the tent as the lords pondered the dilemma. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows that danced upon the faces of the men, highlighting the tension and uncertainty in their eyes.
Finally, Mace Tyrell spoke, his voice resolute. "We will divide our forces," he declared. "Lord Tarly, you will take a portion of our army and pursue Robert Baratheon to King's Landing. I will remain here with the rest, laying siege to Storm's End and keeping Stannis occupied."
A sense of finality hung in the air as Lord Tarly concluded the meeting. With a curt nod, he dismissed the council, and the lords began to disperse, their faces etched with the weight of their upcoming tasks.
Luke rose from his seat, a wave of relief washing over him as he followed Lord Ashford and Ser Parmen Crane out of the stifling tent.
"My lords," he began, his voice slightly hesitant, "I am grateful for your support. It means more than you know."
Lord Ashford clapped him on the shoulder with a gruff chuckle. "Don't mention it, lad," he said. "You did what was right, and any man who claims otherwise is a fool."
Parmen Crane offered a curt nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Indeed," he agreed. "Honor and discipline are not to be taken lightly, even in the chaos of war."
The awkwardness between them was palpable, a remnant of their past animosity. But beneath it, Luke sensed a newfound respect, a mutual understanding forged in the crucible of battle.
Before they could continue, a voice called out, "Ser Brightshield!"
They turned to see Ser Fenton Sloane, a respected knight and bannerman of House Tyrell, approaching them with a measured stride.
"Ser Sloane," Luke greeted him, bowing his head slightly.
"I've been watching your progress with interest, Ser Brightshield," the knight said, his voice deep and resonant. "Your actions at Ashford, Summerhall, and now Felwood have proven your worth. You were rightly raised to knighthood and granted lordship over your village."
Luke felt a surge of warmth at the praise. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he replied, his voice humble. "I merely did my duty."
Ser Sloane smiled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Duty is one thing, Ser Brightshield, but skill and courage are another. I understand Lord Mace intends to offer you the position of Master-at-Arms at Highgarden, a position once held by your mentor, the late Ser Vortimer Crane."
There had been rumors of the same, but Lord Mace had not made them known to him yet. The Master-at-Arms was a prestigious position, one of great honor and responsibility. "I am... humbled, Ser Sloane," he managed, his voice thick with emotion. "If I am granted that honor, I will strive to honor Ser Vortimer's legacy and serve House Tyrell to the best of my ability."
Ser Sloane nodded approvingly. "I have no doubt you will, Ser Brightshield." He paused. "And as a fellow lord and Knight of the Reach, I have a proposition for you."
Luke raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"My daughter, Jeyne," Ser Sloane continued, "is comely and of age. I believe she would make a fine match for someone of the skill and stature, such as yourself. In joining our houses, I would gladly provide you with the men and coin necessary to raise and maintain your castle, ensuring the prosperity of your new demesne."
Luke hesitated, the weight of the proposition pressing down upon him.
Marriage?
He hadn't even considered it. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was a simple squire, dreaming of knighthood.
Now, with a lordship and a potential position at Highgarden on the horizon, marriage seemed like a natural next step.
Yet, it was overwhelming.
He had expected to be noticed by the other lords of the Reach, to earn their respect through his actions on the battlefield.
Lord Quentyn Tyrell, for instance, often sought him out for sparring sessions and shared meals with him and Harlon, even when Luke chose to sit down for meals with the men rather than Lords as he really should.
But this... this was different.
"Ah, Ser Sloane, would that I had another daughter, I would have offered Luke her hand in marriage too. This is a very shrewd move, this man is certainly skilled and resourceful. His house is no doubt to rise soon in the Reach" Lord Ashford chuckled.
This was getting out of hand. He didn't really want to entertain marriage proposals, he had no idea who the person he would be wedding would be like at all. And wedding a noble lady was far from what Luke had envisioned for himself in truth, it was all a little too much.
Before he could fumble for a polite rejection, Parmen Crane stepped forward. "Alas, Ser Sloane," he said, "I believe Ser Brightshield's heart is already spoken for. There's a young woman back in his village, Meredith, if I recall correctly. They grew up together, and I believe he intends to make her his bride."
Luke's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Meredith's name. He hadn't thought of her in that way, not truly. But the idea, planted by Parmen's words, bloomed in his mind like a wildflower in springtime.
Ser Sloane seemed taken aback. "Meredyth?" he inquired. "A noblewoman from Highgarden?"
He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Wait," he said, "that was the name of your sister, Ser Crane. Is Ser Brightshield betrothed to your sister? Ser Vortimer must have had remarkable faith in Luke indeed if he had been willing to let Luke wed his daughter before he was raised to the stature he is at now."
Parmen let out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "No, no, Ser Sloane. Ser Brightshield is not betrothed to my sister. His heart belongs to a girl from his village, a serving maid to Lord Willas and Lord Garlan at Highgarden like himself."
Ser Sloane's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A serving maid?" he repeated, incredulous. "But surely, now that you've been raised to lordship..."
Luke met his gaze steadily. "Meredith is indeed a serving maid, my lord," he acknowledged. "But she is kind, strong, and resourceful. I have known her ever since I was a child..."
"Ah," The Knight cut in, his surprise melted into a knowing smile, "love. A powerful force indeed." He sighed, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "It's a pity, Ser Brightshield. I had hoped to join our houses. But I understand the call of the heart."
He extended his hand to Luke. "Nevertheless, I would still like to offer my support. An alliance between our houses could be mutually beneficial. In return for grain and lumber from your village, and no tolls for caravans from my town crossing the Mander, I would be willing to send gold and men to help you raise your castle in your village after the war."
Luke shook his hand, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he said. "Your generosity is most appreciated."
As Ser Sloane departed, Luke turned to Parmen, a question burning in his eyes. "Why did you..."
Parmen shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Oh come now, did you think I didn't know of your feelings for the girl" Luke just stared blankly at the man, as Parmen chuckled "I would know, she is comely too. No wonder you were so possessive of her when I teased her all those years ago."
He wanted to correct Parmen that there hadn't been anything of the sort at the time. Meredith was just a friend that he cherished dearly, and he didn't think she would appreciate roping her in to this mess without asking her at least.
She may not even like him that way at all.
But for the life of him, he couldn't make himself actually speak and correct the mistake. He didn't know why.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The waning sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting long, ethereal shadows across the crystal-clear stream. Caelum stood knee-deep in the cool water, his gaze fixed on the shimmering forms darting beneath the surface. His magical sight, a blessing and a curse, allowed him to see through the rippling current, revealing the intricate details of each fish as it swam by.
With a swift, practiced motion, his hand plunged into the water, his fingers closing around a silver-scaled trout.
He lifted it out of the stream, a triumphant smile briefly gracing his lips before turning into a grimace. The trout's spine, a grotesque mockery of its natural form, protruded from its back, bent and broken under the force of Caelum's grip.
"Tch, I swear to the Seven, I need to get this right! Damn it!" He sighed and tossed the trout into the straw basket resting on the riverbank. It joined a growing collection of similarly deformed fish, each one a testament to his struggle for control.
Months had passed since that fateful night at Qyburn's manse, months spent in this secluded clearing, wrestling with the monstrous strength that lurked within him.
He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the familiar landscape.
The sun, a fiery orb sinking towards the horizon, painted the sky in hues of orange and crimson. It was time to return to the ramshackle shelter he had painstakingly constructed over the past months.
The shack, a testament to his newfound patience and perseverance, stood nestled amongst the trees, a crude monument to his exile.
Its walls, fashioned from rough-hewn logs, were uneven and scarred, bearing witness to the countless times he had misjudged his strength and splintered the wood.
The roof, a patchwork of leaves and branches, leaked during heavy rains, but it provided adequate shelter from the elements.
Inside, the furnishings were sparse and utilitarian: a bed fashioned from a pile of furs, a crude table hewn from a fallen log, and a few stools crafted with meticulous care to withstand his unintentional clumsiness. A small hearth, built with stones gathered from the riverbed, provided warmth and a flickering light during the long, solitary nights.
Caelum's life in the woods had been a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestry of the Citadel, and his stay at the Learned Anchor.
He missed the intellectual stimulation of the maester's lessons, the camaraderie of his fellow acolytes, and the comforting presence of his friends, Pylos, Yandel, and Fern.
His absence from the Citadel had been explained away by Marwyn as a prolonged illness, a mysterious affliction that required isolation and rest. Caelum knew that his friends had inquired about him, their concern a constant pang of guilt in his heart.
He had also been spared the scrutiny and suspicion that had followed the incident at the manse. The rumors of the "Demon of Honeywine," a fiery demon who had emerged from the inferno, had spread like wildfire through Oldtown. He had kept an ear out listening to all the ridiculous rumors people spoke of him.
Literally in fact, he would spend his nights in the shack alone, listening to gossip from the city, keeping his focus entirely on talk in the Citadel alone, trying desperately to listen to information on the war, a habit he hadn't been able to rid himself off entirely.
He did manage to stop himself from listening in on people's lives as they went about their day, he didn't think they would appreciate someone like him listening on their every waking moment, neither did he appreciate the headache he had to suffer if he ever tried.
He still shivered from the events from Harrenhall sometime, he did not want a repeat of that,
Thanks to the Sept's constant sermons and the Citadel's influence, the whispers in the city of the 'Demon' had gradually faded, replaced by the more mundane tales of Qyburn's twisted experiments shared with ale and a chuckle in the taverns and inns of Oldtown.
The priests of the Red Temple, however, remained vigilant.
They believed that their "Bringer of Cataclysm," had stepped foot in Oldtown. Their agents scoured the city and the surrounding countryside, but even that had faded since.
Caelum picked up the basket of fish, its weight a mere trifle to him now, as he set off to return to his shack.
Caelum made his way back to the shack, his footsteps heavy with the weight of another failed attempt at fish-wrangling. He deposited the basket of mangled trout by the door and stepped inside the dimly lit dwelling.
With practiced ease, he lifted a bundle of firewood from the corner and carried it outside. He laid the wood on the stone-paved porch and knelt beside the basket of fish. One by one, he skewered them, his movements now precise and deliberate, a far cry from the clumsy fumbling of his earlier months in exile.
When the last fish was secured on a skewer, Caelum turned his attention to the wood. A crimson glow emanated from his eyes, and a thin beam of fire shot forth, igniting the kindling with a satisfying whoosh. The flames licked at the dry wood, sending sparks dancing into the twilight air.
Caelum carefully seasoned the fish with a blend of herbs and spices that Marwyn had procured from the city. He then held each skewer over the fire, the heat searing the flesh and releasing a tantalizing aroma that filled the clearing.
Hours later, as the first stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, Caelum sat by the fire, savoring the fruits of his labor. The fish, though slightly misshapen, were surprisingly delicious, the crispy skin giving way to tender, flavorful meat.
His magical hearing, always on high alert, picked up the distant rumble of wheels and the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Marwyn had returned.
Moments later, the Archmaester emerged from the treeline, his cloak billowing in the night breeze. His face, illuminated by the flickering firelight, bore a weary expression, but a hint of anticipation gleamed in his eyes.
"That smells delicious, boy," Marwyn said, his voice approving. He settled himself beside Caelum, reaching for one of the cooked fish.
"Thank you, Maester Marwyn," Caelum replied, offering him a skewer. "How was your trip to the city?"
Marwyn took a bite of the fish, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Eventful," he said after a moment. "Maester Ebrose was despondent at the Myrish merchants failing in accurately building the contraption he had described to them. He had wanted to see those tiny creatures you spoke to him about, he truly believes in the idea of creatures that small perhaps do exist, even without knowing you can actually see them with your magical vision."
Caelum smiled, "Yandel must have been overworked again negotiating with the Myrish. What sort of device did they give him?"
"They brought him a pair of lens glasses," Marwyn explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Two pieces of curved glass, each encased in a metal frame, connected by a bridge that rests on the nose." He rummaged through the satchel he had laid beside him and produced the curious device. "They call them 'near-eyes'," he said, holding them out for Caelum to inspect.
Caelum took the near-eyes, turning them over in his hands. The glass lenses, though slightly warped and imperfect, were surprisingly clear. He held them up to the firelight, watching the flames distort and magnify as he moved the lenses.
"They're practically useless," Marwyn grumbled. "All they do is make things appear slightly larger than they truly are. Ebrose ended up with a whole shipment of these monstrosities."
Caelum, however, saw potential in the seemingly flawed invention. "I don't think they're as useless as you believe, Maester Marwyn," he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The ability to see things larger than they are... it could be helpful for those with nearsighted vision."
Marwyn paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Caelum's words. A slow smile spread across his face, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. "An interesting thought, boy," he said, nodding approvingly. "Perhaps there is a use for these near-eyes after all."
He leaned back, his mind racing with possibilities. "Archmaester Theron was furious about the wasted gold on this shipment from Myr," he mused. "But if these near-eyes can truly aid those with poor vision, we could sell them to lords, knights, and perhaps even the smallfolk."
Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. "And how was Fern today?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of nervousness. "How is she doing with her lessons as your apprentice?"
Marwyn chewed thoughtfully, as he returned the near eyes to his satchel. His eyes narrowed as he examined the fish in his hand. "Interesting," he mused, "these fish are still all misshapen and damaged."
Caelum's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'm still working on it," he mumbled, looking away.
Marwyn chuckled, his voice reassuring. "Chin up, boy, it's progress, much better than just a week ago" He took another bite of the fish, savoring the flavor. "As for Fern," he continued, "she's a bright girl, eager to learn. A skilled scribe, but a bit too eager for magic. She has fanciful notions of casting spells and wielding arcane powers." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Magic doesn't work that way, I'm afraid. It's a subtle art, a dance with the unseen forces that govern our world."
Caelum listened intently, absorbing Marwyn's words. "But she's learning," the archmaester added, "and she has a natural talent for medicine and healing. If she were allowed, and didn't need the disguise as 'Nerf' at the Citadel, she'd make a fine maester."
"Do you think she could take her links soon?" Caelum asked, his voice laced with hope. "If she were allowed, that is."
Marwyn stroked his chin thoughtfully. "She's certainly a quick learner," he admitted. "But the gold link or the red gold link? I don't know. Those require years of dedication and experience. However, for the silver link in medicine and healing, she's undoubtedly ready. As for the Valyrian steel link for the arcane mysteries, she's more than capable."
Caelum sighed. Marwyn had taken on the mantle of his tutor in the woods, diligently imparting the knowledge Caelum had missed during his exile. Had he been able to return to the Citadel, he would have already taken his tests.
Marwyn the said in High Valyrian, his voice rich and resonant. "I believe you are ready too."
Caelum's eyes widened in surprise "Do you truly think so?" He replied in kind.
Marwyn nodded, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.
Then, his voice shifted, the guttural sounds of Dothraki filling the air. "Let's test your Dothraki" he said, "What are the treatments accepted by the citadel for treating infected wounds. And then to provide yout own understanding of how to treat such wounds."
Caelum responded in kind, his Dothraki flowing smoothly. "The maesters of the Citadel teach bloodletting, amputation, or nettled wine and poultices for infected wounds." His voice hardened slightly, "But bloodletting is a waste, it only scratches the surface. I would use a poultice of milk of the poppy and bread mold."
Marwyn nodded in approval, then his voice shifted into a sibilant whisper, "How would you treat a broken bone?" he asked in Asshai'i, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.
"That depends on the location of the break," Caelum replied in the same tongue, his tone measured and confident. "For a simple fracture of a limb, I would set the bone, immobilize it with a splint, and administer milk of the poppy for pain. For a compound fracture, where the bone pierces the skin, I would cleanse the wound with boiled water and honey, set the bone, and apply a poultice of willow bark and comfrey to promote healing. In severe cases, such as a shattered bone or a break in the spine, I would consult with a more experienced healer, as these injuries require specialized knowledge and techniques."
Marwyn's lips curled into a satisfied smile. He switched to Qartheen, his voice taking on a melodic lilt. "How would you treat a blow to someone's head?"
Caelum responded in the same flowing tongue, "A blow to the head can cause headache, dizziness, puking etc for several weeks. In severe cases, the citadel believes bloodletting may be necessary to reduce pressure on the brain. I don't think that is necessary, Rest is more than enough."
Marwyn's smile widened. He then spoke in Lazhareen, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Tell me, Caelum, how are goods taxed in the Seven Kingdoms?"
Caelum paused, gathering his thoughts. He replied in Lazhareen, "Taxation in the Seven Kingdoms is a complex matter, varying depending on the status of the individual and the nature of the goods. Peasants typically pay a tithe to their lord, a tenth of their crops or livestock. Nobles are exempt from most taxes, but they are expected to provide military service to their liege lord. Knights, who are sworn to a lord's service, are also exempt from taxes. Merchants pay tariffs on goods imported or exported from a city or region. Lords collect taxes from their subjects and are, in turn, taxed by the crown. The crown's share of the tax revenue varies depending on the specific law and the needs of the realm. In times of war, such as the current conflict, taxes are often increased to fund the war effort. In some cases, taxes may even be doubled."
Marwyn's smile deepened, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He switched to the guttural tones of Ibbenese, "You've learned well enough for a silver link, boy. Ebrose wouldn't deny you that. And the Valyrian steel link is yours for the taking – the Citadel's teachings on the matter are a sham anyway. If anyone deserves it, it's you." He paused, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "But the yellow gold link, for money and accounts... that's a different beast altogether. How would you manage the coffers of a lord like Leyton Hightower?"
Caelum furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "It depends on the state of House Hightower's finances after the war," he replied in Ibbenese, his voice measured and careful. "I'd wager their coffers are lighter than they'd like, but the people of Oldtown have been burdened with heavy taxes. I wouldn't advise squeezing them further. Instead, I'd recommend a gradual reduction of taxes, but not to pre-war levels. We need to replenish the coffers, but we also need to keep the smallfolk content."
Marwyn's smile widened, and he switched back to the Common Tongue. "Good enough for me," he declared, a hint of pride in his voice. "You've proven your knowledge and understanding. Ebrose would be a fool to deny you your silver link."
Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. But then, his smile faltered, a shadow of sadness clouding his eyes. "I wish I could take the tests officially," he sighed. "I miss my friends. I miss the Citadel."
Marwyn's eyes twinkled. "Then it's settled," he said, rising to his feet. "You're ready to return to Oldtown."
Caelum's head shot up, his face alight with joy. "Really?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. "Can we go now? I want to see Pylos and Yandel and Fern!"
Marwyn chuckled, "Did you think I wouldn't let you return? You can handle something as delicate as a fish without crushing it now. If you pay attention, your strength won't be an issue any longer."
Caelum whooped with delight, his heart soaring with anticipation. But then, Marwyn's next words brought him crashing back down to earth.
"Of course," Marwyn said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "that means you'll never be a knight. The moment you pick up and swing a sword, your strength will be exposed."
Caelum's elation evaporated, replaced by a bitter disappointment.
He had forgotten about that. Marwyn had always been adamant that Caelum shouldn't hide his strength, but Caelum couldn't bear the thought of being labeled a monster, a demon.
He was already haunted by the guilt of what he had done to Ser Elmar. Moreover, revealing his true abilities could put his family in danger. They had sacrificed a lot, lied to Lord Mace on the night he had been sent to the world, should that be revealed, he didn't know what Lord Mace would do to his family. The man had already unnecessarily dragged his father, a farmer into a war, for a tax that would have been a pittance to a man as wealthy as him.
Even if he did understand why the man did it, it still felt like a betrayal, and unnecessarily cruel.
"I know," Caelum said quietly, his voice heavy with regret.
Marwyn scoffed. "I still don't understand why you'd want to be a mere knight anyway," he said, his tone dismissive. "There's so much more you could be doing. You haven't even seen the world, boy. With your magic, you shouldn't chain yourself to some lord's service."
Caelum bit back a retort. He knew Marwyn was right, in a way. He had witnessed firsthand the cruelty and corruption of men like Lord Leyton Hightower and the madness that had consumed Prince Rhaegar. He had heard the chilling pronouncements of the Red Priests, their prophecies of doom and destruction.
The thought of returning to Oldtown, of seeing his friends again, should have filled him with joy. But now, it was tinged with a bitter awareness of the sacrifices he had made, the path he had chosen.
He had given up his dream of knighthood, his desire to serve and protect, for the sake of secrecy and self-preservation.
He didn't know if he had made the right decision at all.
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(A/N) I apologize for the delay. This had been ready about a week ago, but the file got accidentally corrupted.
Anyway, this is a little quieter chapter.
Also, to that one guest guy in the reviews, you know who you are, I have deleted your reviews. Pedophilia is not okay. And I am not going to write any form of smut.
Do not ask me to have Caelum fuck anybody, even if they get into a relationship. That's unnecessary. Both Caelum and Fern are kids, and Margaery is likely a literal baby. It's gross.
Moving on.
Book 1 has maybe 4 chapters left, likely less.
Gosh, I hope the strategy planning in Luke's section made sense.
Also, as for Luke's lands and castle, I have chosen to grant Luke his own village and the surrounding farm land. In the first chapter, and the subsequent few, I had made clear that the village was half a day's ride from the castle.
It's visible in the far distance, but not like a walk away.
Luke's land would thus be the same distance Castle Cerwyn is from Winterfell. Luke is essentially House Cerwyn of the Reach now. Plus, he will be taking over as Master at Arms at the castle.
Hope that was enjoyable!
Till the bitter end.
That was the reality of the man they were directly fighting. It had become clear to them that Stannis Baratheon would fight to the bitter end if he had to.
And Luke hated every moment of it.
He hated everything to do with this damned war in truth. The lie on which the war was built was discouraging enough, seeing the depravity and desperation that war brought onto men and women churned uglier in his gut.
He thought himself cruel because it was witnessing that brutal depravity that numbed him to his own father's death. What was his loss to the suffering he'd witnessed since?
Standing in the smoldering ruins of the Felwood forest village, he didn't think he could be disgusted any further.
That was a feeling that he had repeated to himself many times throughout the course of the war.
He had seen brutality, depravity, and insanity from both sides in the war. It had been evident ever since the Battle of Ashford, where he had been Knighted, for all the little good it did to his heart. It didn't bring his father back to life.
The Storm Landers had brutally culled the men, raped the women in the little time they had at the castle and its surrounding village during their siege.
It became clearer still seeing the brazen razing of towns such as this, by the men in the army of the Reach.
Homes reduced to charred skeletons, fields of grain torched to ash, and the stench of death clung to the air like a curse.
The Reach's army had looted them of every morsel of food that had survived the fire that Stannis Baratheon's slowly retreating army had set on their own crops.
The fields surrounding the Felwood now resembled a wasteland.
Even more horrifying was the rape of smallfolk violated by the Reach's soldiers - men, women, and even children.
He had seen enough violence, enough bloodshed, but this... this was a new depth of depravity.
It was a violation of the most innocent, the most vulnerable, and it filled him with a disgust that gnawed at his very soul.
It was a violation that he didn't think he would be able to rend from his mind, because all he saw every time he saw those men in the camps was the horror at the idea that it could have been his village, his mother… Meredith.
Seeing that had been the first time he had made use of his position as a proper Lord of the Reach, and punished the rapists among the men that Lord Tyrell had granted him to command as part of his Light Cavalry. Something his actions at Ashford had apparently deemed him worthy of.
He had taken swift and brutal action, ordering the perpetrators stripped off their manhood, eunuchs for the rest of their lives, and imprisoned alongside the captured Stormlanders.
It was a harsh punishment, one that had earned him the scorn and disapproval of some of the highborn lords.
"They're just peasants, my lord," one lord had sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let the men have their fun. It's a soldier's right."
"This is war," another had chided. "You were smallfolk yourself not too long ago. So it is no small wonder you feel for them. But you are a Lord now, and will soon have to watch over your own demesne. You need to learn to look at things from a bigger perspective. These things happen, don't let that blind you to what is necessary in war."
"Don't be a fool," a third had warned. "These harsh punishments will only breed resentment. We need the men focused on the fight, not nursing their wounded egos and grudges."
But there were also those who stood by him.
Lord Ashford, a man who understood the true cost of war, had offered his silent support. The man had lost his firstborn heir in the defense of the castle, before Luke and the armies of the Reach had arrived to relieve the castle from the siege.
He had become one of Luke's staunchest supporters
And even the stern Lord Randyll Tarly, known for his harsh discipline, had grudgingly admitted that Luke's actions were just.
The most surprising of them all had been Parmen Crane. The Knight, now the Lord of Red Lake, had become almost like an ally, if not a friend to Luke. He did not know how to feel about that.
The man had been quickly wed to his betrothed, Lady Elionora Ashford, after the battle. A rather somber affair, the woman had lost her elder brother mere weeks prior. And Parmen had lost his father just two days before the wedding.
His reverie was broken by a voice calling his name. "M'lord," the voice, a young man's, said "the last of the Stormlanders have fled. Shall we give chase?"
Luke turned to see his squire, a boy named Armen who had asked to train under him after witnessing his leadership at Ashford. The thought that he now had a squire still felt strange.
"No, Armen," Luke said, shaking his head. "We'll return to camp. Pressing further towards the Bronze Road will only lead us into an ambush. Stannis is not so foolish as to leave his rear unguarded."
Jon nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Yes, my lord," he said, then turned to relay the order to the rest of the light cavalry.
"One more thing, Jon," Luke added, his voice firm. "Keep an eye out for any stragglers, friend or foe. And leave the peasants be. Take no more than a third of the grain from what remains of their fields, enough to sustain our army, but leave them enough to survive the winter."
Armen saluted, a gesture he'd picked up from the knights. "As you command, m'lord."
Luke watched his men gather, their horses snorting and pawing at the scorched earth.
My Lord. Another change in the way people addressed him. Under the numb sensation of the war, it was a surprisingly pleasant feeling. He had not expected to ever be anything more than a squire, Knighthood had been his dream, but becoming a landed lord of a demesne of his own was a strange yet pleasant feeling.
Under the setting sun, Luke and his light cavalry returned to the main camp, their saddlebags laden with salvaged grain.
For weeks, the Reach's forces had been locked in a grueling campaign against Stannis Baratheon's stubborn defenders. It was a war of attrition, fought amidst the rugged hills and dense forests surrounding the ruined castle of Summerhall.
There were no grand sieges or pitched battles here. Instead, it was a relentless dance of skirmishes and ambushes.
The Stormlanders used their knowledge and familiarity with the terrain to their advantage, striking from the shadows and vanishing into the tangled wilderness.
The Reach's forces suffered heavy losses in the initial weeks.
But Lord Randyll Tarly had effectively taken charge of the Reach's war effort, and adapted their strategies.
He divided their forces into smaller, more mobile units, mirroring the Stormlander's tactics.
They learned to fight fire with fire, utilizing scouts and skirmishers to anticipate ambushes and counterattack with swift, decisive strikes.
The Stormlanders were worn down by the constant harassment.
Finally, after weeks of relentless pressure, the Stormlanders began a slow retreat towards the heart of their homeland. The Reach's forces, cautious of a trap, advanced cautiously, securing each foothold before moving on. They had broken through the Stormlander's first line of defense, the Felwood forests.
The familiar chaos of the camp washed over Luke as he and his men rode in. Tents, a patchwork of canvas and hide, stretched across the ravaged landscape, their silhouettes stark against the fading twilight.
Smoke from countless cooking fires mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat, a grim symphony that had become the soundtrack of his life. Horses whinnied and stamped, their flanks slick with sweat, while men, their faces etched with the weariness of war, went about their duties with a practiced efficiency.
"Armen," Luke instructed, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and the lingering grief for his father, "See that the grain and any other food we found is delivered to the cooks and quartermasters."
"Yes, m'lord," Armen replied, dismounting with practiced ease. He relayed the order to the other men, who quickly dispersed, their burdens heavy but their steps lightened by the promise of sustenance.
Luke, his own stomach growling with hunger, dismounted as well, his legs stiff and aching. He would see his uncle Harlon later, the man had lost his left arm at Ashford but refused to abandon the fight, choosing instead to serve as a cook for the army.
With a final nod to his men, Luke and Armen made their way towards the war tent, a large pavilion that served as the nerve center of the Reach's command. The guards outside snapped to attention, saluting smartly as Luke approached.
"Welcome back, m'lord," one of them greeted him.
Luke nodded, offering a curt smile.
He ducked under the flap of the war tent, stepping into the dimly lit interior. Lord Everard Ashford was the first to spot him.
"Ah! Lord Brightshield!" Lord Ashford greeted him warmly, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere that permeated the tent. "You are just the man we were hoping for."
Luke's eyes swept across the faces assembled around the war table. Lord Randyll Tarly, seated beside Lord Mace Tyrell, his expression a mask of calculated indifference. Lord Mathis Rowan, his brow furrowed in thought, and Lord Jon Fossoway, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a grim frown. Ser Baelor Hightower, Lord Moribald Chester, and a handful of other bannermen completed the somber tableau.
Lord Mace Tyrell turned to Luke, his voice a rumble that belied the tension in his eyes. "Tell me, Lord Brightshield," he began, "what news have you from your skirmish?"
"The Stormlanders have fled the Felwood, my lord," Luke replied, meeting the Highgarden lord's gaze. "They're retreating deeper into the Stormlands, towards the Bronze Road. I suspect they're making for either the Bronze Gate or Storms End itself."
Mace Tyrell stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes darting to Lord Randyll Tarly as if seeking confirmation. "A full retreat," he mused. "Perplexing, indeed. I had thought Stannis wouldn't yield so easily, not with the tenacity he's shown thus far. An ambush perhaps?"
Lord Mathis Rowan, the grizzled Lord of Goldengrove, nodded in agreement. "An ambush is a possibility, my lord," he said, his voice grave. "The Bronze Road is a natural chokepoint. They could be luring us into a trap, hoping to catch us between the Bronze Gate and the Red Mountains."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lord Mace's face. "Then we know what the enemy intends," he declared, a hint of triumph in his voice.
But before he could continue, Lord Randyll Tarly, ever the pragmatist, cut him off. "Stannis is not laying a trap, my lord," he said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention. "He's retreating to Storms End."
The interruption clearly irked Mace Tyrell, but he held his tongue, his eyes narrowing as Lord Tarly continued.
Luke, finding a seat beside Lord Ashford and Parmen Crane, exchanged a brief nod with the latter before turning his full attention to Lord Tarly.
"Our scouts report that the main Stormlander force has split," Tarly explained. "The bulk of their army is now marching through the Kingswood, towards King's Landing."
"King's Landing?" Mace Tyrell spluttered, his face a mask of disbelief. "But why? And who is leading them?"
Lord Tarly paused, his eyes meeting Mace Tyrell's with an unnerving intensity. "I believe," he said slowly, "that it is Lord Robert Baratheon."
A chorus of confused murmurs erupted around the table. "Impossible!" one lord exclaimed. "Robert Baratheon couldn't have arrived to take command. Not with our blockade at Shipbreaker's Bay and our army blocking the land route."
"Indeed," Lord Tarly agreed, his voice calm. "But it seems Lord Robert sailed from White Harbor after the royal fleet was destroyed in the North, and apparently used a smuggler's vessel from Tarth to evade our blockade. Stannis was forced to retreat from Summerhall when the bulk of his force was made to redirect to meet with Robert Baratheon, as they march to the capital."
Lord Rowan, after a moment of contemplation, broke into a jovial smile. "Well then," he declared, "that means Stannis is all on his own at Storm's End. We should march on the castle and finish this rebellion once and for all."
A wave of uncertainty washed over Lord Mace Tyrell's face. "Is that truly wise?" he questioned. "Storm's End is a formidable fortress. A siege could drag on for months, if not years."
Lord Jon Fossoway, the portly Lord of Cider Hall, vehemently shook his head. "Laying siege to Storm's End is folly," he proclaimed. "Stannis has scorched the earth in his retreat since Summerhall. A prolonged siege will cause to reach deep into our larders, if only someone" He sneered at Luke. "had not overreached with handling his men, we'd still have a good enough morale to make them stay for that siege."
Luke bristled at the implied accusation, but before he could retort Parmen Crane cut in.
"If the men under my command had behaved in such a manner, I'd have dealt with them the same way, as Ser Brightshield did," Parmen Crane interjected, his voice sharp and unwavering. "We are leading an army, not a band of rapists. If these men want to slake their lusts, they can visit the whores in the villages, or they could have indulged themselves back at Summerhall."
Luke was grateful for the support.
A tense silence settled over the tent. Lord Fossoway's face reddened with anger, but he held his tongue, perhaps sensing the disapproval in the eyes of his fellow lords.
Lord Ashford added his support. "Lord Crane speaks true. Discipline is the cornerstone of a strong army. We cannot allow our men to terrorize the people here, we are not Iron Born. Regardless we do not need to be called philanderers and rapists, should the war's end fall in the rebel's favor."
Lord Randyll Tarly nodded in agreement. "Unruly soldiers are a liability," he said. "They undermine our authority and weaken our cause. Ser Brightshield's actions, though harsh, were necessary to maintain order and uphold the honor of the Reach."
Mace Tyrell, visibly uncomfortable with the confrontation, shifted in his seat. He was not a man who relished conflict, especially among his own bannermen. "Ser Brightshield's actions were... perhaps a bit extreme," he conceded, his voice hesitant. "But I cannot fault his intentions. We must maintain discipline and ensure that our men conduct themselves with honor."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "The matter is settled," he declared, his voice firm. "We will not tolerate such behavior in our ranks. Now, let us return to the matter at hand."
"Apart, from the unnecessary accusations, Lord Fossoway's words carry wisdom, but we cannot ignore Stannis Baratheon entirely. He has proven himself a cunning and dangerous adversary," Lord Tarly reminded them. "Even with a reduced force, he could harry our rearguard and disrupt our supply lines if we leave him unchecked."
Silence descended upon the tent as the lords pondered the dilemma. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows that danced upon the faces of the men, highlighting the tension and uncertainty in their eyes.
Finally, Mace Tyrell spoke, his voice resolute. "We will divide our forces," he declared. "Lord Tarly, you will take a portion of our army and pursue Robert Baratheon to King's Landing. I will remain here with the rest, laying siege to Storm's End and keeping Stannis occupied."
A sense of finality hung in the air as Lord Tarly concluded the meeting. With a curt nod, he dismissed the council, and the lords began to disperse, their faces etched with the weight of their upcoming tasks.
Luke rose from his seat, a wave of relief washing over him as he followed Lord Ashford and Ser Parmen Crane out of the stifling tent.
"My lords," he began, his voice slightly hesitant, "I am grateful for your support. It means more than you know."
Lord Ashford clapped him on the shoulder with a gruff chuckle. "Don't mention it, lad," he said. "You did what was right, and any man who claims otherwise is a fool."
Parmen Crane offered a curt nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Indeed," he agreed. "Honor and discipline are not to be taken lightly, even in the chaos of war."
The awkwardness between them was palpable, a remnant of their past animosity. But beneath it, Luke sensed a newfound respect, a mutual understanding forged in the crucible of battle.
Before they could continue, a voice called out, "Ser Brightshield!"
They turned to see Ser Fenton Sloane, a respected knight and bannerman of House Tyrell, approaching them with a measured stride.
"Ser Sloane," Luke greeted him, bowing his head slightly.
"I've been watching your progress with interest, Ser Brightshield," the knight said, his voice deep and resonant. "Your actions at Ashford, Summerhall, and now Felwood have proven your worth. You were rightly raised to knighthood and granted lordship over your village."
Luke felt a surge of warmth at the praise. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he replied, his voice humble. "I merely did my duty."
Ser Sloane smiled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Duty is one thing, Ser Brightshield, but skill and courage are another. I understand Lord Mace intends to offer you the position of Master-at-Arms at Highgarden, a position once held by your mentor, the late Ser Vortimer Crane."
There had been rumors of the same, but Lord Mace had not made them known to him yet. The Master-at-Arms was a prestigious position, one of great honor and responsibility. "I am... humbled, Ser Sloane," he managed, his voice thick with emotion. "If I am granted that honor, I will strive to honor Ser Vortimer's legacy and serve House Tyrell to the best of my ability."
Ser Sloane nodded approvingly. "I have no doubt you will, Ser Brightshield." He paused. "And as a fellow lord and Knight of the Reach, I have a proposition for you."
Luke raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"My daughter, Jeyne," Ser Sloane continued, "is comely and of age. I believe she would make a fine match for someone of the skill and stature, such as yourself. In joining our houses, I would gladly provide you with the men and coin necessary to raise and maintain your castle, ensuring the prosperity of your new demesne."
Luke hesitated, the weight of the proposition pressing down upon him.
Marriage?
He hadn't even considered it. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was a simple squire, dreaming of knighthood.
Now, with a lordship and a potential position at Highgarden on the horizon, marriage seemed like a natural next step.
Yet, it was overwhelming.
He had expected to be noticed by the other lords of the Reach, to earn their respect through his actions on the battlefield.
Lord Quentyn Tyrell, for instance, often sought him out for sparring sessions and shared meals with him and Harlon, even when Luke chose to sit down for meals with the men rather than Lords as he really should.
But this... this was different.
"Ah, Ser Sloane, would that I had another daughter, I would have offered Luke her hand in marriage too. This is a very shrewd move, this man is certainly skilled and resourceful. His house is no doubt to rise soon in the Reach" Lord Ashford chuckled.
This was getting out of hand. He didn't really want to entertain marriage proposals, he had no idea who the person he would be wedding would be like at all. And wedding a noble lady was far from what Luke had envisioned for himself in truth, it was all a little too much.
Before he could fumble for a polite rejection, Parmen Crane stepped forward. "Alas, Ser Sloane," he said, "I believe Ser Brightshield's heart is already spoken for. There's a young woman back in his village, Meredith, if I recall correctly. They grew up together, and I believe he intends to make her his bride."
Luke's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Meredith's name. He hadn't thought of her in that way, not truly. But the idea, planted by Parmen's words, bloomed in his mind like a wildflower in springtime.
Ser Sloane seemed taken aback. "Meredyth?" he inquired. "A noblewoman from Highgarden?"
He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Wait," he said, "that was the name of your sister, Ser Crane. Is Ser Brightshield betrothed to your sister? Ser Vortimer must have had remarkable faith in Luke indeed if he had been willing to let Luke wed his daughter before he was raised to the stature he is at now."
Parmen let out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "No, no, Ser Sloane. Ser Brightshield is not betrothed to my sister. His heart belongs to a girl from his village, a serving maid to Lord Willas and Lord Garlan at Highgarden like himself."
Ser Sloane's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A serving maid?" he repeated, incredulous. "But surely, now that you've been raised to lordship..."
Luke met his gaze steadily. "Meredith is indeed a serving maid, my lord," he acknowledged. "But she is kind, strong, and resourceful. I have known her ever since I was a child..."
"Ah," The Knight cut in, his surprise melted into a knowing smile, "love. A powerful force indeed." He sighed, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "It's a pity, Ser Brightshield. I had hoped to join our houses. But I understand the call of the heart."
He extended his hand to Luke. "Nevertheless, I would still like to offer my support. An alliance between our houses could be mutually beneficial. In return for grain and lumber from your village, and no tolls for caravans from my town crossing the Mander, I would be willing to send gold and men to help you raise your castle in your village after the war."
Luke shook his hand, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he said. "Your generosity is most appreciated."
As Ser Sloane departed, Luke turned to Parmen, a question burning in his eyes. "Why did you..."
Parmen shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Oh come now, did you think I didn't know of your feelings for the girl" Luke just stared blankly at the man, as Parmen chuckled "I would know, she is comely too. No wonder you were so possessive of her when I teased her all those years ago."
He wanted to correct Parmen that there hadn't been anything of the sort at the time. Meredith was just a friend that he cherished dearly, and he didn't think she would appreciate roping her in to this mess without asking her at least.
She may not even like him that way at all.
But for the life of him, he couldn't make himself actually speak and correct the mistake. He didn't know why.
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The waning sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting long, ethereal shadows across the crystal-clear stream. Caelum stood knee-deep in the cool water, his gaze fixed on the shimmering forms darting beneath the surface. His magical sight, a blessing and a curse, allowed him to see through the rippling current, revealing the intricate details of each fish as it swam by.
With a swift, practiced motion, his hand plunged into the water, his fingers closing around a silver-scaled trout.
He lifted it out of the stream, a triumphant smile briefly gracing his lips before turning into a grimace. The trout's spine, a grotesque mockery of its natural form, protruded from its back, bent and broken under the force of Caelum's grip.
"Tch, I swear to the Seven, I need to get this right! Damn it!" He sighed and tossed the trout into the straw basket resting on the riverbank. It joined a growing collection of similarly deformed fish, each one a testament to his struggle for control.
Months had passed since that fateful night at Qyburn's manse, months spent in this secluded clearing, wrestling with the monstrous strength that lurked within him.
He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the familiar landscape.
The sun, a fiery orb sinking towards the horizon, painted the sky in hues of orange and crimson. It was time to return to the ramshackle shelter he had painstakingly constructed over the past months.
The shack, a testament to his newfound patience and perseverance, stood nestled amongst the trees, a crude monument to his exile.
Its walls, fashioned from rough-hewn logs, were uneven and scarred, bearing witness to the countless times he had misjudged his strength and splintered the wood.
The roof, a patchwork of leaves and branches, leaked during heavy rains, but it provided adequate shelter from the elements.
Inside, the furnishings were sparse and utilitarian: a bed fashioned from a pile of furs, a crude table hewn from a fallen log, and a few stools crafted with meticulous care to withstand his unintentional clumsiness. A small hearth, built with stones gathered from the riverbed, provided warmth and a flickering light during the long, solitary nights.
Caelum's life in the woods had been a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestry of the Citadel, and his stay at the Learned Anchor.
He missed the intellectual stimulation of the maester's lessons, the camaraderie of his fellow acolytes, and the comforting presence of his friends, Pylos, Yandel, and Fern.
His absence from the Citadel had been explained away by Marwyn as a prolonged illness, a mysterious affliction that required isolation and rest. Caelum knew that his friends had inquired about him, their concern a constant pang of guilt in his heart.
He had also been spared the scrutiny and suspicion that had followed the incident at the manse. The rumors of the "Demon of Honeywine," a fiery demon who had emerged from the inferno, had spread like wildfire through Oldtown. He had kept an ear out listening to all the ridiculous rumors people spoke of him.
Literally in fact, he would spend his nights in the shack alone, listening to gossip from the city, keeping his focus entirely on talk in the Citadel alone, trying desperately to listen to information on the war, a habit he hadn't been able to rid himself off entirely.
He did manage to stop himself from listening in on people's lives as they went about their day, he didn't think they would appreciate someone like him listening on their every waking moment, neither did he appreciate the headache he had to suffer if he ever tried.
He still shivered from the events from Harrenhall sometime, he did not want a repeat of that,
Thanks to the Sept's constant sermons and the Citadel's influence, the whispers in the city of the 'Demon' had gradually faded, replaced by the more mundane tales of Qyburn's twisted experiments shared with ale and a chuckle in the taverns and inns of Oldtown.
The priests of the Red Temple, however, remained vigilant.
They believed that their "Bringer of Cataclysm," had stepped foot in Oldtown. Their agents scoured the city and the surrounding countryside, but even that had faded since.
Caelum picked up the basket of fish, its weight a mere trifle to him now, as he set off to return to his shack.
Caelum made his way back to the shack, his footsteps heavy with the weight of another failed attempt at fish-wrangling. He deposited the basket of mangled trout by the door and stepped inside the dimly lit dwelling.
With practiced ease, he lifted a bundle of firewood from the corner and carried it outside. He laid the wood on the stone-paved porch and knelt beside the basket of fish. One by one, he skewered them, his movements now precise and deliberate, a far cry from the clumsy fumbling of his earlier months in exile.
When the last fish was secured on a skewer, Caelum turned his attention to the wood. A crimson glow emanated from his eyes, and a thin beam of fire shot forth, igniting the kindling with a satisfying whoosh. The flames licked at the dry wood, sending sparks dancing into the twilight air.
Caelum carefully seasoned the fish with a blend of herbs and spices that Marwyn had procured from the city. He then held each skewer over the fire, the heat searing the flesh and releasing a tantalizing aroma that filled the clearing.
Hours later, as the first stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, Caelum sat by the fire, savoring the fruits of his labor. The fish, though slightly misshapen, were surprisingly delicious, the crispy skin giving way to tender, flavorful meat.
His magical hearing, always on high alert, picked up the distant rumble of wheels and the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Marwyn had returned.
Moments later, the Archmaester emerged from the treeline, his cloak billowing in the night breeze. His face, illuminated by the flickering firelight, bore a weary expression, but a hint of anticipation gleamed in his eyes.
"That smells delicious, boy," Marwyn said, his voice approving. He settled himself beside Caelum, reaching for one of the cooked fish.
"Thank you, Maester Marwyn," Caelum replied, offering him a skewer. "How was your trip to the city?"
Marwyn took a bite of the fish, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Eventful," he said after a moment. "Maester Ebrose was despondent at the Myrish merchants failing in accurately building the contraption he had described to them. He had wanted to see those tiny creatures you spoke to him about, he truly believes in the idea of creatures that small perhaps do exist, even without knowing you can actually see them with your magical vision."
Caelum smiled, "Yandel must have been overworked again negotiating with the Myrish. What sort of device did they give him?"
"They brought him a pair of lens glasses," Marwyn explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Two pieces of curved glass, each encased in a metal frame, connected by a bridge that rests on the nose." He rummaged through the satchel he had laid beside him and produced the curious device. "They call them 'near-eyes'," he said, holding them out for Caelum to inspect.
Caelum took the near-eyes, turning them over in his hands. The glass lenses, though slightly warped and imperfect, were surprisingly clear. He held them up to the firelight, watching the flames distort and magnify as he moved the lenses.
"They're practically useless," Marwyn grumbled. "All they do is make things appear slightly larger than they truly are. Ebrose ended up with a whole shipment of these monstrosities."
Caelum, however, saw potential in the seemingly flawed invention. "I don't think they're as useless as you believe, Maester Marwyn," he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The ability to see things larger than they are... it could be helpful for those with nearsighted vision."
Marwyn paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Caelum's words. A slow smile spread across his face, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. "An interesting thought, boy," he said, nodding approvingly. "Perhaps there is a use for these near-eyes after all."
He leaned back, his mind racing with possibilities. "Archmaester Theron was furious about the wasted gold on this shipment from Myr," he mused. "But if these near-eyes can truly aid those with poor vision, we could sell them to lords, knights, and perhaps even the smallfolk."
Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. "And how was Fern today?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of nervousness. "How is she doing with her lessons as your apprentice?"
Marwyn chewed thoughtfully, as he returned the near eyes to his satchel. His eyes narrowed as he examined the fish in his hand. "Interesting," he mused, "these fish are still all misshapen and damaged."
Caelum's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'm still working on it," he mumbled, looking away.
Marwyn chuckled, his voice reassuring. "Chin up, boy, it's progress, much better than just a week ago" He took another bite of the fish, savoring the flavor. "As for Fern," he continued, "she's a bright girl, eager to learn. A skilled scribe, but a bit too eager for magic. She has fanciful notions of casting spells and wielding arcane powers." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Magic doesn't work that way, I'm afraid. It's a subtle art, a dance with the unseen forces that govern our world."
Caelum listened intently, absorbing Marwyn's words. "But she's learning," the archmaester added, "and she has a natural talent for medicine and healing. If she were allowed, and didn't need the disguise as 'Nerf' at the Citadel, she'd make a fine maester."
"Do you think she could take her links soon?" Caelum asked, his voice laced with hope. "If she were allowed, that is."
Marwyn stroked his chin thoughtfully. "She's certainly a quick learner," he admitted. "But the gold link or the red gold link? I don't know. Those require years of dedication and experience. However, for the silver link in medicine and healing, she's undoubtedly ready. As for the Valyrian steel link for the arcane mysteries, she's more than capable."
Caelum sighed. Marwyn had taken on the mantle of his tutor in the woods, diligently imparting the knowledge Caelum had missed during his exile. Had he been able to return to the Citadel, he would have already taken his tests.
Marwyn the said in High Valyrian, his voice rich and resonant. "I believe you are ready too."
Caelum's eyes widened in surprise "Do you truly think so?" He replied in kind.
Marwyn nodded, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.
Then, his voice shifted, the guttural sounds of Dothraki filling the air. "Let's test your Dothraki" he said, "What are the treatments accepted by the citadel for treating infected wounds. And then to provide yout own understanding of how to treat such wounds."
Caelum responded in kind, his Dothraki flowing smoothly. "The maesters of the Citadel teach bloodletting, amputation, or nettled wine and poultices for infected wounds." His voice hardened slightly, "But bloodletting is a waste, it only scratches the surface. I would use a poultice of milk of the poppy and bread mold."
Marwyn nodded in approval, then his voice shifted into a sibilant whisper, "How would you treat a broken bone?" he asked in Asshai'i, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.
"That depends on the location of the break," Caelum replied in the same tongue, his tone measured and confident. "For a simple fracture of a limb, I would set the bone, immobilize it with a splint, and administer milk of the poppy for pain. For a compound fracture, where the bone pierces the skin, I would cleanse the wound with boiled water and honey, set the bone, and apply a poultice of willow bark and comfrey to promote healing. In severe cases, such as a shattered bone or a break in the spine, I would consult with a more experienced healer, as these injuries require specialized knowledge and techniques."
Marwyn's lips curled into a satisfied smile. He switched to Qartheen, his voice taking on a melodic lilt. "How would you treat a blow to someone's head?"
Caelum responded in the same flowing tongue, "A blow to the head can cause headache, dizziness, puking etc for several weeks. In severe cases, the citadel believes bloodletting may be necessary to reduce pressure on the brain. I don't think that is necessary, Rest is more than enough."
Marwyn's smile widened. He then spoke in Lazhareen, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Tell me, Caelum, how are goods taxed in the Seven Kingdoms?"
Caelum paused, gathering his thoughts. He replied in Lazhareen, "Taxation in the Seven Kingdoms is a complex matter, varying depending on the status of the individual and the nature of the goods. Peasants typically pay a tithe to their lord, a tenth of their crops or livestock. Nobles are exempt from most taxes, but they are expected to provide military service to their liege lord. Knights, who are sworn to a lord's service, are also exempt from taxes. Merchants pay tariffs on goods imported or exported from a city or region. Lords collect taxes from their subjects and are, in turn, taxed by the crown. The crown's share of the tax revenue varies depending on the specific law and the needs of the realm. In times of war, such as the current conflict, taxes are often increased to fund the war effort. In some cases, taxes may even be doubled."
Marwyn's smile deepened, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He switched to the guttural tones of Ibbenese, "You've learned well enough for a silver link, boy. Ebrose wouldn't deny you that. And the Valyrian steel link is yours for the taking – the Citadel's teachings on the matter are a sham anyway. If anyone deserves it, it's you." He paused, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "But the yellow gold link, for money and accounts... that's a different beast altogether. How would you manage the coffers of a lord like Leyton Hightower?"
Caelum furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "It depends on the state of House Hightower's finances after the war," he replied in Ibbenese, his voice measured and careful. "I'd wager their coffers are lighter than they'd like, but the people of Oldtown have been burdened with heavy taxes. I wouldn't advise squeezing them further. Instead, I'd recommend a gradual reduction of taxes, but not to pre-war levels. We need to replenish the coffers, but we also need to keep the smallfolk content."
Marwyn's smile widened, and he switched back to the Common Tongue. "Good enough for me," he declared, a hint of pride in his voice. "You've proven your knowledge and understanding. Ebrose would be a fool to deny you your silver link."
Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. But then, his smile faltered, a shadow of sadness clouding his eyes. "I wish I could take the tests officially," he sighed. "I miss my friends. I miss the Citadel."
Marwyn's eyes twinkled. "Then it's settled," he said, rising to his feet. "You're ready to return to Oldtown."
Caelum's head shot up, his face alight with joy. "Really?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. "Can we go now? I want to see Pylos and Yandel and Fern!"
Marwyn chuckled, "Did you think I wouldn't let you return? You can handle something as delicate as a fish without crushing it now. If you pay attention, your strength won't be an issue any longer."
Caelum whooped with delight, his heart soaring with anticipation. But then, Marwyn's next words brought him crashing back down to earth.
"Of course," Marwyn said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "that means you'll never be a knight. The moment you pick up and swing a sword, your strength will be exposed."
Caelum's elation evaporated, replaced by a bitter disappointment.
He had forgotten about that. Marwyn had always been adamant that Caelum shouldn't hide his strength, but Caelum couldn't bear the thought of being labeled a monster, a demon.
He was already haunted by the guilt of what he had done to Ser Elmar. Moreover, revealing his true abilities could put his family in danger. They had sacrificed a lot, lied to Lord Mace on the night he had been sent to the world, should that be revealed, he didn't know what Lord Mace would do to his family. The man had already unnecessarily dragged his father, a farmer into a war, for a tax that would have been a pittance to a man as wealthy as him.
Even if he did understand why the man did it, it still felt like a betrayal, and unnecessarily cruel.
"I know," Caelum said quietly, his voice heavy with regret.
Marwyn scoffed. "I still don't understand why you'd want to be a mere knight anyway," he said, his tone dismissive. "There's so much more you could be doing. You haven't even seen the world, boy. With your magic, you shouldn't chain yourself to some lord's service."
Caelum bit back a retort. He knew Marwyn was right, in a way. He had witnessed firsthand the cruelty and corruption of men like Lord Leyton Hightower and the madness that had consumed Prince Rhaegar. He had heard the chilling pronouncements of the Red Priests, their prophecies of doom and destruction.
The thought of returning to Oldtown, of seeing his friends again, should have filled him with joy. But now, it was tinged with a bitter awareness of the sacrifices he had made, the path he had chosen.
He had given up his dream of knighthood, his desire to serve and protect, for the sake of secrecy and self-preservation.
He didn't know if he had made the right decision at all.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) I apologize for the delay. This had been ready about a week ago, but the file got accidentally corrupted.
Anyway, this is a little quieter chapter.
Also, to that one guest guy in the reviews, you know who you are, I have deleted your reviews. Pedophilia is not okay. And I am not going to write any form of smut.
Do not ask me to have Caelum fuck anybody, even if they get into a relationship. That's unnecessary. Both Caelum and Fern are kids, and Margaery is likely a literal baby. It's gross.
Moving on.
Book 1 has maybe 4 chapters left, likely less.
Gosh, I hope the strategy planning in Luke's section made sense.
Also, as for Luke's lands and castle, I have chosen to grant Luke his own village and the surrounding farm land. In the first chapter, and the subsequent few, I had made clear that the village was half a day's ride from the castle.
It's visible in the far distance, but not like a walk away.
Luke's land would thus be the same distance Castle Cerwyn is from Winterfell. Luke is essentially House Cerwyn of the Reach now. Plus, he will be taking over as Master at Arms at the castle.
Hope that was enjoyable!
Echoes of the Ringing Bells
Chapter 25 –
Fire was a fascinating thing. Beautiful, elegant, and oh so deadly.
The loveliest thing she had seen.
She dreamt of it, incessantly. The blazing glow that she saw was always inviting her to step in. To take her first steps up into terrifying depths.
The heat became a memory. Replaced by cold, dark, depths.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't see.
She tried to scream but water rushed in, filling her lungs with an icy dread. It was dark, and cold, and she was sinking, sinking into the abyss.
She clawed upwards, her fingers scraping against smooth stone. There was no escape, just a never-ending void, and the sound of a voice echoing through the water, along a loud eerie incessant pealing of bells.
Then she saw green.
She reached, her hand outstretched towards the mesmerizing green fire. It flickered, dancing on the tip of a towering, unseen blade.
Within the fire, an eye opened. A red, slitted eye, pulsing with malevolent light.
Chills wracked her body, deeper than the icy water. The bells pealed louder, their incessant rhythm like death wailed in the silence. The water itself seemed to claw at her, pulling her down.
The bells crescendoed, deafening, repeating. A relentless, agonizing dirge.
Then, a flash of demonic red heat, consuming everything.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute.
The stench of death filled the water.
And then the voice. Clearer, louder now, screaming, demanding her attention. The red light grew brighter, consuming everything, and she was falling, falling into a hellish embrace.
"Fern!"
Fern gasped, her eyes snapping open, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to her like cobwebs. She took a few deep breaths, the cool morning air filling her lungs, chasing away the lingering chill of the dream.
The familiar salty tang of the Honeywine river drifted in through the open window, a comforting reminder of home and reality.
The clamor of voices downstairs told her that the inn was already bustling with life.
Her father's booming voice echoed through the inn, a warm and familiar sound that banished the last vestiges of fear.
"Fern, rise and shine, lass!" Liernen's voice boomed through the door, jolting her awake. "The sun's already high, and we've hungry bellies to fill downstairs. Don't forget, you've got your tests at the citadel today! You don't want to be late!"
Fern swung her legs out of bed, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm up, Papa!" she replied, her voice still thick with sleep. "Just give me a moment to get dressed, and I'll be down in a moment."
Fern quickly slipped into a simple woolen dress and a sturdy pair of leather boots. She grabbed her apron, tying it securely around her waist, and made her way down the creaky wooden stairs.
The smell of frying bacon and freshly baked bread filled the air as she entered the main lounge of the Learned Anchor.
Her father, Liernen, was already busy in the kitchen, his broad back hunched over the stove as he stirred a steaming pot.
"Morning, Papa," Fern chirped, pulling her apron tight.
Liernen turned, a wide smile spreading across his weathered face. "There's my little girl! Just in time. The plates are almost ready. Be a dear and run these out to the tables, would you? Yours is nearly done too."
"Will do, Papa," Fern replied, grabbing a tray laden with steaming bowls of porridge, tankards of ale, and baskets of bread.
She weaved through the tables, her eyes scanning the room. A group of city guards, still bleary-eyed from their night watch, huddled around a table near the hearth. A few servants from the Starry Sept, dressed in their somber grey robes, occupied a corner booth, their hushed conversation barely audible above the din.
"Your breakfast, would you like anything with it?," Fern asked, setting the tray down on the guards' table with a practiced hand.
"Ah, thank you kindly, lass, that is more than enough" one of the guards grunted, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food.
Fern moved on to the next table, where a pair of merchants were engaged in a heated discussion.
"Your order," she interrupted, placing their plates before them. "would you like anything else with that?"
The merchants barely acknowledged her.
Fern smiled to herself and moved on, her tray growing lighter with each stop.
As she delivered the last meal, her father emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.
"All done, Papa," Fern announced, beaming up at him.
"Well done, lass," Liernen replied, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Now scoot and eat your own breakfast. You've got a big day ahead of you."
Fern settled into a chair, gratefully accepting the bowl of steaming porridge and a hunk of bread her father placed before her. Liernen sat across from her, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he watched her wolf down her breakfast.
Leaning in, he whispered, "Ready for your tests today, Fern?"
Fern nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Maester Marwyn seems to think so," she whispered back. "I'll earn those links, Papa. I won't let you down."
Liernen's chest swelled with pride. "I know you won't, my girl," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He paused, then asked, "Has Pylos risen yet?"
Fern's brow furrowed. "Blast it, I forgot to check," she muttered. "I'll rouse him once I'm done."
Pylos, bless his soul, had become very lazy since Caelum had departed with Maester Marwyn.
Fern knew he missed their friend dearly; the citadel wasn't the same without him.
Yandel was always busy, running errands for Archmaester Gyldalyn or Archmaester Ebrose, or some other Archmaester that had need of the foundling.
And her constant charade of pretending to be "Nerf" was becoming increasingly tiresome. She had to concoct elaborate excuses for her absences, always careful not to arouse suspicion.
In all that, Pylos was left all alone.
Fern couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
She missed Caelum too, in truth. He had been very helpful around the inn.
A pang of worry tugged at her heart.
She remembered the day Maester Marwyn had whisked Caelum away from the inn. The boy had looked pale and drawn, and the archmaester's haste had been unsettling.
Fern didn't believe Caelum was truly ill; she suspected the maester had offered him an apprenticeship in the arcane arts, just as he had done for her.
She wondered if Caelum had made any progress in his magical studies. All she had learned so far was that magic demanded sacrifice and patience.
The rest of her time had been spent endlessly copying Maester Marwyn's tome, "The Book of Lost Books." She had transcribed Daenys the Dreamer's cryptic prophecies and portents so many times that she could practically recite them in her sleep.
Liernen interrupted her thoughts, "we're running low on grain. We'll need to make a run to Gorman's farm soon."
Fern nodded, swallowing a mouthful of porridge. "Think we can make it last the month?"
Liernen stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Just about, I reckon."
"Then I'll head up there at the end of the week," Fern decided. "Maybe Pylos can come with me."
Liernen gave her a hearty clap on the back. "Sounds like a plan, lass."
Fern and Liernen finished their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Just as Fern was about to rise, the inn's front door creaked open, its bell jingling merrily. Fern turned to greet the new patron, but her jaw dropped in astonishment.
Standing in the doorway was Caelum, his dark hair tousled and his blue eyes brighter than she remembered. His clothes were worn and travel-stained, but his smile was as warm as ever. Behind him stood Maester Marwyn, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the floor.
Liernen quickly recovered from his surprise, his face breaking into a broad grin. "Caelum, lad! Welcome back! We were worried sick when you had to leave so suddenly. Are you feeling better?"
Caelum nodded, his smile widening. "I'm right as rain now, Liernen. Archmaester Marwyn took good care of me." He turned to Fern, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Fern! It's good to see you."
Fern's heart leaped with happiness. "Caelum!" she exclaimed, rushing over to embrace him. But as she hugged him, she felt him stiffen, his arms barely encircling her.
Puzzled, she pulled back. "What's wrong?"
Caelum grimaced. "Nothing, just a bit weak still," he mumbled, looking away.
Fern's brow furrowed, but she quickly dismissed her concern. "Well, Pylos will be thrilled to see you," she said brightly. "He's missed you terribly."
Caelum's face lit up. "Pylos is still here? I thought I'd missed him and would have to wait until I reached the citadel."
Liernen chuckled. "He's likely still abed, the lazy oaf," he said. "Fern, be a dear and wake him, would you? And then get ready for your errands. You need to meet Hop Bean soon."
Maester Marwyn cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I have returned your charge, Liernen," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I shall be on my way."
Liernen, flustered, apologized for his lack of attention. "Would you care for some refreshment, Maester? The stew is still hot."
Marwyn declined politely, chewing on a piece of sourleaf bark as he turned to leave. "Caelum," he instructed, "freshen up and then head to the citadel for your tests." With a final nod, he strode out the door.
"Your old room is still waiting for you, lad," Liernen said, bustling towards the kitchen. "I'll warm up some stew for you."
Caelum shook his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, sir, but I've already eaten. I'll just change into some clean clothes and wake Pylos. We'll head to the citadel together."
Liernen paused, concern creasing his brow. "Are you sure you're up for the tests, Caelum? You've been ill for so long. Perhaps you should wait until next year."
Caelum's smile broadened. "Don't worry, sir. Maester Marwyn continued my lessons while I was recovering. I'm confident I can earn my links." With that, he bounded up the stairs, his footsteps light and quick.
Fern watched him go, a mixture of curiosity and slight envy swirling within her.
Clearly, Maester Marwyn taught him magic, she thought. What kind of sickness could have lasted all these months, without it being fatal? No, he was very pale that night. The demon had also attacked the manse by the river that night, so perhaps his sickness was magical in nature?
There had been rumors of Demons that had attacked a manse by the Honeywine River. The folk at the sept believed that it had been retribution by the Gods for the horrific things that Maester Qyburn had done down there.
Though, apart from poor Ser Elmar, and the stable hand, no one had seen the demon in truth.
Some said that the fire that had sprung around the manse had been demonic in nature, those who had been fortunate enough to see the melted metallic doors of the manse seemed to agree.
There had been ice around the metal! Amidst all that fire, Ice!
But they were just rumors. The maesters had been quick to prohibit anyone from venturing into the manse, or the property around it. And Lord Leyton had posted more men to keep watch for demonic activity around the area since.
Poor Ser Elmar had not been the same since. But the Gold he had received for his work in fighting the demon must have lifted the crippled Knight's spirits at the least.
She didn't think she'd have liked to see the demon up close, but perhaps that had something to do with Caelum's sickness.
She would have to ask Maester Marwyn.
She shook her head, pushing aside her musings. She had her own tasks to attend to. "I need to go, Papa," she said, grabbing her cloak from the hook by the door. "I'll be back before dinner."
Liernen nodded, pressing a few copper coins into her hand. "Give Hop Bean my regards," he said as he ruffled her hair.
Fern kissed him on the cheek and slipped out the door.
Fern hurried through the winding streets of Oldtown, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. The salty breeze from the Honeywine River tugged at her cloak as she navigated the bustling crowds, her destination clear in mind.
Hop Bean's home, a modest dwelling nestled near Ragpicker's Wynd, was a short walk from the Learned Anchor. It was a stone's throw from the brothel where her mother had once worked, a place Fern had only glimpsed from afar.
She knocked on the worn wooden door and waited. It opened to reveal a plump, cheerful woman named Hilda, her rosy cheeks framed by wisps of auburn hair.
"Fern, dear!" Hilda greeted her warmly. "Come in, come in. Bean's just gathering your things. He'll be with you in a moment."
Fern handed Hilda the copper coins, a silent thanks for her discretion. She stepped inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and lavender filling her nostrils. Hop Bean's wife was known for her skill in crafting scented candles, a skill she had taught Fern as well.
Hop Bean was a stout dwarf. He emerged from the back room, his arms laden with a jumble of fabrics and accessories. "Ah, Fern," he said as he trundled toward her, "Are you ready for your tests?"
Fern nodded, taking a seat on the stool he indicated. Hop Bean was a master mummer, his disguises so convincing that even her father had been fooled on occasion. But more than that, he was a trusted friend.
"Did you get the copper?" Hop Bean asked, turning to his wife.
Hilda nodded, "Of course, dear."
Hop Bean set to work, his nimble fingers weaving Fern's boyish brown hair into a flattened style and concealing it beneath a mummer's cap. He helped her into a loose tunic and breeches, padding her shoulders and chest to create the illusion of a broader frame.
Hilda returned, balancing a tray laden with milk, honey, and bread. "A little something for you, dear," she offered.
Fern smiled apologetically. "Thank you, Hilda, but I've already eaten."
Hop Bean clucked his tongue. "You work too hard, woman," he admonished his wife. "Think of the little ones."
Hilda snorted, "I'm pregnant, not a cripple," she retorted. "Besides, they're your children, Hop Bean. They'll take up less space in my belly than they would if they were of any other's seed."
Hop Bean rolled his eyes, "Very funny, dear," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Hop Bean stepped back, eyeing Fern critically. "There," he declared, "Now off you go to the citadel, Nerf. Good luck with your tests."
Hilda echoed the sentiment, her eyes filled with warmth. "May the Seven guide your hand, child."
Fern curtsied, a grateful smile on her face. "Thank you, both of you," she said. Then, with a quick farewell, she slipped out the door and into the bustling streets of Oldtown.
The sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets. Fern quickened her pace, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She couldn't be late for her tests.
She arrived at the citadel, its towering spires piercing the sky like needles. The giant twin sphinxes guarding the entrance seemed to watch her with their enigmatic smiles as she hurried past them. Inside, the halls buzzed with activity as acolytes, novices, and maesters went about their daily routines.
Fern made her way to the lecture halls, her eyes scanning the crowd for her friends. She spotted Pylos and Caelum standing outside the hall dedicated to the healing arts.
Pylos, usually so morose, was actually smiling and chatting animatedly with Caelum.
Seeing him in good spirits warmed Fern's heart. Caelum's return must have cheered him up massively.
She couldn't linger here; she had to focus on the challenges ahead. She would meet with Pylos and Caelum later.
With a deep breath, Fern turned away from her friends and made her way towards the Tower of the Healer. The first test awaited her.
Archmaester Ebrose's gentle voice filled the quiet chamber as he questioned her on poultices and potions, on the signs of plague and the birthing of babes. Fern answered with a confidence born of countless hours poring over dusty tomes and watching the maester deliver babes in the citadel.
A warm smile spread across the old maester's face as he presented her with the silver link of healing.
Next came the imposing figure of Archmaester Theron, the citadel's seneschal. His bald head gleamed in the candlelight as he grilled her on the intricacies of trade routes and tariffs, on the value of dragon gold and the fluctuating prices of Myrish glass, lace and other goods from Essos.
Fern's voice wavered at times, her palms clammy with nerves, but her knowledge held firm.
Theron, though stern, nodded his approval, awarding her the red gold link of money and accounts.
The afternoon sun slanted through the stained glass windows of the Maester's Terrace as Fern faced her final test.
Archmaester Ryam, a wizened man with a penchant for riddles, challenged her with intricate calculations.
Fern's mind raced, the numbers dancing before her eyes.
But she persevered, her determination fueled by a deep-seated desire to prove herself. She needed to earn all the links to help her father run his inn better than he already has been.
With a final flourish, she solved the last problem, earning the yellow-gold link of numbers and sums.
As the sun began to set, Fern emerged from the citadel, three new links gleaming on her robes. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, but it was quickly tempered by a lingering worry for her friends.
She knew Maester Marwyn had tutored Caelum, but could he truly be prepared for the tests after so long away from the citadel's resources?
Fern let out a long sigh of relief, the weight of the tests finally lifting from her shoulders. She fingered the three gleaming links on the chain around her neck, a tangible reminder of her hard-won achievements.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she headed towards the library, hoping to find Pylos and Caelum where they used to meet before Caelum's departure.
She hadn't seen Yandel all day, but she figured he must have either taken his tests on a different day or completed them earlier. She crossed her fingers, hoping he had done well.
As Fern approached the library, a smile blossomed on her face. She had done it. She had earned three of the most difficult links in the citadel within a single year. It was a feat that few novices could boast, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of pride.
She knew she had been fortunate. Her friendship with Yandel had opened doors that would have otherwise remained closed to her. The vast resources of the citadel, the libraries overflowing with knowledge, had been hers to explore.
She would miss this place dearly, but she knew she couldn't stay. The risk of her deception being discovered was too great, now that she'd have to take her vows as an acolyte.
With a bittersweet pang, Fern pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the library, eager to share her triumph with her friends and see how they had fared in their own tests.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Hey! This one is also a short, straightforward chapter. There's supposed to be a second part to this. But life sucks.
I have the last chapter of this book written already. But I can't find the time to write the two leading up to it. I will soon, hopefully.
Fire was a fascinating thing. Beautiful, elegant, and oh so deadly.
The loveliest thing she had seen.
She dreamt of it, incessantly. The blazing glow that she saw was always inviting her to step in. To take her first steps up into terrifying depths.
The heat became a memory. Replaced by cold, dark, depths.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't see.
She tried to scream but water rushed in, filling her lungs with an icy dread. It was dark, and cold, and she was sinking, sinking into the abyss.
She clawed upwards, her fingers scraping against smooth stone. There was no escape, just a never-ending void, and the sound of a voice echoing through the water, along a loud eerie incessant pealing of bells.
Then she saw green.
She reached, her hand outstretched towards the mesmerizing green fire. It flickered, dancing on the tip of a towering, unseen blade.
Within the fire, an eye opened. A red, slitted eye, pulsing with malevolent light.
Chills wracked her body, deeper than the icy water. The bells pealed louder, their incessant rhythm like death wailed in the silence. The water itself seemed to claw at her, pulling her down.
The bells crescendoed, deafening, repeating. A relentless, agonizing dirge.
Then, a flash of demonic red heat, consuming everything.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute.
The stench of death filled the water.
And then the voice. Clearer, louder now, screaming, demanding her attention. The red light grew brighter, consuming everything, and she was falling, falling into a hellish embrace.
"Fern!"
Fern gasped, her eyes snapping open, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to her like cobwebs. She took a few deep breaths, the cool morning air filling her lungs, chasing away the lingering chill of the dream.
The familiar salty tang of the Honeywine river drifted in through the open window, a comforting reminder of home and reality.
The clamor of voices downstairs told her that the inn was already bustling with life.
Her father's booming voice echoed through the inn, a warm and familiar sound that banished the last vestiges of fear.
"Fern, rise and shine, lass!" Liernen's voice boomed through the door, jolting her awake. "The sun's already high, and we've hungry bellies to fill downstairs. Don't forget, you've got your tests at the citadel today! You don't want to be late!"
Fern swung her legs out of bed, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm up, Papa!" she replied, her voice still thick with sleep. "Just give me a moment to get dressed, and I'll be down in a moment."
Fern quickly slipped into a simple woolen dress and a sturdy pair of leather boots. She grabbed her apron, tying it securely around her waist, and made her way down the creaky wooden stairs.
The smell of frying bacon and freshly baked bread filled the air as she entered the main lounge of the Learned Anchor.
Her father, Liernen, was already busy in the kitchen, his broad back hunched over the stove as he stirred a steaming pot.
"Morning, Papa," Fern chirped, pulling her apron tight.
Liernen turned, a wide smile spreading across his weathered face. "There's my little girl! Just in time. The plates are almost ready. Be a dear and run these out to the tables, would you? Yours is nearly done too."
"Will do, Papa," Fern replied, grabbing a tray laden with steaming bowls of porridge, tankards of ale, and baskets of bread.
She weaved through the tables, her eyes scanning the room. A group of city guards, still bleary-eyed from their night watch, huddled around a table near the hearth. A few servants from the Starry Sept, dressed in their somber grey robes, occupied a corner booth, their hushed conversation barely audible above the din.
"Your breakfast, would you like anything with it?," Fern asked, setting the tray down on the guards' table with a practiced hand.
"Ah, thank you kindly, lass, that is more than enough" one of the guards grunted, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food.
Fern moved on to the next table, where a pair of merchants were engaged in a heated discussion.
"Your order," she interrupted, placing their plates before them. "would you like anything else with that?"
The merchants barely acknowledged her.
Fern smiled to herself and moved on, her tray growing lighter with each stop.
As she delivered the last meal, her father emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.
"All done, Papa," Fern announced, beaming up at him.
"Well done, lass," Liernen replied, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Now scoot and eat your own breakfast. You've got a big day ahead of you."
Fern settled into a chair, gratefully accepting the bowl of steaming porridge and a hunk of bread her father placed before her. Liernen sat across from her, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he watched her wolf down her breakfast.
Leaning in, he whispered, "Ready for your tests today, Fern?"
Fern nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Maester Marwyn seems to think so," she whispered back. "I'll earn those links, Papa. I won't let you down."
Liernen's chest swelled with pride. "I know you won't, my girl," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He paused, then asked, "Has Pylos risen yet?"
Fern's brow furrowed. "Blast it, I forgot to check," she muttered. "I'll rouse him once I'm done."
Pylos, bless his soul, had become very lazy since Caelum had departed with Maester Marwyn.
Fern knew he missed their friend dearly; the citadel wasn't the same without him.
Yandel was always busy, running errands for Archmaester Gyldalyn or Archmaester Ebrose, or some other Archmaester that had need of the foundling.
And her constant charade of pretending to be "Nerf" was becoming increasingly tiresome. She had to concoct elaborate excuses for her absences, always careful not to arouse suspicion.
In all that, Pylos was left all alone.
Fern couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
She missed Caelum too, in truth. He had been very helpful around the inn.
A pang of worry tugged at her heart.
She remembered the day Maester Marwyn had whisked Caelum away from the inn. The boy had looked pale and drawn, and the archmaester's haste had been unsettling.
Fern didn't believe Caelum was truly ill; she suspected the maester had offered him an apprenticeship in the arcane arts, just as he had done for her.
She wondered if Caelum had made any progress in his magical studies. All she had learned so far was that magic demanded sacrifice and patience.
The rest of her time had been spent endlessly copying Maester Marwyn's tome, "The Book of Lost Books." She had transcribed Daenys the Dreamer's cryptic prophecies and portents so many times that she could practically recite them in her sleep.
Liernen interrupted her thoughts, "we're running low on grain. We'll need to make a run to Gorman's farm soon."
Fern nodded, swallowing a mouthful of porridge. "Think we can make it last the month?"
Liernen stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Just about, I reckon."
"Then I'll head up there at the end of the week," Fern decided. "Maybe Pylos can come with me."
Liernen gave her a hearty clap on the back. "Sounds like a plan, lass."
Fern and Liernen finished their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Just as Fern was about to rise, the inn's front door creaked open, its bell jingling merrily. Fern turned to greet the new patron, but her jaw dropped in astonishment.
Standing in the doorway was Caelum, his dark hair tousled and his blue eyes brighter than she remembered. His clothes were worn and travel-stained, but his smile was as warm as ever. Behind him stood Maester Marwyn, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the floor.
Liernen quickly recovered from his surprise, his face breaking into a broad grin. "Caelum, lad! Welcome back! We were worried sick when you had to leave so suddenly. Are you feeling better?"
Caelum nodded, his smile widening. "I'm right as rain now, Liernen. Archmaester Marwyn took good care of me." He turned to Fern, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Fern! It's good to see you."
Fern's heart leaped with happiness. "Caelum!" she exclaimed, rushing over to embrace him. But as she hugged him, she felt him stiffen, his arms barely encircling her.
Puzzled, she pulled back. "What's wrong?"
Caelum grimaced. "Nothing, just a bit weak still," he mumbled, looking away.
Fern's brow furrowed, but she quickly dismissed her concern. "Well, Pylos will be thrilled to see you," she said brightly. "He's missed you terribly."
Caelum's face lit up. "Pylos is still here? I thought I'd missed him and would have to wait until I reached the citadel."
Liernen chuckled. "He's likely still abed, the lazy oaf," he said. "Fern, be a dear and wake him, would you? And then get ready for your errands. You need to meet Hop Bean soon."
Maester Marwyn cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I have returned your charge, Liernen," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I shall be on my way."
Liernen, flustered, apologized for his lack of attention. "Would you care for some refreshment, Maester? The stew is still hot."
Marwyn declined politely, chewing on a piece of sourleaf bark as he turned to leave. "Caelum," he instructed, "freshen up and then head to the citadel for your tests." With a final nod, he strode out the door.
"Your old room is still waiting for you, lad," Liernen said, bustling towards the kitchen. "I'll warm up some stew for you."
Caelum shook his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, sir, but I've already eaten. I'll just change into some clean clothes and wake Pylos. We'll head to the citadel together."
Liernen paused, concern creasing his brow. "Are you sure you're up for the tests, Caelum? You've been ill for so long. Perhaps you should wait until next year."
Caelum's smile broadened. "Don't worry, sir. Maester Marwyn continued my lessons while I was recovering. I'm confident I can earn my links." With that, he bounded up the stairs, his footsteps light and quick.
Fern watched him go, a mixture of curiosity and slight envy swirling within her.
Clearly, Maester Marwyn taught him magic, she thought. What kind of sickness could have lasted all these months, without it being fatal? No, he was very pale that night. The demon had also attacked the manse by the river that night, so perhaps his sickness was magical in nature?
There had been rumors of Demons that had attacked a manse by the Honeywine River. The folk at the sept believed that it had been retribution by the Gods for the horrific things that Maester Qyburn had done down there.
Though, apart from poor Ser Elmar, and the stable hand, no one had seen the demon in truth.
Some said that the fire that had sprung around the manse had been demonic in nature, those who had been fortunate enough to see the melted metallic doors of the manse seemed to agree.
There had been ice around the metal! Amidst all that fire, Ice!
But they were just rumors. The maesters had been quick to prohibit anyone from venturing into the manse, or the property around it. And Lord Leyton had posted more men to keep watch for demonic activity around the area since.
Poor Ser Elmar had not been the same since. But the Gold he had received for his work in fighting the demon must have lifted the crippled Knight's spirits at the least.
She didn't think she'd have liked to see the demon up close, but perhaps that had something to do with Caelum's sickness.
She would have to ask Maester Marwyn.
She shook her head, pushing aside her musings. She had her own tasks to attend to. "I need to go, Papa," she said, grabbing her cloak from the hook by the door. "I'll be back before dinner."
Liernen nodded, pressing a few copper coins into her hand. "Give Hop Bean my regards," he said as he ruffled her hair.
Fern kissed him on the cheek and slipped out the door.
Fern hurried through the winding streets of Oldtown, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. The salty breeze from the Honeywine River tugged at her cloak as she navigated the bustling crowds, her destination clear in mind.
Hop Bean's home, a modest dwelling nestled near Ragpicker's Wynd, was a short walk from the Learned Anchor. It was a stone's throw from the brothel where her mother had once worked, a place Fern had only glimpsed from afar.
She knocked on the worn wooden door and waited. It opened to reveal a plump, cheerful woman named Hilda, her rosy cheeks framed by wisps of auburn hair.
"Fern, dear!" Hilda greeted her warmly. "Come in, come in. Bean's just gathering your things. He'll be with you in a moment."
Fern handed Hilda the copper coins, a silent thanks for her discretion. She stepped inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and lavender filling her nostrils. Hop Bean's wife was known for her skill in crafting scented candles, a skill she had taught Fern as well.
Hop Bean was a stout dwarf. He emerged from the back room, his arms laden with a jumble of fabrics and accessories. "Ah, Fern," he said as he trundled toward her, "Are you ready for your tests?"
Fern nodded, taking a seat on the stool he indicated. Hop Bean was a master mummer, his disguises so convincing that even her father had been fooled on occasion. But more than that, he was a trusted friend.
"Did you get the copper?" Hop Bean asked, turning to his wife.
Hilda nodded, "Of course, dear."
Hop Bean set to work, his nimble fingers weaving Fern's boyish brown hair into a flattened style and concealing it beneath a mummer's cap. He helped her into a loose tunic and breeches, padding her shoulders and chest to create the illusion of a broader frame.
Hilda returned, balancing a tray laden with milk, honey, and bread. "A little something for you, dear," she offered.
Fern smiled apologetically. "Thank you, Hilda, but I've already eaten."
Hop Bean clucked his tongue. "You work too hard, woman," he admonished his wife. "Think of the little ones."
Hilda snorted, "I'm pregnant, not a cripple," she retorted. "Besides, they're your children, Hop Bean. They'll take up less space in my belly than they would if they were of any other's seed."
Hop Bean rolled his eyes, "Very funny, dear," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Hop Bean stepped back, eyeing Fern critically. "There," he declared, "Now off you go to the citadel, Nerf. Good luck with your tests."
Hilda echoed the sentiment, her eyes filled with warmth. "May the Seven guide your hand, child."
Fern curtsied, a grateful smile on her face. "Thank you, both of you," she said. Then, with a quick farewell, she slipped out the door and into the bustling streets of Oldtown.
The sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets. Fern quickened her pace, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She couldn't be late for her tests.
She arrived at the citadel, its towering spires piercing the sky like needles. The giant twin sphinxes guarding the entrance seemed to watch her with their enigmatic smiles as she hurried past them. Inside, the halls buzzed with activity as acolytes, novices, and maesters went about their daily routines.
Fern made her way to the lecture halls, her eyes scanning the crowd for her friends. She spotted Pylos and Caelum standing outside the hall dedicated to the healing arts.
Pylos, usually so morose, was actually smiling and chatting animatedly with Caelum.
Seeing him in good spirits warmed Fern's heart. Caelum's return must have cheered him up massively.
She couldn't linger here; she had to focus on the challenges ahead. She would meet with Pylos and Caelum later.
With a deep breath, Fern turned away from her friends and made her way towards the Tower of the Healer. The first test awaited her.
Archmaester Ebrose's gentle voice filled the quiet chamber as he questioned her on poultices and potions, on the signs of plague and the birthing of babes. Fern answered with a confidence born of countless hours poring over dusty tomes and watching the maester deliver babes in the citadel.
A warm smile spread across the old maester's face as he presented her with the silver link of healing.
Next came the imposing figure of Archmaester Theron, the citadel's seneschal. His bald head gleamed in the candlelight as he grilled her on the intricacies of trade routes and tariffs, on the value of dragon gold and the fluctuating prices of Myrish glass, lace and other goods from Essos.
Fern's voice wavered at times, her palms clammy with nerves, but her knowledge held firm.
Theron, though stern, nodded his approval, awarding her the red gold link of money and accounts.
The afternoon sun slanted through the stained glass windows of the Maester's Terrace as Fern faced her final test.
Archmaester Ryam, a wizened man with a penchant for riddles, challenged her with intricate calculations.
Fern's mind raced, the numbers dancing before her eyes.
But she persevered, her determination fueled by a deep-seated desire to prove herself. She needed to earn all the links to help her father run his inn better than he already has been.
With a final flourish, she solved the last problem, earning the yellow-gold link of numbers and sums.
As the sun began to set, Fern emerged from the citadel, three new links gleaming on her robes. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, but it was quickly tempered by a lingering worry for her friends.
She knew Maester Marwyn had tutored Caelum, but could he truly be prepared for the tests after so long away from the citadel's resources?
Fern let out a long sigh of relief, the weight of the tests finally lifting from her shoulders. She fingered the three gleaming links on the chain around her neck, a tangible reminder of her hard-won achievements.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she headed towards the library, hoping to find Pylos and Caelum where they used to meet before Caelum's departure.
She hadn't seen Yandel all day, but she figured he must have either taken his tests on a different day or completed them earlier. She crossed her fingers, hoping he had done well.
As Fern approached the library, a smile blossomed on her face. She had done it. She had earned three of the most difficult links in the citadel within a single year. It was a feat that few novices could boast, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of pride.
She knew she had been fortunate. Her friendship with Yandel had opened doors that would have otherwise remained closed to her. The vast resources of the citadel, the libraries overflowing with knowledge, had been hers to explore.
She would miss this place dearly, but she knew she couldn't stay. The risk of her deception being discovered was too great, now that she'd have to take her vows as an acolyte.
With a bittersweet pang, Fern pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the library, eager to share her triumph with her friends and see how they had fared in their own tests.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Hey! This one is also a short, straightforward chapter. There's supposed to be a second part to this. But life sucks.
I have the last chapter of this book written already. But I can't find the time to write the two leading up to it. I will soon, hopefully.
CedeTheBees
Probably high right now
- Location
- Somewhere
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Oh god I don't know if I wanna see how the other shoe drops. Things are going too well for her.
The Bloody Song
Chapter 26 –
The midday sun streamed through the grimy windows of the Learned Anchor, casting long shadows on the worn wooden table where Fern, Pylos, and Caelum sat, plates of steaming stew before them.
"Three links in a year!" Pylos declared, puffing out his chest. "Not bad for a nobody from Horn Hill of all places, eh?"
Fern rolled her eyes, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Don't get too cocky, Pylos. You know they were easier for us, we had Yandel helping us half the way, getting access to the citadel even after hours."
Pylos grinned, unfazed. "True enough," he admitted, spearing a chunk of carrot. "But I still put in the work, didn't I?"
"You certainly did," Fern agreed, her gaze shifting to Caelum. He sat quietly, his fingers delicately tracing the intricate carvings on a pair of strange double lenses.
"What are those, Caelum?" Fern asked, curiosity piqued.
Caelum looked up, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of mischief. "Archmaester Ebrose gave them to me," he said, holding up the spectacles. "He called them 'near-eyes'."
Fern reached out, taking the delicate contraption from him. "They're beautiful," she murmured, turning them over in her hands. "What do they do?"
"Ebrose was trying to find a way to see those tiny creatures I hypothesized about," Caelum explained. "He thought these might magnify them enough to see them, but they didn't work as intended. But," he added with a hopeful smile, "I think they might help people with poor eyesight."
"That's incredible!" Fern exclaimed. "What did he say when you told him about that?"
"He was thrilled," Caelum said. "He's going to test them out on some of the folk in Oldtown."
Pylos snorted. "I swear to the gods, it is unfair how this bastard earned himself four links," he grumbled, "and he missed half the dissection lessons and all the birthing ones. Typical. Ebrose favors you too much, you know."
Fern shot Pylos a warning glance. "Don't be bitter, Pylos. You did well too."
Pylos grumbled under his breath, "Yeah, well, Ebrose has been fussing over Caelum's stupid ideas ever since he heard about them. Tiny creatures in the air? Please."
Fern chuckled, wiping a bit of stew from her chin with the back of her hand. "I don't know, Pylos," she said, her voice thoughtful. "Maybe Caelum's onto something. Who's to say there aren't tiny creatures all around us that we can't see?"
Pylos scoffed, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "Oh, of course! And I suppose grumpkins were the real cause of the Dance of the Dragons, too? You've been spending too much time listening to tavern tales, Fern."
A secret smile played on Fern's lips. If only he knew, she thought to herself, remembering the three silver links she'd tucked away in her room upstairs. But she kept her silence, enjoying the irony of Pylos's ignorance.
"Besides," Pylos continued, "even if Caelum's right, it doesn't matter. He's too busy chasing after stupid things like magic. Can you believe he actually became Maester Marwyn's apprentice? All that time he said he'd been sick, and the rat bastard was taking private lessons with an archmeaster himself! Even if it was Marwyn, but still the man knows healing and the like almost as good as Ebrose! I thought he'd given up on that nonsense after Maester Qyburn's lesson."
Fern shook her head. "You know as well as I do what happened at the manse on the Honeywine, Pylos. Magic is real, whether you want to believe it or not."
Pylos waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! You've let the whispers of the common folk get to your head, Fern. The citadel and the sept both agree that it was just Qyburn messing with things he shouldn't have. There was no demon, just a big, messy alchemical explosion."
Fern sighed, realizing it was pointless to argue with Pylos when he was in this mood. "Well, anyway," she said, changing the subject, "I'm heading out to the farms on the morrow to pick up some supplies for the inn, from a farm of a friend of my father's. You two are welcome to join me, now that you have some time before taking your vows as acolytes."
Caelum shifted in his seat, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Actually, Fern..." he began hesitantly, "I won't be taking the vows."
Fern stared at him, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. "What?" She sputtered. "But... you could be a maester now! What else would you do?"
A thoughtful expression crossed Pylos's face. "Oh, wait," he said, snapping his fingers. "You wanted to be a knight, didn't you? I had forgotten that. I want to be one too!"
Fern's eyes widened. She had completely forgotten about Caelum's childhood dream.
Caelum shook his head, a troubled look in his eyes. "I don't know, Pylos. I'm not sure what I want anymore. I don't think I could do well when I become a Knight."
Pylos frowned, a hint of jealousy creeping into his voice. "What do you mean? You sound like being a knight is a chore, not a dream." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My father's a knight, you know. He's fighting for Lord Randyll Tarly right now. It's an honor to serve your house and protect the realm."
Caelum sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know, Pylos. My father, and elder brother are serving in the war too. And I respect that. But knighthood... it seems so... restrictive. I don't know if it's really for me. When I become a Knight, I think I want something more than just that!"
Pylos burst out laughing. "'When I become a Knight' he says!" Pylos scoffed, shaking his head "You talk as if being a knight were a foregone conclusion for you! You need strength and conviction for that, Caelum. And as I recall, you were always the one scared of your own shadow, even when it came to just hugging a girl."
"Pylos!" Fern snapped, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That's not very kind."
Pylos ducked his head, a sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry, Fern," he mumbled. "But it's true, isn't it? He got sick, Maester Marwyn whisked him away, and he came back all…. weak. It's a good thing his brain didn't melt, or he wouldn't have earned those links either."
Fern glared at him. "You're just jealous," she retorted.
Pylos shrugged, unapologetic. "Of course I'm jealous! He got four links without even being here half the time, after missing more than half the lessons! If you ask me, he should just become a maester. He's clearly good at it."
Caelum shook his head again, his expression resolute. "That's not for me either."
Pylos threw his hands up in exasperation, letting out a long sigh. "Gods, Caelum, just pick something!" he exclaimed. "All that brain, and absolutely no ambition is really very stupid."
But before Caelum could respond, the inn's door creaked open, and a familiar figure strode in. Maester Marwyn, his robes billowing around him, scanned the room briefly before his eyes settled on their table. He walked over with a briskness that brooked no delay.
"Caelum," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, "gather your things. We're leaving."
Caelum blinked, surprised by the suddenness of the order, as he placed his almost empty dish on the table. "Where are we going, Maester?"
"The Starry Sept," Marwyn replied. He turned to Liernen, who was busy washing dishes in the kitchen. "I'll be taking your daughter as well, Liernen."
Fern's eyes widened. "Me?" she squeaked, pointing to herself.
Liernen glanced over, his brow furrowed in concern. "Bring her back before dinner, Marwyn," he said. "She has a long day ahead of her early on the morrow."
Marwyn nodded. "Of course, Liernen. It won't take long."
Pylos, ever the curious one, couldn't contain himself. "But why Fern, Maester?" he asked. "I understand taking Caelum – he's your apprentice. But why her?"
Marwyn's lips twitched in a hint of a smile. "You may come as well, Pylos," he said. "I'll explain on the way."
Pylos's confusion only deepened. "But... I haven't finished my meal," he protested weakly.
Marwyn raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can manage without it for a few hours."
With that, he turned and headed out the door, leaving the three friends scrambling to collect their belongings and follow in his wake.
The wheels of Maester Marwyn's cart rattled over the cobblestones, the rhythmic clatter the only sound breaking the tense silence that had settled over the three young passengers. Finally, Caelum broke the quiet.
"Maester Marwyn," he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "why are we going to the Starry Sept?"
Marwyn's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, his expression grim. "There's been a murder," he said simply.
"A murder?" Fern echoed, her voice laced with surprise.
Marwyn nodded. "The second one, in fact. And I need your help, Caelum."
Pylos snorted. "What could he possibly help with?" he scoffed. "He barely attended any of Maester Lorcas's lessons on corpses and cadavers."
"We'll see," Marwyn said cryptically. "A few extra pairs of eyes never hurt. Besides," he added, casting a pointed look at Pylos, "I continued Caelum's education while he was ill. He's seen and learned everything the Citadel teaches about the human body."
Caelum's cheeks flushed slightly, but he said nothing.
"Who was the victim?" Caelum asked, his voice barely audible.
"Septon Illifer," Marwyn replied. "One of the most devout septons at the Starry Sept. The way he was murdered... it's quite unusual."
Pylos leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. "Tell us more," he urged. "And why bring Fern? A murder scene is hardly a place for a girl."
Fern shot him a withering glare.
Marwyn chuckled dryly. "You'll see soon enough. And as for Fern," he said, turning to her with a twinkle in his eye, "she may have seen more dead bodies than both of you combined."
Pylos's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Fern ducked her head, at the sudden attention. She glared at Marwyn for putting her under her friend's attention, but the man seemed to either not notice or care.
The cart rattled to a halt before the imposing gates of the Starry Sept. Hightower guards, their faces stern and unyielding, stood at attention, their eyes scanning the arriving visitors with suspicion.
Inside the main hall, a tense atmosphere hung heavy in the air. A crowd of maesters, septons, and septas clustered in small groups, their hushed conversations punctuated by gasps and whispers.
"Dreadful business," a grey-haired septon murmured, his voice trembling. "Never seen anything like it."
"They say his eyes..." a young acolyte began, his voice trailing off as he shuddered.
A plump septa clutched a prayer book to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. "The Seven save us," she whispered fervently. "Septon Illifer was one of the most devout."
A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd. Illifer had been a respected member of the Most Devout, a sect known for their piety and strict adherence to the Faith of the Seven. His murder had sent shockwaves through the Starry Sept, leaving many to question the safety of their sacred sanctuary.
"Do they know who did it?" a young novice asked, his voice barely a whisper.
An older Septon shook his head grimly. "No one knows. Gods are we not safe in our own homes now? In the very sept? This is supposed to be a holy place!"
Maester Marwyn swiftly ushered Fern, Pylos, and Caelum past the guards and into the sept's hallowed halls.
A tall, thin man with a severe expression and a silver star brooch pinned to his robes approached them, his eyes narrowed in disapproval.
"Maester Marwyn," Septon Pryce said, his voice sharp with irritation, "why have you brought children to such a grisly scene?"
Marwyn met the septon's gaze with unwavering calm. "These are no ordinary children, Septon Pryce," he replied. "Both Caelum and Pylos have earned their links in healing. Archmaester Ebrose himself would vouch for their knowledge and discretion."
Pylos puffed up, pride evident in his posture.
Septon Pryce's gaze shifted to Fern, his disapproval evident. "And the girl?" he asked, his voice sharp. "What possible reason could you have for bringing her here?"
Fern instinctively shrunk back, feeling a surge of anxiety. But before she could respond, Caelum stepped forward, positioning himself protectively in front of her.
Maester Marwyn placed a reassuring hand on Fern's shoulder. "The girl is with me, Septon Pryce," he said firmly. "I value her insight in matters such as this."
Septon Pryce threw his hands up in exasperation. "Very well, Maester Marwyn," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Do as you wish. First Ebrose, Theron, Lorcas... now half the Citadel is crowding my Sept. It's like the damned manse all over again."
With a curt nod, Marwyn led the group deeper into the sept. They passed through the main courtyard, where sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense, a futile attempt to mask the underlying stench of death.
They reached a smaller, more secluded manse within the inner sanctum. Here, the crowd was even thicker, a mix of maesters in grey robes and septons in white, their faces etched with worry and curiosity. Marwyn navigated them through the throng, his hand firmly on Fern's shoulder.
Inside the manse, a hushed discussion was taking place. Archmaester Ebrose, a kindly old man with a shock of white hair, stood at the center of a circle of maesters and septons.
"It's clearly the work of an assassin," a maester with a sharp nose and a pointed beard was saying. "The precision of the blow, the lack of forced entry... all the signs point to a professional killer. I suspect a faceless man."
Archmaester Theron, the citadel's seneschal, shook his head in disagreement. "It makes no sense," he countered. "Who would Septon Illifer have angered enough to warrant such a skilled assassin? He was a man of peace, a devout servant of the Seven. And why defile the man in such a way. The faceless men don't do such things."
Marwyn stepped forward, his voice cutting through the debate. "I agree, I don't believe this was the work of a Faceless Man," he said, his gaze sweeping across the room.
Archmaester Theron grimaced, when he noticed who had joined the conversation. Fern remembered the Seneschal when he had sentenced Qyburn into exile. The Archmaester had glared fiercely at Marwyn for a few moments that day, as though he blamed Marwyn for the events personally.
The gathered maesters exchanged uneasy glances.
Ebrose turned to Marwyn, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He spotted Caelum standing behind Marwyn, and he gave a brief smile to the boy.
Theron scowled at Marwyn. "Oh, not this again," he groaned. "This is as straightforward as can be. Some idiot with a psychotic streak murdered the Septon and defiled his corpse. If you want to indulge in your fantasies, looking for signs of magic, be my guest, but don't waste our time." With a huff, Theron turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
The other maesters, sensing the tension, quickly followed suit, leaving only Marwyn, Ebrose, and the three young people in the room.
Ebrose, now alone with Marwyn and the young people, let out a weary sigh. "I've done what I can here, Marwyn," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "The septon's body will be taken to the Citadel for further examination. Please try not to disturb it, or... the stones, any more than necessary."
Marwyn inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I understand, Archmaester. I'll be careful."
Fern, who had been silent until now, spoke up, her curiosity piqued. "What stones?" she asked.
Marwyn gestured towards the back of the room. "You'll see soon enough," he said.
Ebrose glanced at Fern, then at Marwyn. He shook his head, and rolled his eyes at the Archmaester. "Good luck, Marwyn," he said. "Please don't horrify the poor girl more than necessary." With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence as Fern scowled at the retreating old maester.
The only other occupants of the manse were a few septons and septas, their faces etched with sorrow, who were lighting incense near the entrance. The sweet, cloying scent filled the air, doing little to mask the underlying metallic tang of blood.
Marwyn led the group through the dim room, upstairs towards a closed door. He paused at the heavy door, sighed and pushed open the heavy door to reveal a scene that caused Fern, Pylos, and Caelum to gasp in unison.
Septon Illifer lay sprawled on his bed, his body still and laid in a way as though he had just fallen asleep.
A deep gash marred his chest, a dagger protruding from the wound.
His eyes had been gouged out, replaced with two luminescent stones that gleamed an eerie silver in the dim light. The Septon's mouth was frozen in a rictus grin, his teeth bared in a chilling smile.
Most disturbing of all, a single eye had been painted in blood on his forehead, its crimson gaze seeming to follow the newcomers as they entered.
Maester Marwyn, his face a mask of grim determination, strode towards the bed, ushering the three young people closer.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low and urgent, "what do you see?"
Fern was the first to speak, her voice trembling slightly. "The eye," she whispered. "I've seen it before."
Marwyn's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"
Fern swallowed, her gaze fixed on the crimson symbol. "In my dreams," she said. "I've been having these nightmares... there was always an eye, watching me."
Marwyn straightened, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Tell me everything," he commanded.
Haltingly, Fern recounted her recent dreams – the drowning bells, the green fire, the sense of impending doom.
As she spoke, Marwyn listened intently, his expression growing graver with each detail.
"This is... troubling," he said when she had finished. "Dreams, such as these, recurring ones often have meaning behind them."
Pylos scoffed. "What? Are you suggesting she is prophesizing something? Dreams are just dreams," he said dismissively. "Nothing more."
Fern shot him a venomous look, but Marwyn held up a hand, silencing them both. "Caelum," he said, turning to the young man, "what do you see?"
Caelum, who had been staring intently at the stones in the Septon's eye sockets, finally spoke. "The victim is male, approximately forty years old," he said, his voice clinical. "The wound to the chest is deep, but the blood loss is minimal, suggesting a swift and precise kill. His eyes seem to have been gouged and replaced with stone."
Marwyn nodded, his gaze lingering on the grotesque sight before them. "Septa Lillian found him this morning," he explained. "She came to wake him for prayers, along with a servant. The windows and the door were both bolted from the inside."
"But... how is that possible?" Pylos asked, his voice laced with bewilderment. "Someone had to get in to do... this."
Fern's eyes were fixed on the Septon's hollowed sockets. "The stones," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "What kind of stones are they?"
Marwyn turned to Caelum, a silent question in his eyes.
Caelum's gaze remained fixed on the shimmering orbs. "Star metal," he said quietly.
"Star metal?" Fern echoed, her voice rising in surprise. "You mean, from the meteor that fell a few years ago?"
Caelum nodded, his expression grave.
Marwyn's brows furrowed. "Anything else, Caelum?" he asked, his voice tinged with urgency. "Anything at all?"
Caelum's gaze flickered between Marwyn and the corpse, his eyes narrowing in concentration. For a moment, an unnerving silence filled the room. Then, Caelum shook his head. "Nothing, Maester," he said softly. "Nothing that isn't already visible."
Fern, driven by a morbid curiosity, stepped closer to the bed, her eyes scanning the gruesome details of the septon's body.
Pylos and Caelum followed suit.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," Fern observed, her voice surprisingly steady. "There's barely any blood around the eyes, which means they were removed quickly and skillfully. And the dagger..." She pointed to the weapon protruding from Illifer's chest. "It's been placed with precision, avoiding the sternum and piercing the heart directly. A quick, clean kill."
Pylos stared at her, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. "How... how did you know that?" he stammered.
"That's what we concluded as well," Marwyn confirmed, his voice grave. "A swift, precise kill by someone with anatomical knowledge."
Pylos, still bewildered, turned to Fern. "But how did you know all that?" he asked, his voice a mix of awe and suspicion. "You've never..." He trailed off, unable to articulate his thoughts.
Fern met his gaze, her expression unreadable. A tense silence hung in the air as she glanced at Caelum, then back at Pylos.
Finally, she spoke. "I know because I took the same lessons you did."
Pylos stared at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
Fern looked to Maester Marwyn, who gave a slight shrug. She turned back to her friends, a defiant glint in her eyes. "I took the same lessons as you," she repeated, "because I was Nerf."
Pylos's jaw dropped. "Nerf?" he sputtered, his voice rising in disbelief. "But... but you're a girl!"
Caelum, however, simply smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.
Pylos was dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "You were Nerf?" he sputtered. "But... how? Why? Did anyone know?"
Fern couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the moment momentarily broken by Pylos's flustered reaction. "Yes, Pylos," she said, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation. "I was Nerf. I snuck into the Citadel with Yandel's help. I did it because..." She hesitated, then shrugged. "Because I wanted to learn."
"But is that even allowed?" Pylos pressed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Aren't girls forbidden from studying at the Citadel?"
Fern rolled her eyes. "Of course it's not allowed, you dolt! That's why I had to be Nerf."
A slow grin spread across Pylos's face. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, shaking his head in wonder. "You're a sneaky one, Fern. I never would have guessed."
Fern's amusement faded as a thought occurred to her. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.
Pylos considered for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said, his voice sincere. "Your secret's safe with me."
Fern breathed a sigh of relief, turning to Caelum with a grateful smile. He returned the smile, but as he did, she noticed a flicker of guilt and shame in his eyes that he quickly masked.
"My lips are sealed," Caelum said, his voice steady despite the conflicting emotions swirling in his eyes. He gave Fern a reassuring nod.
Maester Marwyn, who had been watching the exchange with a bemused expression, cleared his throat. "Caelum," he said, his tone turning serious once more, "are you certain you see nothing else? Nothing unusual, nothing out of place?"
Caelum looked back at the corpse, his eyes scanning every inch of the grisly scene. He shook his head. "Nothing, Maester," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
Marwyn sighed, his shoulders slumping. "A mystery, then," he muttered. "It seems we have no further business here."
He turned to the others, his voice regaining its usual briskness. "Come along," he said. "We're wasting time."
As they left the septon's chambers, Fern couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Caelum's words than he was letting on.
Why would the Archmaester ask such a pointed question to Caelum? What else was he supposed to see?
Fern's mind raced as they made their way out of the Starry Sept. The image of the murdered septon, with those unsettling silver eyes, was burned into her memory. But it was Marwyn's question to Caelum that truly haunted her. What had the maester expected to find? What was Caelum not telling them?
As they climbed back into the cart, however, she pushed the questions aside. There would be time to ponder later. For now, she needed to focus on the more mundane matters at hand.
"So," she said, turning to Pylos and Caelum with a forced cheerfulness, "you two never did answer my question. Would you like to come with me to Gorman's farm? We could stay a few days, help out him and his family, gather the supplies for the inn. It might be a nice change of pace from the Citadel."
Caelum's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "I'd love to," he said. "I haven't been to a proper farm since... more than a year at least. It would be nice to see one again." A wistful look crossed his face, as if the thought of the farm had stirred up old memories.
Pylos nodded eagerly. "Count me in," he said. "A few days away from books and lectures sounds like just what I need."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Pain tore through her as consciousness clawed its way back. A low, insistent wail pierced the fog in her mind, the sound she knew well in her very bones. A baby's cry.
Aegon!
Terror, cold and sharp, jolted her upright.
Memories flashed in disjointed shards; the fishing village ablaze, Princess Elia's scream, the mad scramble by the King's Guard, screams echoing in the night, rough hands tearing at her clothes, the violation of the women...
Had they...?
Her breath hitched, bile rising in her throat.
She couldn't remember. She did not want to.
Her vision cleared, revealing a hellscape.
A harsh, grey sky hung low, the wind a mournful howl. She was sprawled on a beach, sand clinging to her torn robes.
Bodies lay scattered around her like offerings to a cruel god. Bloated, broken things, some in the livery of the Targaryen guard, others in the rags of slaves.
Men and women alike, their flesh violated and disfigured. Charred corpses, victims of the fire that had consumed the ship.
And the baby's cries, growing louder, more desperate.
Aegon!
She scrambled to her feet, each movement a fresh agony.
Her legs sank into the wet sand with a sickening squish, squish, squish.
The wreckage of the ship loomed ahead, a skeletal husk against the churning sea.
Driven by a primal instinct, she stumbled towards the cries.
There, nestled against a jagged rock, was a tiny form. Aegon. His silver hair, a Targaryen crown, was matted with blood. A deep gash marred his forehead.
He wailed, his tiny fists flailing in the air.
Pia lunged forward, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. She scooped him up, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread that gripped her. "Hush, little prince," she crooned, her voice a rasp. "I have you. I have you."
But as she cradled him close, the horror of their predicament crashed over her.
They were alone, shipwrecked on some desolate shore.
Aegon's wails tore at her heart, each cry a jagged shard in her soul. The blood flowed freely from his wound, staining his silver hair a gruesome red.
"Hush, little one," Pia pleaded, her voice barely a whisper against the roar of the sea. "Hush, hush." But the words were futile against the raw agony etched on his tiny face.
She had to stop the bleeding.
Cradling Aegon tightly, she staggered towards the wreckage of the ship that she had escape with her life, only by the Seven's miracle. The ship's hull, a splintered maw, gaped open to the sky, revealing a dark and tangled interior.
More bodies lined the hull, some more bodies crushed under the weight of the wrecked ship, others burnt to ash by the smoldering flames.
The sail was a tattered shroud, clung to the wreckage, licks of flame dancing at its edges.
Pia navigated her way toward the wreck, walking through the piles of disfigured corpses that lined the shore, her feet slipping on the slick, wet sand.
She stumbled, falling heavily, Aegon's cries turning to a panicked shriek as his head struck the unyielding ground.
A foul taste of blood, salt, and sand filled her mouth. She gagged, bile stinging her throat. With a groan, she pushed herself up, Aegon's cries echoing in her ears.
Her eyes fell on the corpse she had tripped over.
A slaver, his face bloated and unrecognizable. The belt that had once cinched his waist now lay broken, the pressure of his swollen belly too much for the leather.
A dirk, its blade glinting in the dim light, was still secured in its sheath.
Pia snatched the weapon, her fingers closing around the hilt with a desperate grip, as she thanked the Seven that the slaver was dead.
She rose, Aegon clutched to her chest, and resumed her trek towards the wreckage.
Aegon's cries grew louder.
"Shhh!" She tried to soothe the babe in vain. "It will be alright, my Prince, I am here!"
She quickly made her way toward the wreck, and its half-burnt sail.
The dirk sliced through the singed fabric with a sickening rip.
Pia gathered the stained cloth, her hands trembling. "Shhh," she murmured to Aegon, her voice thick with tears. "It will be alright. I promise."
With clumsy fingers, she pressed the makeshift bandage to his wound, her heart clenching with each whimper of pain.
The bleeding slowed, and the white cloth quickly turned red. It would do for now.
Aegon whimpered, his tiny body trembling against her. The makeshift bandage had stemmed the flow of blood, but the pain remained.
Pia's heart ached with his suffering.
What could she do? Where could they go?
She had no idea where they were.
Surrounded by the grotesque tableau of death, she felt a wave of hysteria rising within her.
"Gods help me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What are we to do?" She tightened her grip on Aegon, seeking solace in his warmth. "We can't stay here. We need... we need..."
Aegon's cries softened to whimpers as he drifted into a fitful sleep, the makeshift bandage a stark crimson against his pale skin.
Pia's breath rasped in her chest, her heart thrumming with a frantic rhythm. They needed food, and perhaps water. And they needed to know where they were.
With trembling hands, she ripped more strips from the charred sail, securing Aegon to her back. The weight of him, a precious burden, steadied her as she turned towards the wreckage once more.
The ship's hold lay half burnt and open to the sky. Among the tangled debris, she recognized some of the dead bloated faces that stared back at her.
The slaver with the pockmarked face, she closed her eyes, as she tried desperately to forget his laughter echoing in her memory as he had raped one of the captive women.
The one with the cruel, thin lips, had relished raping girls and boys with fervor alike. She thought she had known the depths of depravity after being rescued from Harrenhall. These men had proven her wrong.
Their victims lay scattered among them.
The old fisherman from the village, his eyes wide with terror.
The young girl, her innocence stolen in a night of unspeakable horror. The boy who had tried to help them when the fire had spread on the sinking ship, his body broken on the rocks below.
The men who had come to their rescue in vain were equally dead, as sword, arrows, and fire ravaged them into unfathomable grotesque states.
Despair gnawed at her as she stumbled over another body, smaller than the rest.
A boy, barely a man grown.
Recognition flooded her. The boy who had shared his meager rations with her, she had thought him a fool, as he spoke in only singular words, always calling her 'pretty' and nothing else.
He had tried to protect the women from the slavers' lust, acting the fool as he entertained slavers distracting them away from their lusts.
He had leapt from the burning ship, when the fires had spread too far.
"No," she gasped, kneeling beside him. His skin was cold, his eyes staring blankly at the unforgiving sky. "Please, no."
She shook him, her voice a choked sob.
Aegon whimpered, his tiny body trembling against her back.
"Hush, my prince," Pia whispered, tears blurring her vision. "Hush."
With renewed determination, she pushed deeper into the wreckage, her fingers scrabbling over splintered wood and twisted metal. A glimmer of hope sparked within her as she discovered a chest, its heavy lid wedged open.
She pried it open, her breath catching in her throat.
Gold. Piles of it, gleaming in the dim light. And nestled in its center, a sight that stole her breath away.
A dragon egg.
Its scales shimmered with an otherworldly iridescence, a deep, rich purple that pulsed with an inner fire.
"Gods be good," Pia breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
Awe and bewilderment warred within her. A dragon egg? In the hands of slavers? It made no sense. Yet, there it was.
She lifted the egg from its nest of gold, the chill of it seeping into her skin. It was unnaturally cold, like ice, a stark contrast to the damp warmth of the coins surrounding it. A shiver ran down her spine, a primal instinct warning her of the power held within the smooth, scaled shell.
But practicality soon eclipsed wonder. What use was a dragon egg to her? A starving woman, shipwrecked with a wounded infant? She had no way to protect it. It was a burden, a liability. Merely a pretty purple rock.
With a sigh of resignation, she returned the egg to its golden bed, gently closing the chest's lid. The Gold was of no use to her either, she could not carry the heavy chest with her and keep Aegon safe, she knew.
A harsh voice shattered the silence, cutting through the roar of the waves. "Over here, Kraznys! I found a live one!"
Pia whirled around, her heart pounding in her chest. Two figures emerged from the shadows of the wreckage, their eyes gleaming with greed. They jumped at her suddenly, as she screamed and tried in vain to shield Aegon.
"Well, well," the first man sneered, she recognized him as one of the slavers aboard the ship who had taken her captive. "Looks like the gods aren't as cruel as I had thought…. Nay, they're smilin' on us, if I do say so myself.."
His companion, a wiry man with a cruel smirk, had crept up behind her. Before she could react, he snatched Aegon from her back. "And look at this, Kraznys! The Prince is alive! I had thought he'd have died in the wreck like the rest. We'll be rich men, you and I."
"The gold, the egg, and a prince," Kraznys cackled, his eyes glinting with malice. "And a pretty little whore in celebration of our fortunes. The gods are smiling on us today."
Fear clawed at her, her hand going to the dirk she had salvaged, as she brandished it. "Please," she begged, her voice raw with desperation. "Take the gold, take the egg. Just leave us be."
Kraznys laughed, a cold, mirthless sound, as he moved faster than she could think, and shoved her dirk aside, pushing her to the ground. Her head smashed on the sandy ground. "Leave you be? A pretty little dove like you? Nay why would we refuse the Gods' gifts so? We're not heretics."
He ripped her already torn and shredded blouse open, exposing her skin to the biting wind.
Pia cried out, scrambling for the dirk that had been thrown away from her. But Kraznys was too quick. He kicked it away, and it flew far away from her, near the cold body of her dead friend. The man's grip tightened on her throat.
"No need to fight, sweetheart," he whispered, "We can make this fun. For both you and me."
Fear clawed at Pia's throat, choking off her words.
She thrashed against him, but his grip was like iron. Tears streamed down her face as she realized the futility of her struggle.
Pia turned her head, a silent scream trapped in her throat as Kraznys ripped the rest of her dress away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
She turned her head, her eyes locked onto Aegon, his tiny body squirming in the other slaver's grip. A sob escaped her lips as she heard the sickening rustle of fabric behind her. Kraznys's pants hit the ground with a soft thud.
"Oh, you'll like this," he rasped, his hand groping her thigh, as she struggled under his grasp, desperately clawing at him, at whatever she could grasp. He was too strong for her to resist. "You'll be the prettiest little dove I've ever had."
"Please," Pia choked out, tears welling in her eyes. "Don't hurt him. Please, just take the gold. Leave us be. I beg you!"
Kraznys straddled her, his weight pinning her to the sand. He reached down and spread her legs, as she thrashed against him. He touched her between her legs, his touch sending a wave of revulsion through her, as he rubbed himself on her. "Oh, you'll beg for more than just mercy, dove."
She screamed desperately, as her mind raced, searching for a way out, for a savior. But the gods seemed deaf to her pleas. Despair washed over her like the tide, threatening to drown her in its icy depths, as the man held her tight and readied himself between her legs.
Then, a blur of motion. A cry. A sickening squelch.
Kraznys jerked back, his eyes widening in shock. Her bloodied dirk protruded from his skull, its hilt clutched in the hand of the boy from the ship. The same boy who had offered her kindness in their shared captivity.
The boy who had been cold, unblinking, dead.
The other slaver, startled, let out a roar of rage. "You little shit!" he bellowed, his face contorted with fury. With a savage grunt, he hurled Aegon towards the boy, the infant's tiny body arcing through the air like a discarded doll.
"No!" Pia screamed, lunging forward, her fingers grasping at empty air.
Aegon landed with a sickening thud, the impact reopening the hastily bandaged wound on his forehead. His cries intensified, a shrill keening that tore at Pia's heart. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, staining his silver hair crimson once more.
The slaver lunged at the boy who had saved her, his hands closing around his throat. "You little bastard!" he snarled. "You'll pay for that!"
Pia scrambled for Aegon, her heart pounding in her chest. She gathered him close, shielding his tiny body with her own, as she turned to try and help her savior.
The boy struggled in the slaver's grasp, but his face had a feral toothy grin that chilled Pia to the bone.
Yet, his attacks were feeble, ineffective. He was no match for the slaver's strength.
"Stop!" Pia cried, lurching towards them. "Leave him alone!"
The slaver barely spared her a glance. He shoved her aside, sending her sprawling in the sand. Aegon still clutched against her naked body, wailed louder in pain as blood seeped from beneath the bandages.
Then, a chilling sound pierced the air. The scratchy, hoarse, shrill voice, so different than that of the boy who only spoke 'pretty' in the shy, scared, sweet voice while he had stayed prisoner with her on the ship.
"Below the sea, the dead arise," the boy croaked, his eyes fixed on the slaver's face. "From depths, from depths, from depths they rise."
The slaver recoiled, a mixture of confusion and rage twisting his features. "What in the Seven Hells?" he spat, tightening his grip on the boy's throat. "You creepy little fool!"
The boy's smile widened, revealing bloodied teeth.
Pia scrambled to help him, Aegon still clutched against her shivering body, she searched for a weapon to help the boy. Grasping the heavy chest with the gold, and dragon egg, she hurled it with all her might at the man holding her savior down.
With a mighty thud, the slaver was sent sprawling on the floor, as the Gold spilled everywhere from the broken chest, the egg rolling out on to the sandy shore.
The man was quick to recover, as he got up with a rage filled scream, lunging toward her "You bitch!"
But with a sudden, shocking move, the boy tackled the man again, as he sank his teeth into the slaver's hand. A scream of pain erupted as the man yanked his hand back as he was pushed by the boy on to the ground.
The boy was clutching the dragon egg that had fallen out.
"The Red Eye watches the bleeding star," the boy continued, his voice now a chilling rasp, as blood poured from his lips, his tongue lapping at the crimson liquid. He smiled toothily, as he straddled the man, raised the egg high and started slamming it hard into the man's skull. "It sees, it burns, it dies afar."
The slaver, roaring in pain, and showing his superior strength pushed the bloody egg out of the boys hand. The bleeding man punched the boy in the gut, as he rolled and tumbled them over, the man now on top of the boy. "I'll kill you, you little bastard! I'll kill you both" he roared, tackling the boy to the ground.
But the boy didn't fight. Instead, he turned his gaze to Pia, his eyes gleaming with a strange light.
"The star will die, the prince shall rise," he sang, his voice echoing across the desolate beach. "He comes, he comes, he comes with eyes."
His gaze fixed on Aegon, a chilling smile spreading across his face.
The slaver, his fury renewed, tightened his grip on the boy's throat again. "Sing all you want," he snarled. "You'll be singing from the depths of hells soon enough."
But the boy only laughed, a hollow sound that sent shivers down Pia's spine.
"No!" Pia cried, her voice hoarse with terror. As she clutched Aegon closer to her naked body, turning his wailing face away from the death that was soon to occur.
She searched for another weapon. Aegon clutched in her arms, she crawled quickly toward Kraznys' corpse, and she tried desperately to pull the dirk that was wedged deep into the man's skull.
It didn't budge. She tried with all her strength to pull the damn thing out, but it was stuck inside the rapist's skull.
She cried again, praying to the gods to help.
Then another miracle, as a large weathered old man, clad in blackened plate armor, a crimson cloak billowing behind him entered the hold. His eyes, burning with a fierce light, locked onto Pia and the infant in her arms.
She recognized the man almost instantly.
Ser Willem Darry.
Seeing the prince in her arms, the man sighed, and then hardened as he turned to face the slaver who was still choking the smiling boy tight in his grip.
With a roar, he charged, his sword a silver arc in the dim light. The slaver, startled, released the boy and turned to meet the new threat.
But he was too slow.
The knight's blade flashed, a swift and decisive strike. The slaver's head flew from his shoulders, blood spouting from the severed neck like a macabre fountain.
The headless body crumpled to the ground.
Silence descended upon the beach, broken only by the crash of the waves and the soft whimpers of Aegon.
Ser Willem Darry stood for a moment, his chest heaving with the exertion of battle. He wiped his sword on the back of his crimson cloak, the steel gleaming dully in the dim light.
Finally, he turned to Pia, his weathered face etched with concern. "Little Septa," he said, his voice gruff but gentle. "Are you alright?"
Pia nodded, her voice caught in her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched Aegon close, his tiny body shivering against her bare skin. She laughed hysterically at the Seven.
They had to be playing a cruel jape at her. She had been saved just as she had been all those years ago by the sweet boy, Luke who had come to her rescue, and her father.
Just as Ser Barristan Selmy had done then, Ser Willem removed his cloak, the heavy wool still damp from the storm. He wrapped it around Pia, enveloping her and the whimpering prince in its warmth. She cried openly then. Maddeningly hysterical.
"It's alright. Pia" The Knight spoke soothingly "You are safe, with me. It's over. Nothing will hurt you now."
She didn't know whether she should laugh or cry.
"There may be others," he said, his gaze scanning the wreckage. "We're on the coast of Pentos, I believe. I'll search for survivors. Stay close, and keep the prince safe."
Pia nodded again, her teeth chattering, gaining some control on her sobs.
The fear and shock of the past hours were finally catching up to her. She clung to Ser Willem's cloak as if it were her only lifeline in this desolate world, as it kept her and little Aegon warm and safe.
Then squish, squish, squish.
The boy who had saved her life emerged from the wreckage, his bare feet leaving bloody prints in the sand. In his outstretched hands, he held the dragon egg, its purple scales now slick with crimson.
His face was a mask of innocence, a toothy grin splitting his blood-smeared lips. He approached Pia, his eyes fixed on Aegon, and silently offered her the egg.
Slowly she took the glistening thing into her arms, her eyes fixed on the impossibly wide grin on the boy's face.
It was warm.
"The prince will fly, when the heart he burns, He cries, he cries, he cries and he soars."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) The first section was supposed to be covered in the previous chapter.
I wonder if people have guessed which way this is heading for the ending?
Anyway, I hope that was fun!
PS: I do not believe I have nerfed Superman at all. I have no plans to do so. This is merely a slow burn into him coming into his own.
The midday sun streamed through the grimy windows of the Learned Anchor, casting long shadows on the worn wooden table where Fern, Pylos, and Caelum sat, plates of steaming stew before them.
"Three links in a year!" Pylos declared, puffing out his chest. "Not bad for a nobody from Horn Hill of all places, eh?"
Fern rolled her eyes, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Don't get too cocky, Pylos. You know they were easier for us, we had Yandel helping us half the way, getting access to the citadel even after hours."
Pylos grinned, unfazed. "True enough," he admitted, spearing a chunk of carrot. "But I still put in the work, didn't I?"
"You certainly did," Fern agreed, her gaze shifting to Caelum. He sat quietly, his fingers delicately tracing the intricate carvings on a pair of strange double lenses.
"What are those, Caelum?" Fern asked, curiosity piqued.
Caelum looked up, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of mischief. "Archmaester Ebrose gave them to me," he said, holding up the spectacles. "He called them 'near-eyes'."
Fern reached out, taking the delicate contraption from him. "They're beautiful," she murmured, turning them over in her hands. "What do they do?"
"Ebrose was trying to find a way to see those tiny creatures I hypothesized about," Caelum explained. "He thought these might magnify them enough to see them, but they didn't work as intended. But," he added with a hopeful smile, "I think they might help people with poor eyesight."
"That's incredible!" Fern exclaimed. "What did he say when you told him about that?"
"He was thrilled," Caelum said. "He's going to test them out on some of the folk in Oldtown."
Pylos snorted. "I swear to the gods, it is unfair how this bastard earned himself four links," he grumbled, "and he missed half the dissection lessons and all the birthing ones. Typical. Ebrose favors you too much, you know."
Fern shot Pylos a warning glance. "Don't be bitter, Pylos. You did well too."
Pylos grumbled under his breath, "Yeah, well, Ebrose has been fussing over Caelum's stupid ideas ever since he heard about them. Tiny creatures in the air? Please."
Fern chuckled, wiping a bit of stew from her chin with the back of her hand. "I don't know, Pylos," she said, her voice thoughtful. "Maybe Caelum's onto something. Who's to say there aren't tiny creatures all around us that we can't see?"
Pylos scoffed, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "Oh, of course! And I suppose grumpkins were the real cause of the Dance of the Dragons, too? You've been spending too much time listening to tavern tales, Fern."
A secret smile played on Fern's lips. If only he knew, she thought to herself, remembering the three silver links she'd tucked away in her room upstairs. But she kept her silence, enjoying the irony of Pylos's ignorance.
"Besides," Pylos continued, "even if Caelum's right, it doesn't matter. He's too busy chasing after stupid things like magic. Can you believe he actually became Maester Marwyn's apprentice? All that time he said he'd been sick, and the rat bastard was taking private lessons with an archmeaster himself! Even if it was Marwyn, but still the man knows healing and the like almost as good as Ebrose! I thought he'd given up on that nonsense after Maester Qyburn's lesson."
Fern shook her head. "You know as well as I do what happened at the manse on the Honeywine, Pylos. Magic is real, whether you want to believe it or not."
Pylos waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! You've let the whispers of the common folk get to your head, Fern. The citadel and the sept both agree that it was just Qyburn messing with things he shouldn't have. There was no demon, just a big, messy alchemical explosion."
Fern sighed, realizing it was pointless to argue with Pylos when he was in this mood. "Well, anyway," she said, changing the subject, "I'm heading out to the farms on the morrow to pick up some supplies for the inn, from a farm of a friend of my father's. You two are welcome to join me, now that you have some time before taking your vows as acolytes."
Caelum shifted in his seat, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Actually, Fern..." he began hesitantly, "I won't be taking the vows."
Fern stared at him, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. "What?" She sputtered. "But... you could be a maester now! What else would you do?"
A thoughtful expression crossed Pylos's face. "Oh, wait," he said, snapping his fingers. "You wanted to be a knight, didn't you? I had forgotten that. I want to be one too!"
Fern's eyes widened. She had completely forgotten about Caelum's childhood dream.
Caelum shook his head, a troubled look in his eyes. "I don't know, Pylos. I'm not sure what I want anymore. I don't think I could do well when I become a Knight."
Pylos frowned, a hint of jealousy creeping into his voice. "What do you mean? You sound like being a knight is a chore, not a dream." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My father's a knight, you know. He's fighting for Lord Randyll Tarly right now. It's an honor to serve your house and protect the realm."
Caelum sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know, Pylos. My father, and elder brother are serving in the war too. And I respect that. But knighthood... it seems so... restrictive. I don't know if it's really for me. When I become a Knight, I think I want something more than just that!"
Pylos burst out laughing. "'When I become a Knight' he says!" Pylos scoffed, shaking his head "You talk as if being a knight were a foregone conclusion for you! You need strength and conviction for that, Caelum. And as I recall, you were always the one scared of your own shadow, even when it came to just hugging a girl."
"Pylos!" Fern snapped, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That's not very kind."
Pylos ducked his head, a sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry, Fern," he mumbled. "But it's true, isn't it? He got sick, Maester Marwyn whisked him away, and he came back all…. weak. It's a good thing his brain didn't melt, or he wouldn't have earned those links either."
Fern glared at him. "You're just jealous," she retorted.
Pylos shrugged, unapologetic. "Of course I'm jealous! He got four links without even being here half the time, after missing more than half the lessons! If you ask me, he should just become a maester. He's clearly good at it."
Caelum shook his head again, his expression resolute. "That's not for me either."
Pylos threw his hands up in exasperation, letting out a long sigh. "Gods, Caelum, just pick something!" he exclaimed. "All that brain, and absolutely no ambition is really very stupid."
But before Caelum could respond, the inn's door creaked open, and a familiar figure strode in. Maester Marwyn, his robes billowing around him, scanned the room briefly before his eyes settled on their table. He walked over with a briskness that brooked no delay.
"Caelum," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, "gather your things. We're leaving."
Caelum blinked, surprised by the suddenness of the order, as he placed his almost empty dish on the table. "Where are we going, Maester?"
"The Starry Sept," Marwyn replied. He turned to Liernen, who was busy washing dishes in the kitchen. "I'll be taking your daughter as well, Liernen."
Fern's eyes widened. "Me?" she squeaked, pointing to herself.
Liernen glanced over, his brow furrowed in concern. "Bring her back before dinner, Marwyn," he said. "She has a long day ahead of her early on the morrow."
Marwyn nodded. "Of course, Liernen. It won't take long."
Pylos, ever the curious one, couldn't contain himself. "But why Fern, Maester?" he asked. "I understand taking Caelum – he's your apprentice. But why her?"
Marwyn's lips twitched in a hint of a smile. "You may come as well, Pylos," he said. "I'll explain on the way."
Pylos's confusion only deepened. "But... I haven't finished my meal," he protested weakly.
Marwyn raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can manage without it for a few hours."
With that, he turned and headed out the door, leaving the three friends scrambling to collect their belongings and follow in his wake.
The wheels of Maester Marwyn's cart rattled over the cobblestones, the rhythmic clatter the only sound breaking the tense silence that had settled over the three young passengers. Finally, Caelum broke the quiet.
"Maester Marwyn," he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "why are we going to the Starry Sept?"
Marwyn's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, his expression grim. "There's been a murder," he said simply.
"A murder?" Fern echoed, her voice laced with surprise.
Marwyn nodded. "The second one, in fact. And I need your help, Caelum."
Pylos snorted. "What could he possibly help with?" he scoffed. "He barely attended any of Maester Lorcas's lessons on corpses and cadavers."
"We'll see," Marwyn said cryptically. "A few extra pairs of eyes never hurt. Besides," he added, casting a pointed look at Pylos, "I continued Caelum's education while he was ill. He's seen and learned everything the Citadel teaches about the human body."
Caelum's cheeks flushed slightly, but he said nothing.
"Who was the victim?" Caelum asked, his voice barely audible.
"Septon Illifer," Marwyn replied. "One of the most devout septons at the Starry Sept. The way he was murdered... it's quite unusual."
Pylos leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. "Tell us more," he urged. "And why bring Fern? A murder scene is hardly a place for a girl."
Fern shot him a withering glare.
Marwyn chuckled dryly. "You'll see soon enough. And as for Fern," he said, turning to her with a twinkle in his eye, "she may have seen more dead bodies than both of you combined."
Pylos's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Fern ducked her head, at the sudden attention. She glared at Marwyn for putting her under her friend's attention, but the man seemed to either not notice or care.
The cart rattled to a halt before the imposing gates of the Starry Sept. Hightower guards, their faces stern and unyielding, stood at attention, their eyes scanning the arriving visitors with suspicion.
Inside the main hall, a tense atmosphere hung heavy in the air. A crowd of maesters, septons, and septas clustered in small groups, their hushed conversations punctuated by gasps and whispers.
"Dreadful business," a grey-haired septon murmured, his voice trembling. "Never seen anything like it."
"They say his eyes..." a young acolyte began, his voice trailing off as he shuddered.
A plump septa clutched a prayer book to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. "The Seven save us," she whispered fervently. "Septon Illifer was one of the most devout."
A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd. Illifer had been a respected member of the Most Devout, a sect known for their piety and strict adherence to the Faith of the Seven. His murder had sent shockwaves through the Starry Sept, leaving many to question the safety of their sacred sanctuary.
"Do they know who did it?" a young novice asked, his voice barely a whisper.
An older Septon shook his head grimly. "No one knows. Gods are we not safe in our own homes now? In the very sept? This is supposed to be a holy place!"
Maester Marwyn swiftly ushered Fern, Pylos, and Caelum past the guards and into the sept's hallowed halls.
A tall, thin man with a severe expression and a silver star brooch pinned to his robes approached them, his eyes narrowed in disapproval.
"Maester Marwyn," Septon Pryce said, his voice sharp with irritation, "why have you brought children to such a grisly scene?"
Marwyn met the septon's gaze with unwavering calm. "These are no ordinary children, Septon Pryce," he replied. "Both Caelum and Pylos have earned their links in healing. Archmaester Ebrose himself would vouch for their knowledge and discretion."
Pylos puffed up, pride evident in his posture.
Septon Pryce's gaze shifted to Fern, his disapproval evident. "And the girl?" he asked, his voice sharp. "What possible reason could you have for bringing her here?"
Fern instinctively shrunk back, feeling a surge of anxiety. But before she could respond, Caelum stepped forward, positioning himself protectively in front of her.
Maester Marwyn placed a reassuring hand on Fern's shoulder. "The girl is with me, Septon Pryce," he said firmly. "I value her insight in matters such as this."
Septon Pryce threw his hands up in exasperation. "Very well, Maester Marwyn," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Do as you wish. First Ebrose, Theron, Lorcas... now half the Citadel is crowding my Sept. It's like the damned manse all over again."
With a curt nod, Marwyn led the group deeper into the sept. They passed through the main courtyard, where sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense, a futile attempt to mask the underlying stench of death.
They reached a smaller, more secluded manse within the inner sanctum. Here, the crowd was even thicker, a mix of maesters in grey robes and septons in white, their faces etched with worry and curiosity. Marwyn navigated them through the throng, his hand firmly on Fern's shoulder.
Inside the manse, a hushed discussion was taking place. Archmaester Ebrose, a kindly old man with a shock of white hair, stood at the center of a circle of maesters and septons.
"It's clearly the work of an assassin," a maester with a sharp nose and a pointed beard was saying. "The precision of the blow, the lack of forced entry... all the signs point to a professional killer. I suspect a faceless man."
Archmaester Theron, the citadel's seneschal, shook his head in disagreement. "It makes no sense," he countered. "Who would Septon Illifer have angered enough to warrant such a skilled assassin? He was a man of peace, a devout servant of the Seven. And why defile the man in such a way. The faceless men don't do such things."
Marwyn stepped forward, his voice cutting through the debate. "I agree, I don't believe this was the work of a Faceless Man," he said, his gaze sweeping across the room.
Archmaester Theron grimaced, when he noticed who had joined the conversation. Fern remembered the Seneschal when he had sentenced Qyburn into exile. The Archmaester had glared fiercely at Marwyn for a few moments that day, as though he blamed Marwyn for the events personally.
The gathered maesters exchanged uneasy glances.
Ebrose turned to Marwyn, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He spotted Caelum standing behind Marwyn, and he gave a brief smile to the boy.
Theron scowled at Marwyn. "Oh, not this again," he groaned. "This is as straightforward as can be. Some idiot with a psychotic streak murdered the Septon and defiled his corpse. If you want to indulge in your fantasies, looking for signs of magic, be my guest, but don't waste our time." With a huff, Theron turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
The other maesters, sensing the tension, quickly followed suit, leaving only Marwyn, Ebrose, and the three young people in the room.
Ebrose, now alone with Marwyn and the young people, let out a weary sigh. "I've done what I can here, Marwyn," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "The septon's body will be taken to the Citadel for further examination. Please try not to disturb it, or... the stones, any more than necessary."
Marwyn inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I understand, Archmaester. I'll be careful."
Fern, who had been silent until now, spoke up, her curiosity piqued. "What stones?" she asked.
Marwyn gestured towards the back of the room. "You'll see soon enough," he said.
Ebrose glanced at Fern, then at Marwyn. He shook his head, and rolled his eyes at the Archmaester. "Good luck, Marwyn," he said. "Please don't horrify the poor girl more than necessary." With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence as Fern scowled at the retreating old maester.
The only other occupants of the manse were a few septons and septas, their faces etched with sorrow, who were lighting incense near the entrance. The sweet, cloying scent filled the air, doing little to mask the underlying metallic tang of blood.
Marwyn led the group through the dim room, upstairs towards a closed door. He paused at the heavy door, sighed and pushed open the heavy door to reveal a scene that caused Fern, Pylos, and Caelum to gasp in unison.
Septon Illifer lay sprawled on his bed, his body still and laid in a way as though he had just fallen asleep.
A deep gash marred his chest, a dagger protruding from the wound.
His eyes had been gouged out, replaced with two luminescent stones that gleamed an eerie silver in the dim light. The Septon's mouth was frozen in a rictus grin, his teeth bared in a chilling smile.
Most disturbing of all, a single eye had been painted in blood on his forehead, its crimson gaze seeming to follow the newcomers as they entered.
Maester Marwyn, his face a mask of grim determination, strode towards the bed, ushering the three young people closer.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low and urgent, "what do you see?"
Fern was the first to speak, her voice trembling slightly. "The eye," she whispered. "I've seen it before."
Marwyn's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"
Fern swallowed, her gaze fixed on the crimson symbol. "In my dreams," she said. "I've been having these nightmares... there was always an eye, watching me."
Marwyn straightened, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Tell me everything," he commanded.
Haltingly, Fern recounted her recent dreams – the drowning bells, the green fire, the sense of impending doom.
As she spoke, Marwyn listened intently, his expression growing graver with each detail.
"This is... troubling," he said when she had finished. "Dreams, such as these, recurring ones often have meaning behind them."
Pylos scoffed. "What? Are you suggesting she is prophesizing something? Dreams are just dreams," he said dismissively. "Nothing more."
Fern shot him a venomous look, but Marwyn held up a hand, silencing them both. "Caelum," he said, turning to the young man, "what do you see?"
Caelum, who had been staring intently at the stones in the Septon's eye sockets, finally spoke. "The victim is male, approximately forty years old," he said, his voice clinical. "The wound to the chest is deep, but the blood loss is minimal, suggesting a swift and precise kill. His eyes seem to have been gouged and replaced with stone."
Marwyn nodded, his gaze lingering on the grotesque sight before them. "Septa Lillian found him this morning," he explained. "She came to wake him for prayers, along with a servant. The windows and the door were both bolted from the inside."
"But... how is that possible?" Pylos asked, his voice laced with bewilderment. "Someone had to get in to do... this."
Fern's eyes were fixed on the Septon's hollowed sockets. "The stones," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "What kind of stones are they?"
Marwyn turned to Caelum, a silent question in his eyes.
Caelum's gaze remained fixed on the shimmering orbs. "Star metal," he said quietly.
"Star metal?" Fern echoed, her voice rising in surprise. "You mean, from the meteor that fell a few years ago?"
Caelum nodded, his expression grave.
Marwyn's brows furrowed. "Anything else, Caelum?" he asked, his voice tinged with urgency. "Anything at all?"
Caelum's gaze flickered between Marwyn and the corpse, his eyes narrowing in concentration. For a moment, an unnerving silence filled the room. Then, Caelum shook his head. "Nothing, Maester," he said softly. "Nothing that isn't already visible."
Fern, driven by a morbid curiosity, stepped closer to the bed, her eyes scanning the gruesome details of the septon's body.
Pylos and Caelum followed suit.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," Fern observed, her voice surprisingly steady. "There's barely any blood around the eyes, which means they were removed quickly and skillfully. And the dagger..." She pointed to the weapon protruding from Illifer's chest. "It's been placed with precision, avoiding the sternum and piercing the heart directly. A quick, clean kill."
Pylos stared at her, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. "How... how did you know that?" he stammered.
"That's what we concluded as well," Marwyn confirmed, his voice grave. "A swift, precise kill by someone with anatomical knowledge."
Pylos, still bewildered, turned to Fern. "But how did you know all that?" he asked, his voice a mix of awe and suspicion. "You've never..." He trailed off, unable to articulate his thoughts.
Fern met his gaze, her expression unreadable. A tense silence hung in the air as she glanced at Caelum, then back at Pylos.
Finally, she spoke. "I know because I took the same lessons you did."
Pylos stared at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
Fern looked to Maester Marwyn, who gave a slight shrug. She turned back to her friends, a defiant glint in her eyes. "I took the same lessons as you," she repeated, "because I was Nerf."
Pylos's jaw dropped. "Nerf?" he sputtered, his voice rising in disbelief. "But... but you're a girl!"
Caelum, however, simply smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.
Pylos was dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "You were Nerf?" he sputtered. "But... how? Why? Did anyone know?"
Fern couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the moment momentarily broken by Pylos's flustered reaction. "Yes, Pylos," she said, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation. "I was Nerf. I snuck into the Citadel with Yandel's help. I did it because..." She hesitated, then shrugged. "Because I wanted to learn."
"But is that even allowed?" Pylos pressed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Aren't girls forbidden from studying at the Citadel?"
Fern rolled her eyes. "Of course it's not allowed, you dolt! That's why I had to be Nerf."
A slow grin spread across Pylos's face. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, shaking his head in wonder. "You're a sneaky one, Fern. I never would have guessed."
Fern's amusement faded as a thought occurred to her. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.
Pylos considered for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said, his voice sincere. "Your secret's safe with me."
Fern breathed a sigh of relief, turning to Caelum with a grateful smile. He returned the smile, but as he did, she noticed a flicker of guilt and shame in his eyes that he quickly masked.
"My lips are sealed," Caelum said, his voice steady despite the conflicting emotions swirling in his eyes. He gave Fern a reassuring nod.
Maester Marwyn, who had been watching the exchange with a bemused expression, cleared his throat. "Caelum," he said, his tone turning serious once more, "are you certain you see nothing else? Nothing unusual, nothing out of place?"
Caelum looked back at the corpse, his eyes scanning every inch of the grisly scene. He shook his head. "Nothing, Maester," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
Marwyn sighed, his shoulders slumping. "A mystery, then," he muttered. "It seems we have no further business here."
He turned to the others, his voice regaining its usual briskness. "Come along," he said. "We're wasting time."
As they left the septon's chambers, Fern couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Caelum's words than he was letting on.
Why would the Archmaester ask such a pointed question to Caelum? What else was he supposed to see?
Fern's mind raced as they made their way out of the Starry Sept. The image of the murdered septon, with those unsettling silver eyes, was burned into her memory. But it was Marwyn's question to Caelum that truly haunted her. What had the maester expected to find? What was Caelum not telling them?
As they climbed back into the cart, however, she pushed the questions aside. There would be time to ponder later. For now, she needed to focus on the more mundane matters at hand.
"So," she said, turning to Pylos and Caelum with a forced cheerfulness, "you two never did answer my question. Would you like to come with me to Gorman's farm? We could stay a few days, help out him and his family, gather the supplies for the inn. It might be a nice change of pace from the Citadel."
Caelum's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "I'd love to," he said. "I haven't been to a proper farm since... more than a year at least. It would be nice to see one again." A wistful look crossed his face, as if the thought of the farm had stirred up old memories.
Pylos nodded eagerly. "Count me in," he said. "A few days away from books and lectures sounds like just what I need."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Pain tore through her as consciousness clawed its way back. A low, insistent wail pierced the fog in her mind, the sound she knew well in her very bones. A baby's cry.
Aegon!
Terror, cold and sharp, jolted her upright.
Memories flashed in disjointed shards; the fishing village ablaze, Princess Elia's scream, the mad scramble by the King's Guard, screams echoing in the night, rough hands tearing at her clothes, the violation of the women...
Had they...?
Her breath hitched, bile rising in her throat.
She couldn't remember. She did not want to.
Her vision cleared, revealing a hellscape.
A harsh, grey sky hung low, the wind a mournful howl. She was sprawled on a beach, sand clinging to her torn robes.
Bodies lay scattered around her like offerings to a cruel god. Bloated, broken things, some in the livery of the Targaryen guard, others in the rags of slaves.
Men and women alike, their flesh violated and disfigured. Charred corpses, victims of the fire that had consumed the ship.
And the baby's cries, growing louder, more desperate.
Aegon!
She scrambled to her feet, each movement a fresh agony.
Her legs sank into the wet sand with a sickening squish, squish, squish.
The wreckage of the ship loomed ahead, a skeletal husk against the churning sea.
Driven by a primal instinct, she stumbled towards the cries.
There, nestled against a jagged rock, was a tiny form. Aegon. His silver hair, a Targaryen crown, was matted with blood. A deep gash marred his forehead.
He wailed, his tiny fists flailing in the air.
Pia lunged forward, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. She scooped him up, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread that gripped her. "Hush, little prince," she crooned, her voice a rasp. "I have you. I have you."
But as she cradled him close, the horror of their predicament crashed over her.
They were alone, shipwrecked on some desolate shore.
Aegon's wails tore at her heart, each cry a jagged shard in her soul. The blood flowed freely from his wound, staining his silver hair a gruesome red.
"Hush, little one," Pia pleaded, her voice barely a whisper against the roar of the sea. "Hush, hush." But the words were futile against the raw agony etched on his tiny face.
She had to stop the bleeding.
Cradling Aegon tightly, she staggered towards the wreckage of the ship that she had escape with her life, only by the Seven's miracle. The ship's hull, a splintered maw, gaped open to the sky, revealing a dark and tangled interior.
More bodies lined the hull, some more bodies crushed under the weight of the wrecked ship, others burnt to ash by the smoldering flames.
The sail was a tattered shroud, clung to the wreckage, licks of flame dancing at its edges.
Pia navigated her way toward the wreck, walking through the piles of disfigured corpses that lined the shore, her feet slipping on the slick, wet sand.
She stumbled, falling heavily, Aegon's cries turning to a panicked shriek as his head struck the unyielding ground.
A foul taste of blood, salt, and sand filled her mouth. She gagged, bile stinging her throat. With a groan, she pushed herself up, Aegon's cries echoing in her ears.
Her eyes fell on the corpse she had tripped over.
A slaver, his face bloated and unrecognizable. The belt that had once cinched his waist now lay broken, the pressure of his swollen belly too much for the leather.
A dirk, its blade glinting in the dim light, was still secured in its sheath.
Pia snatched the weapon, her fingers closing around the hilt with a desperate grip, as she thanked the Seven that the slaver was dead.
She rose, Aegon clutched to her chest, and resumed her trek towards the wreckage.
Aegon's cries grew louder.
"Shhh!" She tried to soothe the babe in vain. "It will be alright, my Prince, I am here!"
She quickly made her way toward the wreck, and its half-burnt sail.
The dirk sliced through the singed fabric with a sickening rip.
Pia gathered the stained cloth, her hands trembling. "Shhh," she murmured to Aegon, her voice thick with tears. "It will be alright. I promise."
With clumsy fingers, she pressed the makeshift bandage to his wound, her heart clenching with each whimper of pain.
The bleeding slowed, and the white cloth quickly turned red. It would do for now.
Aegon whimpered, his tiny body trembling against her. The makeshift bandage had stemmed the flow of blood, but the pain remained.
Pia's heart ached with his suffering.
What could she do? Where could they go?
She had no idea where they were.
Surrounded by the grotesque tableau of death, she felt a wave of hysteria rising within her.
"Gods help me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What are we to do?" She tightened her grip on Aegon, seeking solace in his warmth. "We can't stay here. We need... we need..."
Aegon's cries softened to whimpers as he drifted into a fitful sleep, the makeshift bandage a stark crimson against his pale skin.
Pia's breath rasped in her chest, her heart thrumming with a frantic rhythm. They needed food, and perhaps water. And they needed to know where they were.
With trembling hands, she ripped more strips from the charred sail, securing Aegon to her back. The weight of him, a precious burden, steadied her as she turned towards the wreckage once more.
The ship's hold lay half burnt and open to the sky. Among the tangled debris, she recognized some of the dead bloated faces that stared back at her.
The slaver with the pockmarked face, she closed her eyes, as she tried desperately to forget his laughter echoing in her memory as he had raped one of the captive women.
The one with the cruel, thin lips, had relished raping girls and boys with fervor alike. She thought she had known the depths of depravity after being rescued from Harrenhall. These men had proven her wrong.
Their victims lay scattered among them.
The old fisherman from the village, his eyes wide with terror.
The young girl, her innocence stolen in a night of unspeakable horror. The boy who had tried to help them when the fire had spread on the sinking ship, his body broken on the rocks below.
The men who had come to their rescue in vain were equally dead, as sword, arrows, and fire ravaged them into unfathomable grotesque states.
Despair gnawed at her as she stumbled over another body, smaller than the rest.
A boy, barely a man grown.
Recognition flooded her. The boy who had shared his meager rations with her, she had thought him a fool, as he spoke in only singular words, always calling her 'pretty' and nothing else.
He had tried to protect the women from the slavers' lust, acting the fool as he entertained slavers distracting them away from their lusts.
He had leapt from the burning ship, when the fires had spread too far.
"No," she gasped, kneeling beside him. His skin was cold, his eyes staring blankly at the unforgiving sky. "Please, no."
She shook him, her voice a choked sob.
Aegon whimpered, his tiny body trembling against her back.
"Hush, my prince," Pia whispered, tears blurring her vision. "Hush."
With renewed determination, she pushed deeper into the wreckage, her fingers scrabbling over splintered wood and twisted metal. A glimmer of hope sparked within her as she discovered a chest, its heavy lid wedged open.
She pried it open, her breath catching in her throat.
Gold. Piles of it, gleaming in the dim light. And nestled in its center, a sight that stole her breath away.
A dragon egg.
Its scales shimmered with an otherworldly iridescence, a deep, rich purple that pulsed with an inner fire.
"Gods be good," Pia breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
Awe and bewilderment warred within her. A dragon egg? In the hands of slavers? It made no sense. Yet, there it was.
She lifted the egg from its nest of gold, the chill of it seeping into her skin. It was unnaturally cold, like ice, a stark contrast to the damp warmth of the coins surrounding it. A shiver ran down her spine, a primal instinct warning her of the power held within the smooth, scaled shell.
But practicality soon eclipsed wonder. What use was a dragon egg to her? A starving woman, shipwrecked with a wounded infant? She had no way to protect it. It was a burden, a liability. Merely a pretty purple rock.
With a sigh of resignation, she returned the egg to its golden bed, gently closing the chest's lid. The Gold was of no use to her either, she could not carry the heavy chest with her and keep Aegon safe, she knew.
A harsh voice shattered the silence, cutting through the roar of the waves. "Over here, Kraznys! I found a live one!"
Pia whirled around, her heart pounding in her chest. Two figures emerged from the shadows of the wreckage, their eyes gleaming with greed. They jumped at her suddenly, as she screamed and tried in vain to shield Aegon.
"Well, well," the first man sneered, she recognized him as one of the slavers aboard the ship who had taken her captive. "Looks like the gods aren't as cruel as I had thought…. Nay, they're smilin' on us, if I do say so myself.."
His companion, a wiry man with a cruel smirk, had crept up behind her. Before she could react, he snatched Aegon from her back. "And look at this, Kraznys! The Prince is alive! I had thought he'd have died in the wreck like the rest. We'll be rich men, you and I."
"The gold, the egg, and a prince," Kraznys cackled, his eyes glinting with malice. "And a pretty little whore in celebration of our fortunes. The gods are smiling on us today."
Fear clawed at her, her hand going to the dirk she had salvaged, as she brandished it. "Please," she begged, her voice raw with desperation. "Take the gold, take the egg. Just leave us be."
Kraznys laughed, a cold, mirthless sound, as he moved faster than she could think, and shoved her dirk aside, pushing her to the ground. Her head smashed on the sandy ground. "Leave you be? A pretty little dove like you? Nay why would we refuse the Gods' gifts so? We're not heretics."
He ripped her already torn and shredded blouse open, exposing her skin to the biting wind.
Pia cried out, scrambling for the dirk that had been thrown away from her. But Kraznys was too quick. He kicked it away, and it flew far away from her, near the cold body of her dead friend. The man's grip tightened on her throat.
"No need to fight, sweetheart," he whispered, "We can make this fun. For both you and me."
Fear clawed at Pia's throat, choking off her words.
She thrashed against him, but his grip was like iron. Tears streamed down her face as she realized the futility of her struggle.
Pia turned her head, a silent scream trapped in her throat as Kraznys ripped the rest of her dress away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
She turned her head, her eyes locked onto Aegon, his tiny body squirming in the other slaver's grip. A sob escaped her lips as she heard the sickening rustle of fabric behind her. Kraznys's pants hit the ground with a soft thud.
"Oh, you'll like this," he rasped, his hand groping her thigh, as she struggled under his grasp, desperately clawing at him, at whatever she could grasp. He was too strong for her to resist. "You'll be the prettiest little dove I've ever had."
"Please," Pia choked out, tears welling in her eyes. "Don't hurt him. Please, just take the gold. Leave us be. I beg you!"
Kraznys straddled her, his weight pinning her to the sand. He reached down and spread her legs, as she thrashed against him. He touched her between her legs, his touch sending a wave of revulsion through her, as he rubbed himself on her. "Oh, you'll beg for more than just mercy, dove."
She screamed desperately, as her mind raced, searching for a way out, for a savior. But the gods seemed deaf to her pleas. Despair washed over her like the tide, threatening to drown her in its icy depths, as the man held her tight and readied himself between her legs.
Then, a blur of motion. A cry. A sickening squelch.
Kraznys jerked back, his eyes widening in shock. Her bloodied dirk protruded from his skull, its hilt clutched in the hand of the boy from the ship. The same boy who had offered her kindness in their shared captivity.
The boy who had been cold, unblinking, dead.
The other slaver, startled, let out a roar of rage. "You little shit!" he bellowed, his face contorted with fury. With a savage grunt, he hurled Aegon towards the boy, the infant's tiny body arcing through the air like a discarded doll.
"No!" Pia screamed, lunging forward, her fingers grasping at empty air.
Aegon landed with a sickening thud, the impact reopening the hastily bandaged wound on his forehead. His cries intensified, a shrill keening that tore at Pia's heart. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, staining his silver hair crimson once more.
The slaver lunged at the boy who had saved her, his hands closing around his throat. "You little bastard!" he snarled. "You'll pay for that!"
Pia scrambled for Aegon, her heart pounding in her chest. She gathered him close, shielding his tiny body with her own, as she turned to try and help her savior.
The boy struggled in the slaver's grasp, but his face had a feral toothy grin that chilled Pia to the bone.
Yet, his attacks were feeble, ineffective. He was no match for the slaver's strength.
"Stop!" Pia cried, lurching towards them. "Leave him alone!"
The slaver barely spared her a glance. He shoved her aside, sending her sprawling in the sand. Aegon still clutched against her naked body, wailed louder in pain as blood seeped from beneath the bandages.
Then, a chilling sound pierced the air. The scratchy, hoarse, shrill voice, so different than that of the boy who only spoke 'pretty' in the shy, scared, sweet voice while he had stayed prisoner with her on the ship.
"Below the sea, the dead arise," the boy croaked, his eyes fixed on the slaver's face. "From depths, from depths, from depths they rise."
The slaver recoiled, a mixture of confusion and rage twisting his features. "What in the Seven Hells?" he spat, tightening his grip on the boy's throat. "You creepy little fool!"
The boy's smile widened, revealing bloodied teeth.
Pia scrambled to help him, Aegon still clutched against her shivering body, she searched for a weapon to help the boy. Grasping the heavy chest with the gold, and dragon egg, she hurled it with all her might at the man holding her savior down.
With a mighty thud, the slaver was sent sprawling on the floor, as the Gold spilled everywhere from the broken chest, the egg rolling out on to the sandy shore.
The man was quick to recover, as he got up with a rage filled scream, lunging toward her "You bitch!"
But with a sudden, shocking move, the boy tackled the man again, as he sank his teeth into the slaver's hand. A scream of pain erupted as the man yanked his hand back as he was pushed by the boy on to the ground.
The boy was clutching the dragon egg that had fallen out.
"The Red Eye watches the bleeding star," the boy continued, his voice now a chilling rasp, as blood poured from his lips, his tongue lapping at the crimson liquid. He smiled toothily, as he straddled the man, raised the egg high and started slamming it hard into the man's skull. "It sees, it burns, it dies afar."
The slaver, roaring in pain, and showing his superior strength pushed the bloody egg out of the boys hand. The bleeding man punched the boy in the gut, as he rolled and tumbled them over, the man now on top of the boy. "I'll kill you, you little bastard! I'll kill you both" he roared, tackling the boy to the ground.
But the boy didn't fight. Instead, he turned his gaze to Pia, his eyes gleaming with a strange light.
"The star will die, the prince shall rise," he sang, his voice echoing across the desolate beach. "He comes, he comes, he comes with eyes."
His gaze fixed on Aegon, a chilling smile spreading across his face.
The slaver, his fury renewed, tightened his grip on the boy's throat again. "Sing all you want," he snarled. "You'll be singing from the depths of hells soon enough."
But the boy only laughed, a hollow sound that sent shivers down Pia's spine.
"No!" Pia cried, her voice hoarse with terror. As she clutched Aegon closer to her naked body, turning his wailing face away from the death that was soon to occur.
She searched for another weapon. Aegon clutched in her arms, she crawled quickly toward Kraznys' corpse, and she tried desperately to pull the dirk that was wedged deep into the man's skull.
It didn't budge. She tried with all her strength to pull the damn thing out, but it was stuck inside the rapist's skull.
She cried again, praying to the gods to help.
Then another miracle, as a large weathered old man, clad in blackened plate armor, a crimson cloak billowing behind him entered the hold. His eyes, burning with a fierce light, locked onto Pia and the infant in her arms.
She recognized the man almost instantly.
Ser Willem Darry.
Seeing the prince in her arms, the man sighed, and then hardened as he turned to face the slaver who was still choking the smiling boy tight in his grip.
With a roar, he charged, his sword a silver arc in the dim light. The slaver, startled, released the boy and turned to meet the new threat.
But he was too slow.
The knight's blade flashed, a swift and decisive strike. The slaver's head flew from his shoulders, blood spouting from the severed neck like a macabre fountain.
The headless body crumpled to the ground.
Silence descended upon the beach, broken only by the crash of the waves and the soft whimpers of Aegon.
Ser Willem Darry stood for a moment, his chest heaving with the exertion of battle. He wiped his sword on the back of his crimson cloak, the steel gleaming dully in the dim light.
Finally, he turned to Pia, his weathered face etched with concern. "Little Septa," he said, his voice gruff but gentle. "Are you alright?"
Pia nodded, her voice caught in her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched Aegon close, his tiny body shivering against her bare skin. She laughed hysterically at the Seven.
They had to be playing a cruel jape at her. She had been saved just as she had been all those years ago by the sweet boy, Luke who had come to her rescue, and her father.
Just as Ser Barristan Selmy had done then, Ser Willem removed his cloak, the heavy wool still damp from the storm. He wrapped it around Pia, enveloping her and the whimpering prince in its warmth. She cried openly then. Maddeningly hysterical.
"It's alright. Pia" The Knight spoke soothingly "You are safe, with me. It's over. Nothing will hurt you now."
She didn't know whether she should laugh or cry.
"There may be others," he said, his gaze scanning the wreckage. "We're on the coast of Pentos, I believe. I'll search for survivors. Stay close, and keep the prince safe."
Pia nodded again, her teeth chattering, gaining some control on her sobs.
The fear and shock of the past hours were finally catching up to her. She clung to Ser Willem's cloak as if it were her only lifeline in this desolate world, as it kept her and little Aegon warm and safe.
Then squish, squish, squish.
The boy who had saved her life emerged from the wreckage, his bare feet leaving bloody prints in the sand. In his outstretched hands, he held the dragon egg, its purple scales now slick with crimson.
His face was a mask of innocence, a toothy grin splitting his blood-smeared lips. He approached Pia, his eyes fixed on Aegon, and silently offered her the egg.
Slowly she took the glistening thing into her arms, her eyes fixed on the impossibly wide grin on the boy's face.
It was warm.
"The prince will fly, when the heart he burns, He cries, he cries, he cries and he soars."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) The first section was supposed to be covered in the previous chapter.
I wonder if people have guessed which way this is heading for the ending?
Anyway, I hope that was fun!
PS: I do not believe I have nerfed Superman at all. I have no plans to do so. This is merely a slow burn into him coming into his own.
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Snuffed
Chapter 27 –
The wheels of the wagon creaked under the weight of the grain and barrels as it trundled along the muddy road back toward the city. The night had long since fallen, and the only light came from the occasional flicker of distant lightning, briefly illuminating the dark sky.
A light drizzle pattered against the canvas cover of the wagon, adding to the steady rhythm of the wheels. The smell of damp earth and rain-soaked grain filled the air.
Fern sat at the front, managing the horses with steady hands as they plodded along the familiar path. Caelum sat beside her, his cloak pulled tight against the chill of the late midnight air. Pylos sat in the back, nestled among the sacks of grain and supplies, grumbling as he shifted his weight to get comfortable.
The trio had enjoyed their week away from the city, but the return journey had been wearisome, especially with the wagon loaded to the brim with grain, barrels of ale, and other supplies for Fern's inn.
"I still can't believe the amount of work that goes into running a farm," Pylos groaned, rubbing his back as if the aches had just returned at the thought. "The animals! And my back—will I ever stand up straight again?"
Caelum chuckled, the sound light and genuine despite the late hour. "You get used to it after a while. I always loved helping my Pa back home. There's something satisfying about a hard day's work."
Pylos looked at his friend with a mix of disbelief and irritation, his voice rising above the steady patter of rain. "I don't understand why you'd want to go back to that, though. A farm life? If you were going back home to train under a knight, I could understand. But to work a farm? I just don't get it."
Fern, sensing the tension rising, shook her head and interjected, her eyes focused on the rain-slicked road ahead. "Ugh, not this again! I assumed you were past this already, Pylos. Stop trying to bring that up. You know Caelum doesn't want to be a maester, and he doesn't want to be a knight either. Let it be."
Pylos crossed his arms, the frown deepening on his face as he leaned back against a sack of grain. "That's just it. I can't understand it. Why wouldn't you want something better, Caelum? Something more than… than mucking out stables."
Caelum's smile faded slightly as he listened, but he didn't respond immediately.
Instead, his gaze drifted toward the distant darkness, his attention caught by something only he could hear. A faint cry, almost lost in the wind and rain, reached his ears.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his hearing, to pinpoint where the cry was coming from. It was still far. He had to—
"Caelum! There you go again," Pylos interrupted, frustration lacing his voice. "You're getting lost in your own head. I've been trying to get your attention!"
Fern placed a hand on Pylos's arm, trying to calm him. "Don't start, Pylos. Let it go."
But Pylos shook his head, his anger bubbling over. "No, I won't let it go. He always gets that look on his face, like he's somewhere else. And then he just… wanders off. Like he did last afternoon. If he hadn't gone off, we'd already be back in the city by now."
Fern sighed, knowing where this was headed. "Pylos, we all agreed to stay a little longer. Caelum just needed some time."
Pylos scoffed, his irritation mounting. "Needed time? He disappeared without a word. Again. And we had to wait for him—again. Where did you even go, Caelum?"
Caelum ducked his head, the drizzle running off his hood as he recalled the events of that afternoon.
He had left to aid some children near the Honeywine, who had been set upon by wolves. Scaring the wolves with his fire surreptitiously had been easy enough, but he had to run away from the farm without actually telling his friends where he'd be going.
Again.
He couldn't really tell his friends that he'd heard the children shouting as they ran from the wolves.
They had been on the entire other side of the village, far from Gorman's farm. He felt guilty all the same.
Fern had been forthcoming in revealing her secret to them, but he just couldn't bring himself to do the same. He was scared they would be afraid of what he could do in truth.
He stayed silent, and that only fueled Pylos's anger.
"See? You're doing it again," Pylos snapped. "You won't even explain yourself. Why do you keep lying to us?"
The tension in the wagon was palpable now, the slight rain seeming to accentuate the coldness growing between them.
Fern, in an attempt to defend Caelum, turned to Pylos. "You're not being fair, Pylos. You know Caelum has his reasons, and it's not right to make him feel—"
"Why are you always defending him?" Pylos cut her off, his voice sharp and cutting. "What are you, his lover?"
The words hung in the air like a slap. Fern's face flushed with hurt, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find a response.
But before she could say anything, the distant cry for help reached Caelum's hearing again. There were a lot of voices.
Muddled. Far.
Fern's lips parted as she prepared to defend herself, the sting of Pylos's words still fresh. "There's nothing like that going on," she began, her voice wavering slightly with the effort to remain calm. "You're just being—"
The walls of Oldtown loomed in the distance, and Fern's breath caught in her throat.
A bright orange glow flickered ominously beyond the city walls, painting the night sky with a fiery hue. The drizzle did little to dampen the unsettling sight.
"What… what is that?" Fern whispered, her eyes widening as she tightened her grip on the reins.
Caelum's senses sharpened as the faint cries he had heard earlier now pierced through the veil of rain and wind.
The city's bells rang incessantly, a mournful and urgent sound that echoed across the land. Screams filled his ears—men, women, and children, their voices tangled in terror and desperation.
"How did they get past the chain? The fleet—they've set fire to the fleet!?" a man's voice, rough with panic, demanded, his words barely audible over the din of chaos.
"Please! Spare my children … please!" a woman's voice sobbed.
"Run to the Sept! The gods will shield you there!" A man shouted, strained and exhausted.
A child's voice, high-pitched and trembling, cut through the clamor. "Mama! Mama, where are you? Don't leave me!"
Laughter, cold and sadistic, followed by a low, mocking drawl. "Keep screaming, girl. It's music to my ears."
"Look at them scatter like rats," another voice sneered, the words dripping with cruel satisfaction. "Burn it all. Let them drown in their own fear."
"Over here! To the citadel—there's still time!" a man's voice called out, trying to rally those nearby, a faint thread of hope in the turmoil.
A woman's frantic voice pleaded, her words barely coherent. "Spare her! I'll do anything—please, just spare her!"
"Beg all you like! It's music to my ears," another man's voice growled, rough and guttural, the kind that sent a shiver down the spine. "You'll scream louder before the night's done."
The city bells continued to toll, each peal a reminder of the horror unfolding within Oldtown's walls.
His heart pounded in his chest as he turned his gaze toward the city.
Thunder cracked overhead, and in that brief flash of light, he saw what the darkness had concealed. People were fleeing the gates of Oldtown, their forms silhouetted against the flames that licked at the night sky.
Caelum drowned the noises away, he needed to focus.
"Fern, we need to get into the city, now," Caelum urged, his voice low and urgent.
Pylos, who had been glaring at Fern, turned his head and finally noticed the scene unfolding before them.
His eyes widened in shock as he saw the people streaming out of the gates, their faces twisted in fear.
Beyond the walls, the fire raged, casting an eerie glow over the city.
In the slowly picking storm, the beacon atop the Hightower blazed with a green flame—a call to arms, summoning what few banners they could to their aid.
If it had been lit recently, those men would take a very long time to come.
"The Hightower… they've lit the beacon," Pylos muttered, disbelief tinging his voice. "This… this isn't good."
Fern's panic rose like a tidal wave, her chest tightening as her thoughts raced. "My father's in there," she said, her voice cracking. "We have to find him. I can't—" She swallowed hard, her hands trembling on the reins. "I can't lose him."
Caelum exchanged a quick glance with Pylos, their earlier tension forgotten in the face of the immediate danger. "We'll find him, Fern," Caelum said firmly, his eyes focused and determined. "We'll get there in time."
"Yeah," Pylos added, nodding, his voice steadier now. "We'll help you. We just need to stay calm and get there fast."
With a desperate cry, Fern lashed the reins, urging the horses into a full gallop. "Faster! We have to get there!" Her voice broke as she urged the horses on, their hooves pounding against the rain-soaked road. The wagon lurched forward, its heavy load rattling and shifting as the horses raced toward the gates.
The wagon rattled violently as it sped along the muddy road, the horses galloping at full speed. Fern's knuckles were white as she gripped the reins, her eyes fixed on the city gate looming closer with each passing second. The Honeywine River ran alongside them, its waters churning with the reflection of flames and the shadows of fleeing ships.
People were flooding out of the city gates, panic in their eyes as they tried to escape the terror behind them. Fern didn't slow down. She pushed the horses harder, her heart pounding in her chest as she barreled toward the gates.
"Move aside! Move!" Pylos shouted, his voice hoarse as he waved his arms, urging the crowd to clear a path. Men and women scrambled out of the way, leaping to safety as the wagon hurtled forward.
Two guards near the gate called after them, their voices strained with urgency. "Stop! It's too dangerous! Turn back!"
Caelum leaned over, shouting an apology as they sped past. "We have to go in! We're sorry!"
The guards' shouts faded into the distance as the wagon raced through the gates, the throng of people pressing in from all sides.
Pylos gasped, his eyes locked on the distant Hightower. The massive structure on Battle Isle was engulfed in flames, the fire consuming it from within. Smoke billowed into the night sky, merging with the storm clouds.
"Gods above! Caelum, are you seeing this?!" Pylos's voice trembled with disbelief.
Caelum could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart. His eyes darted between the burning Hightower and the chaos unfolding around them.
The streets were packed with people, running in every direction—toward the gates, the Sept, the citadel. Desperation was everywhere, in every cry for help, in every terrified face.
The sounds of pleading and the cruel laughter of the raiders filled his ears, overwhelming him.
The Greyjoy banners fluttered above the ships in the harbor, their presence like a dark omen.
The Ironborn had broken through, and the Hightower was under attack. The guards were fighting on the shore, but it was clear they were losing ground. The Hightower's fleet was ablaze, ships still tied to the docks burning helplessly.
Caelum's breath came in short, panicked bursts.
More ships were heading toward the citadel and the Sept, and the thought of those places being attacked sent a cold dread through him.
How could he stop this? What could he do?
He had no idea—he didn't know how to help, didn't know how to make it all stop.
The cries for help, the screams, the begging—it was all too much. He tried to block it out, but it kept coming, a relentless tide of fear and pain.
"The Sept and the citadel… they're headed there too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, tight with worry.
"They should be safe," Pylos muttered, but his voice wavered. "But the Hightower… how could they have set it on fire? It's too high… nothing should reach it!"
Caelum's mind raced, trying to drown out the voices, the chaos, the noise that wouldn't stop. His hands clenched into fists, shaking. He had magic, but what good was it if he couldn't even think straight?
Fern's voice cut through his panic. "That doesn't matter right now!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "We need to find my father! I am taking us to the inn!"
Fern's grip tightened on the reins, her knuckles white as she urged the horses faster.
The wagon rattled violently as it sped through the streets, dodging the throngs of people fleeing toward the Starry Sept. The massive doors of the Sept were open, and the courtyard was filled with terrified citizens. Guards lined the defenses on the riverside of the sept, their eyes trained on the approaching Ironborn ships in the Honeywine.
"They haven't reached the Sept yet," Pylos muttered, his voice a mix of hope and dread.
Caelum's eyes darted to the citadel. He could see the massive doors closing as more guards mounted the walls, ready to defend.
A few ships from the Ironborn fleet were swarming into the river, and Caelum realized with a sinking feeling that it was a distraction.
The real attack was in the city, by the harbor, and the Hightower's forces were stretched too thin.
"They're trying to split them up," Caelum whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "They want to keep the garrison divided."
Fern guided the wagon toward the bridge that crossed the Honeywine, her father's inn just beyond it. But as they approached, Caelum's heart sank.
Two Ironborn ships were anchored on either side of the bridge, their crews hurling arrows and flaming projectiles at the guards defending it. The bridge itself was partially on fire, and the guards were desperately trying to extinguish the flames while fending off the raiders.
"We have to cross that?" Pylos shouted, his voice high with fear. "It's on fire, Fern!"
"We don't have a choice!" Fern snapped back, her eyes wide with terror but resolute. "We have to get to my father!"
As they neared the bridge, a guard noticed the approaching wagon and waved frantically for them to stop. "Turn back! It's not safe! The bridge is—"
"Move out of the way!" Pylos yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.
The guard hesitated, then jumped aside as Fern urged the horses onto the bridge. The wood beneath them groaned and creaked, and the heat from the flames was nearly unbearable. The horses reared up, spooked by the fire, their neighs frantic.
"Hold on!" Fern cried, struggling to keep control of the reins.
Just then, a commanding voice rang out from the other side of the bridge. "Brace for shields!"
Caelum barely had time to react before a hail of arrows rained down from the Ironborn ships. The guards ducked under their shields, but the arrows pelted the bridge with deadly force.
Caelum saw the flash of metal coming toward them and instinctively yanked Fern down onto the seat beside him. The arrows thudded into the wood of the wagon, narrowly missing Pylos, who had curled up in the back.
The horses were out of control, their panic driving them faster toward the edge of the burning bridge.
"Caelum, the horses!" Pylos screamed, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
A guard on the bridge yelled, "They're spooked! Stop the wagon, or you'll go over!"
But it was too late.
The wagon careened wildly as the horses veered to the side, their fear overpowering any control Fern had left. With a sickening lurch, the wagon tipped over the edge of the bridge, plunging into the icy cold waters of the Honeywine River below.
Cold, icy water filled Caelum's lungs, and the weight of the upturned wagon pressed down on him, pinning him beneath its heavy bulk.
Fern's face was a mask of dread, her eyes wide with terror as she thrashed beside him. The horses, still tied to the wagon, struggled desperately, their movements frantic as they fought against the suffocating depths.
Caelum knew he had to act.
There was no time to think, no time to hesitate.
Bubbles escaped his mouth as he grabbed Fern, pulling her close. Summoning every ounce of strength he had, he kicked upward, his powerful legs driving the wagon upward despite the crushing weight of the water.
The wagon lurched, shifting just enough for him to reposition Fern securely in his arms. His focus then turned to Pylos, who was trapped behind them, surrounded by the barrels of ale and sacks of grain that were now spilling into the river. Pylos's eyes were wide with fear as he struggled to free himself.
Caelum reached out, grabbing the wooden beam that separated them. With a mighty effort, he snapped it with his bare hands, freeing Pylos from the wreckage. Fern, still in his grasp, thrashed as she fought for air, her movements growing more frantic with each passing second.
He couldn't let them drown.
With his free hand, Caelum grabbed Pylos, who was gasping for air, his foot bleeding from where it had been pinned under a barrel. Caelum kicked the wrecked wagon away from them, pushing it and the thrashing horses out of their path.
"Hold on! I've got you!" Caelum shouted as they broke the surface, his voice raw with exertion.
Fern gasped for air, coughing violently as she clung to Caelum, her body trembling from the cold and fear. "Caelum! Thank the gods—" Her voice broke as she tried to speak, tears mingling with the water on her face.
Pylos, struggling to stay afloat, latched onto Caelum's arm, his face contorted in pain. "My foot—it's bleeding! Caelum, don't let go!"
"I won't! Just hold on!" Caelum's voice was strained as he kicked hard against the current, fighting to pull them toward the rocky bank. The stormy river threatened to drag them downstream, but he refused to let it.
With a final burst of strength, he propelled them toward the shore.
With a mighty heave, Caelum threw Fern and Pylos onto the bank, their bodies landing with a thud on the rocky ground.
Both of them cried out in pain, gasping for breath, their bodies shaking from the ordeal.
Fern turned to Caelum, her voice trembling with gratitude. "Caelum… you saved us. I don't know how—"
But before she could finish, Caelum dove back into the river without a word, his mind already focused on what he had to do next. The wagon was still in the water, the horses struggling in vain. He couldn't leave them to drown.
Pylos, his voice weak and shaky, called after him, "Caelum! What are you doing? Come back!"
But Caelum didn't stop.
He swam with all his might, the icy water biting into his skin as he fought against the current. Driven by a desperate need to make sure everyone—everything—was safe.
As he reached the wagon again, he could see the terror in the horses' eyes, their movements growing weaker with every passing moment. He reached out, grabbing the harnesses with both hands, and snapped them clean with his hands.
"Come on, come on," he thought to himself, as the horses thrashed under the water, still being crushed by the weight of the wagon and the water.
Caelum summoned every ounce of his strength and pushed the wagon with all his might. The icy water fought against him, but he was relentless, driving the heavy mass straight toward the hull of an Ironborn ship he could see beneath the surface.
The wagon moved with surprising speed, propelled by his overwhelming strength, and slammed into the ship's hull with a deafening crash. Wood splintered and shattered, creating a massive hole in the vessel.
Bubbles erupted around him as the ship began to take on water, the impact rippling through the river. Caelum didn't wait to see the full extent of the damage. He grabbed hold of the horses, who were weak but still struggling, and with a determined pull, he swam toward the high rocky banks.
As he emerged from the water, Pylos and Fern, who had been watching anxiously, gasped in astonishment. They stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Caelum tossed the horses onto the riverbank, their muscles quivering from the cold.
"Caelum… how…?" Pylos's voice trembled with a mix of awe and fear, his eyes darting between Caelum and the horses now scrambling to their feet, shivering but alive.
Fern echoed Pylos's shock, her voice barely above a whisper. "What… what did you just do?"
The horses, now on solid ground, shook off the water and bolted away from the river, their instincts driving them to safety.
Caelum watched them go, a pang of hurt piercing his chest as he noticed the fear in his friends' eyes. It was a look he had dreaded—a look that made him feel like a stranger among them.
But there was no time to dwell on it. He pushed the hurt aside and refocused, his voice steady as he spoke. "We need to get to the inn. We're not safe here."
Pylos, still bleeding from his left foot, limped toward Caelum, his face pale and drawn. "Caelum… how did you do all that?" His voice was shaky, laced with fear and confusion.
Fern, still in shock, nodded. "Please, Caelum… we need to know."
Caelum looked at them both, his heart heavy with the burden of his secret. But they deserved to know something—he was done hiding. "I'll explain on the way," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But right now, we need to move."
Fern hesitated, then nodded, shakily. "You're right. We can't stay here."
Caelum led them through the deserted section of the city, the eerie silence broken only by the distant sounds of battle.
The streets were empty here; everyone had already fled toward the safety of the citadel and the sept. They moved quickly, making their way toward Ragpicker's Wynd, close to the Learned Anchor. Fern's face was tight with worry, her eyes darting around as if searching for any sign of her father.
Sensing her anxiety, Caelum spoke softly, trying to reassure her. "Your father is alright, Fern. Maester Marwyn is with him."
Fern glanced at Caelum, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. "How… how do you know that?"
Pylos, still cradled in Caelum's arms, winced from the pain in his foot but managed to ask, "Yeah, Caelum… how could you know that?"
Caelum hesitated for a moment, then sighed. There was no turning back now. "I can do a lot of things," he admitted, his voice low. "I can see through walls. I can hear people from miles and miles away. I am watching him right now, Fern. He is helping women and children who couldn't flee in time hide in his inn."
Pylos's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing to piece together the implications. Suddenly, it all clicked. "That night… the attack on the manse by the Honeywine… It wasn't a demon, was it? It was you!" His voice was filled with a mix of realization and disbelief.
Caelum stiffened, then nodded, his expression somber. "You are right. It was me. I couldn't just stand by while Maester Qyburn tortured those people. I had to stop him."
Fern, still trembling from the cold and fear, looked at Caelum with a new understanding. "I… I suspected you had learned magic from Archmaester Marwyn," she said shakily. "But I never imagined… this." Her voice trailed off, as if she was still trying to comprehend the full extent of what she was hearing.
Caelum gave a small, sad smile. "The Archmaester helped me control my abilities. He knew I couldn't keep them hidden forever."
Pylos, despite his pain, suddenly exclaimed as another realization hit him. "That's why you're always running off! You're out there helping people—every time you disappear without a word!"
Caelum nodded, his pace quickening as they rushed through the streets. "Yes, but right now, we need to focus on getting to the inn."
Suddenly, Caelum stiffened, his eyes widening in alarm. Pylos, still in his arms, noticed the change and asked nervously, "Caelum… what's wrong?"
"The inn," Caelum said, his voice tense. "The Ironborn have made it there. Liernen is still inside. We need to hurry!"
Fern gasped, her heart lurching in her chest as panic set in. She nodded, pushing herself to keep up with Caelum as they sprinted through the desolate streets, the smell of smoke growing stronger with each step.
They took a sharp turn toward the river, the Learned Anchor looming closer.
As they rounded the corner, the scene before them was one of utter chaos. Ragpicker's Wynd was ablaze, and so was the section of the city where the Learned Anchor stood.
Ironborn raiders swarmed the area, their cruel laughter mingling with the cries of the wounded. Hightower guards and some knights fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered, struggling to hold their ground against the onslaught.
"We have to cross through that?" Pylos's voice was small, filled with fear as he took in the scene before them.
Fern bit her lip, her mind racing. "Why didn't my father flee?" she whispered, her voice trembling with worry.
"He's sheltering the women and children from the brothels of Ragpicker's Wynd," Caelum explained, his voice urgent. "They couldn't run far enough. The inn is large enough to be defended by a few guards."
Fern nodded, determination etched on her face as Pylos stared at Caelum in a mix of awe, fear, and something close to reverence. Caelum met his gaze briefly, then turned away, pushing aside the unease that look gave him.
"We'll have to stick to the back alleys," Caelum said, his voice firm. "We only need to cross one block to get to the inn."
Fern nodded again and led the way toward the alley behind a butcher's home, little more than a pigsty. The stench of blood and old meat filled the air, but none of them complained. The sounds of clashing swords and shouting men grew louder as they moved closer to the inn.
"We have to clear the inn!" a guard's voice rang out, strained with the effort of battle.
Another voice, urgent and weary, replied, "We're outnumbered! We need to retreat, regroup at the sept, and wait for the main garrison from the Hightower!"
An Ironborn raider's jeering laughter cut through the air. "By the time they come, we'll have made off with your women and gold! Run while you can!"
A knight's voice, grim and resolute, retorted, "The main garrison may not show. The Hightower is on fire, and these squid bastards have choked the exits through the labyrinth. We're on our own."
The three kids crept through the alley, with Fern guiding them toward the inn. "This way! We're almost there," she whispered urgently, her eyes scanning the path ahead. Caelum led the way, shouldering through several wooden walls with ease, the wood splintering under his strength like it was nothing.
Pylos, wide-eyed as he watched Caelum's effortless strength, couldn't help but murmur, "How… how are you doing that?"
They were halfway across when a burning building beside them groaned and collapsed, blocking their path with a wall of flaming debris.
Caelum, still carrying Pylos, stared at the blockade for a moment, then took a deep breath, feeling a familiar chill grow in his gut. He exhaled sharply, a stream of frost escaping his mouth and quenching the smoldering fire, turning the flames to icy ash.
Fern watched in awe, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered, "Ice… amidst all the fire…"
Without hesitation, Caelum pushed through the cooled debris, shoving aside the icy remains as he kept Pylos secure in his arms. They emerged onto a burning street, and there, at the end, stood the Learned Anchor. The inn was guarded by several archers on the rooftops and a few knights and guards battling the Ironborn raiders in the streets below.
Before they could take another step, a guard atop the inn shouted, "Raise the shields! Incoming volley!"
Arrows whistled through the air, a deadly rain of sharp metal descending upon them. There was no time to run or hide. Fern, driven by desperation to reach her father, had already darted halfway across the street.
"Fern, no!" Caelum shouted, his heart lurching with fear as he sprinted after her, Pylos still clutched in his arms. He knew he wouldn't reach her in time.
With a burst of pure determination, Caelum hurled Pylos toward the door of the inn, just strong enough to send him skidding safely inside. As Pylos tumbled through the doorway, he gasped, "Caelum, no—!" But before he could say more, Caelum, without breaking stride, leaped toward Fern, every muscle in his body straining.
In the blink of an eye, as thunder rumbled ominously overhead, Caelum threw himself over Fern, shielding her with his body. The arrows struck, pelting his back with relentless force.
Fern gasped, her eyes wide with fear and awe as she looked up at him. "Caelum… you're—"
But Caelum felt no pain. The arrows had embedded themselves in his cloak and clothing, but his skin remained unscathed. When the barrage finally ceased, Caelum looked down at Fern, his voice filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
Fern's breath hitched as she reached out to touch his back, her fingers trembling. "Caelum… you're not hurt. How… how are you not hurt?"
The other men in the street had been too preoccupied with the battle to notice them, but now, as the chaos began to settle, they were starting to turn their attention toward the alley.
Caelum gave Fern a reassuring smile, though there was a hint of something sad in his eyes. "I'm alright, Fern. Everything's alright."
Fern shook her head, her voice filled with disbelief as she inspected his torn cloak, finding no wounds beneath. "Did you know… did you know the arrows wouldn't hurt you?"
Caelum hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "No… I didn't know. But I knew they would hurt you."
Before she could say more, an archer from inside the inn spotted them in the middle of the street and shouted, "There are kids out there! Get them inside, now!"
Liernen's voice rang out from behind the archer, filled with a mix of relief and urgency. "Fern! What in the hells are you three doing here?! You should have stayed outside the city! Get inside, quickly!"
Caelum didn't waste a second. He scooped Fern up into his arms, and dashed toward the safety of the inn.
Caelum, with Fern secure in his arms, quickly entered what little safety the inn provided. The moment they were inside, Liernen rushed forward, gathering Fern from Caelum's arms and pulling her into a tight embrace. His voice trembled between scolding and sobbing, "What in the hells were you thinking, Fern? Coming here, into the heart of this madness? I— I thought I'd lost you."
Fern clung to her father, tears mingling with the soot on her cheeks, "I'm sorry, Papa… I had to find you."
The inn's main hall was filled with huddled figures—mostly women and children—who were gathered away from the windows. Some sat on the stairs, while others were upstairs in the rooms, trying to comfort each other or treat what wounds they could. The air was thick with tension and fear, every face etched with the terror of what lay outside.
A few guards were stationed in the inn—four in total. Three archers were positioned at the windows, firing volleys in support of the men battling the Ironborn in the streets. A lone swordsman stood near the door, his grip tight on his weapon as he listened intently to the sounds of the fight outside.
By the fire stood Maester Marwyn, finishing treating the wound of a whore from Ragpicker's Wynd. As he finished, he turned and locked eyes with Caelum, his gaze penetrating and knowing.
For a moment, nobody spoke, the only sounds coming from the guards as they fought to hold off the attackers.
But Caelum couldn't afford to stand still. He had to help—he could hear the cries for help echoing in his mind, the desperate voices from all across the harbor and docks pulling at his heart.
He turned to leave, his movements quick and almost frantic.
"Caelum," Marwyn's voice was firm, cutting through the chaos. "Are you certain of what you're thinking of doing?"
Liernen, still holding Fern, looked between the Maester and Caelum, confusion turning to realization as his eyes widened in horror. "No… Caelum, you can't be serious. You're just a boy. You'll get yourself killed out there!" He stepped forward, his voice rising with desperation. "You brave, stupid boy! What do you think you're doing?"
Pylos, still clutching his bleeding foot, shook his head and let out a hysterical laugh. "You don't know, Liernen… you don't know what Caelum can do."
Liernen turned sharply to Pylos, his face pale. "He's just a boy! He has no place out there, not against them!"
But Pylos's laughter only grew, tinged with a note of madness. "No, Liernen… it's Providence. Those bastards out there… they have no idea what's coming for them."
Fern, still held by her father, stared at Caelum with a mix of fear, awe, and worry. Her lips trembled as she forced a shy smile, her voice soft, "Please, Caelum… be safe."
Liernen looked at his daughter, aghast. "Fern, don't encourage this madness! He's—"
Before anyone could say more, an archer by the window shouted, "Take cover!" But his warning came too late—arrows whizzed through the window, deadly and swift.
Liernen gasped in horror, but that horror turned to awe as Caelum moved in a blur, catching the arrows in mid-air before they could strike the archer. The room fell silent, every eye on Caelum as he calmly held the arrows in his hand.
Caelum turned toward the window, his expression calm yet resolute. He climbed onto the windowsill, turning back to face the inn's occupants.
He looked over his shoulder, gaze settled on Liernen and Fern, his voice steady and smiled. "Don't worry, Fern. I'll be just fine."
As thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm's fury reflected in his eyes, which now glowed a dark, fiery red.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Time for our boy to shine!
The wheels of the wagon creaked under the weight of the grain and barrels as it trundled along the muddy road back toward the city. The night had long since fallen, and the only light came from the occasional flicker of distant lightning, briefly illuminating the dark sky.
A light drizzle pattered against the canvas cover of the wagon, adding to the steady rhythm of the wheels. The smell of damp earth and rain-soaked grain filled the air.
Fern sat at the front, managing the horses with steady hands as they plodded along the familiar path. Caelum sat beside her, his cloak pulled tight against the chill of the late midnight air. Pylos sat in the back, nestled among the sacks of grain and supplies, grumbling as he shifted his weight to get comfortable.
The trio had enjoyed their week away from the city, but the return journey had been wearisome, especially with the wagon loaded to the brim with grain, barrels of ale, and other supplies for Fern's inn.
"I still can't believe the amount of work that goes into running a farm," Pylos groaned, rubbing his back as if the aches had just returned at the thought. "The animals! And my back—will I ever stand up straight again?"
Caelum chuckled, the sound light and genuine despite the late hour. "You get used to it after a while. I always loved helping my Pa back home. There's something satisfying about a hard day's work."
Pylos looked at his friend with a mix of disbelief and irritation, his voice rising above the steady patter of rain. "I don't understand why you'd want to go back to that, though. A farm life? If you were going back home to train under a knight, I could understand. But to work a farm? I just don't get it."
Fern, sensing the tension rising, shook her head and interjected, her eyes focused on the rain-slicked road ahead. "Ugh, not this again! I assumed you were past this already, Pylos. Stop trying to bring that up. You know Caelum doesn't want to be a maester, and he doesn't want to be a knight either. Let it be."
Pylos crossed his arms, the frown deepening on his face as he leaned back against a sack of grain. "That's just it. I can't understand it. Why wouldn't you want something better, Caelum? Something more than… than mucking out stables."
Caelum's smile faded slightly as he listened, but he didn't respond immediately.
Instead, his gaze drifted toward the distant darkness, his attention caught by something only he could hear. A faint cry, almost lost in the wind and rain, reached his ears.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his hearing, to pinpoint where the cry was coming from. It was still far. He had to—
"Caelum! There you go again," Pylos interrupted, frustration lacing his voice. "You're getting lost in your own head. I've been trying to get your attention!"
Fern placed a hand on Pylos's arm, trying to calm him. "Don't start, Pylos. Let it go."
But Pylos shook his head, his anger bubbling over. "No, I won't let it go. He always gets that look on his face, like he's somewhere else. And then he just… wanders off. Like he did last afternoon. If he hadn't gone off, we'd already be back in the city by now."
Fern sighed, knowing where this was headed. "Pylos, we all agreed to stay a little longer. Caelum just needed some time."
Pylos scoffed, his irritation mounting. "Needed time? He disappeared without a word. Again. And we had to wait for him—again. Where did you even go, Caelum?"
Caelum ducked his head, the drizzle running off his hood as he recalled the events of that afternoon.
He had left to aid some children near the Honeywine, who had been set upon by wolves. Scaring the wolves with his fire surreptitiously had been easy enough, but he had to run away from the farm without actually telling his friends where he'd be going.
Again.
He couldn't really tell his friends that he'd heard the children shouting as they ran from the wolves.
They had been on the entire other side of the village, far from Gorman's farm. He felt guilty all the same.
Fern had been forthcoming in revealing her secret to them, but he just couldn't bring himself to do the same. He was scared they would be afraid of what he could do in truth.
He stayed silent, and that only fueled Pylos's anger.
"See? You're doing it again," Pylos snapped. "You won't even explain yourself. Why do you keep lying to us?"
The tension in the wagon was palpable now, the slight rain seeming to accentuate the coldness growing between them.
Fern, in an attempt to defend Caelum, turned to Pylos. "You're not being fair, Pylos. You know Caelum has his reasons, and it's not right to make him feel—"
"Why are you always defending him?" Pylos cut her off, his voice sharp and cutting. "What are you, his lover?"
The words hung in the air like a slap. Fern's face flushed with hurt, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find a response.
But before she could say anything, the distant cry for help reached Caelum's hearing again. There were a lot of voices.
Muddled. Far.
Fern's lips parted as she prepared to defend herself, the sting of Pylos's words still fresh. "There's nothing like that going on," she began, her voice wavering slightly with the effort to remain calm. "You're just being—"
The walls of Oldtown loomed in the distance, and Fern's breath caught in her throat.
A bright orange glow flickered ominously beyond the city walls, painting the night sky with a fiery hue. The drizzle did little to dampen the unsettling sight.
"What… what is that?" Fern whispered, her eyes widening as she tightened her grip on the reins.
Caelum's senses sharpened as the faint cries he had heard earlier now pierced through the veil of rain and wind.
The city's bells rang incessantly, a mournful and urgent sound that echoed across the land. Screams filled his ears—men, women, and children, their voices tangled in terror and desperation.
"How did they get past the chain? The fleet—they've set fire to the fleet!?" a man's voice, rough with panic, demanded, his words barely audible over the din of chaos.
"Please! Spare my children … please!" a woman's voice sobbed.
"Run to the Sept! The gods will shield you there!" A man shouted, strained and exhausted.
A child's voice, high-pitched and trembling, cut through the clamor. "Mama! Mama, where are you? Don't leave me!"
Laughter, cold and sadistic, followed by a low, mocking drawl. "Keep screaming, girl. It's music to my ears."
"Look at them scatter like rats," another voice sneered, the words dripping with cruel satisfaction. "Burn it all. Let them drown in their own fear."
"Over here! To the citadel—there's still time!" a man's voice called out, trying to rally those nearby, a faint thread of hope in the turmoil.
A woman's frantic voice pleaded, her words barely coherent. "Spare her! I'll do anything—please, just spare her!"
"Beg all you like! It's music to my ears," another man's voice growled, rough and guttural, the kind that sent a shiver down the spine. "You'll scream louder before the night's done."
The city bells continued to toll, each peal a reminder of the horror unfolding within Oldtown's walls.
His heart pounded in his chest as he turned his gaze toward the city.
Thunder cracked overhead, and in that brief flash of light, he saw what the darkness had concealed. People were fleeing the gates of Oldtown, their forms silhouetted against the flames that licked at the night sky.
Caelum drowned the noises away, he needed to focus.
"Fern, we need to get into the city, now," Caelum urged, his voice low and urgent.
Pylos, who had been glaring at Fern, turned his head and finally noticed the scene unfolding before them.
His eyes widened in shock as he saw the people streaming out of the gates, their faces twisted in fear.
Beyond the walls, the fire raged, casting an eerie glow over the city.
In the slowly picking storm, the beacon atop the Hightower blazed with a green flame—a call to arms, summoning what few banners they could to their aid.
If it had been lit recently, those men would take a very long time to come.
"The Hightower… they've lit the beacon," Pylos muttered, disbelief tinging his voice. "This… this isn't good."
Fern's panic rose like a tidal wave, her chest tightening as her thoughts raced. "My father's in there," she said, her voice cracking. "We have to find him. I can't—" She swallowed hard, her hands trembling on the reins. "I can't lose him."
Caelum exchanged a quick glance with Pylos, their earlier tension forgotten in the face of the immediate danger. "We'll find him, Fern," Caelum said firmly, his eyes focused and determined. "We'll get there in time."
"Yeah," Pylos added, nodding, his voice steadier now. "We'll help you. We just need to stay calm and get there fast."
With a desperate cry, Fern lashed the reins, urging the horses into a full gallop. "Faster! We have to get there!" Her voice broke as she urged the horses on, their hooves pounding against the rain-soaked road. The wagon lurched forward, its heavy load rattling and shifting as the horses raced toward the gates.
The wagon rattled violently as it sped along the muddy road, the horses galloping at full speed. Fern's knuckles were white as she gripped the reins, her eyes fixed on the city gate looming closer with each passing second. The Honeywine River ran alongside them, its waters churning with the reflection of flames and the shadows of fleeing ships.
People were flooding out of the city gates, panic in their eyes as they tried to escape the terror behind them. Fern didn't slow down. She pushed the horses harder, her heart pounding in her chest as she barreled toward the gates.
"Move aside! Move!" Pylos shouted, his voice hoarse as he waved his arms, urging the crowd to clear a path. Men and women scrambled out of the way, leaping to safety as the wagon hurtled forward.
Two guards near the gate called after them, their voices strained with urgency. "Stop! It's too dangerous! Turn back!"
Caelum leaned over, shouting an apology as they sped past. "We have to go in! We're sorry!"
The guards' shouts faded into the distance as the wagon raced through the gates, the throng of people pressing in from all sides.
Pylos gasped, his eyes locked on the distant Hightower. The massive structure on Battle Isle was engulfed in flames, the fire consuming it from within. Smoke billowed into the night sky, merging with the storm clouds.
"Gods above! Caelum, are you seeing this?!" Pylos's voice trembled with disbelief.
Caelum could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart. His eyes darted between the burning Hightower and the chaos unfolding around them.
The streets were packed with people, running in every direction—toward the gates, the Sept, the citadel. Desperation was everywhere, in every cry for help, in every terrified face.
The sounds of pleading and the cruel laughter of the raiders filled his ears, overwhelming him.
The Greyjoy banners fluttered above the ships in the harbor, their presence like a dark omen.
The Ironborn had broken through, and the Hightower was under attack. The guards were fighting on the shore, but it was clear they were losing ground. The Hightower's fleet was ablaze, ships still tied to the docks burning helplessly.
Caelum's breath came in short, panicked bursts.
More ships were heading toward the citadel and the Sept, and the thought of those places being attacked sent a cold dread through him.
How could he stop this? What could he do?
He had no idea—he didn't know how to help, didn't know how to make it all stop.
The cries for help, the screams, the begging—it was all too much. He tried to block it out, but it kept coming, a relentless tide of fear and pain.
"The Sept and the citadel… they're headed there too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, tight with worry.
"They should be safe," Pylos muttered, but his voice wavered. "But the Hightower… how could they have set it on fire? It's too high… nothing should reach it!"
Caelum's mind raced, trying to drown out the voices, the chaos, the noise that wouldn't stop. His hands clenched into fists, shaking. He had magic, but what good was it if he couldn't even think straight?
Fern's voice cut through his panic. "That doesn't matter right now!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "We need to find my father! I am taking us to the inn!"
Fern's grip tightened on the reins, her knuckles white as she urged the horses faster.
The wagon rattled violently as it sped through the streets, dodging the throngs of people fleeing toward the Starry Sept. The massive doors of the Sept were open, and the courtyard was filled with terrified citizens. Guards lined the defenses on the riverside of the sept, their eyes trained on the approaching Ironborn ships in the Honeywine.
"They haven't reached the Sept yet," Pylos muttered, his voice a mix of hope and dread.
Caelum's eyes darted to the citadel. He could see the massive doors closing as more guards mounted the walls, ready to defend.
A few ships from the Ironborn fleet were swarming into the river, and Caelum realized with a sinking feeling that it was a distraction.
The real attack was in the city, by the harbor, and the Hightower's forces were stretched too thin.
"They're trying to split them up," Caelum whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "They want to keep the garrison divided."
Fern guided the wagon toward the bridge that crossed the Honeywine, her father's inn just beyond it. But as they approached, Caelum's heart sank.
Two Ironborn ships were anchored on either side of the bridge, their crews hurling arrows and flaming projectiles at the guards defending it. The bridge itself was partially on fire, and the guards were desperately trying to extinguish the flames while fending off the raiders.
"We have to cross that?" Pylos shouted, his voice high with fear. "It's on fire, Fern!"
"We don't have a choice!" Fern snapped back, her eyes wide with terror but resolute. "We have to get to my father!"
As they neared the bridge, a guard noticed the approaching wagon and waved frantically for them to stop. "Turn back! It's not safe! The bridge is—"
"Move out of the way!" Pylos yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.
The guard hesitated, then jumped aside as Fern urged the horses onto the bridge. The wood beneath them groaned and creaked, and the heat from the flames was nearly unbearable. The horses reared up, spooked by the fire, their neighs frantic.
"Hold on!" Fern cried, struggling to keep control of the reins.
Just then, a commanding voice rang out from the other side of the bridge. "Brace for shields!"
Caelum barely had time to react before a hail of arrows rained down from the Ironborn ships. The guards ducked under their shields, but the arrows pelted the bridge with deadly force.
Caelum saw the flash of metal coming toward them and instinctively yanked Fern down onto the seat beside him. The arrows thudded into the wood of the wagon, narrowly missing Pylos, who had curled up in the back.
The horses were out of control, their panic driving them faster toward the edge of the burning bridge.
"Caelum, the horses!" Pylos screamed, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
A guard on the bridge yelled, "They're spooked! Stop the wagon, or you'll go over!"
But it was too late.
The wagon careened wildly as the horses veered to the side, their fear overpowering any control Fern had left. With a sickening lurch, the wagon tipped over the edge of the bridge, plunging into the icy cold waters of the Honeywine River below.
Cold, icy water filled Caelum's lungs, and the weight of the upturned wagon pressed down on him, pinning him beneath its heavy bulk.
Fern's face was a mask of dread, her eyes wide with terror as she thrashed beside him. The horses, still tied to the wagon, struggled desperately, their movements frantic as they fought against the suffocating depths.
Caelum knew he had to act.
There was no time to think, no time to hesitate.
Bubbles escaped his mouth as he grabbed Fern, pulling her close. Summoning every ounce of strength he had, he kicked upward, his powerful legs driving the wagon upward despite the crushing weight of the water.
The wagon lurched, shifting just enough for him to reposition Fern securely in his arms. His focus then turned to Pylos, who was trapped behind them, surrounded by the barrels of ale and sacks of grain that were now spilling into the river. Pylos's eyes were wide with fear as he struggled to free himself.
Caelum reached out, grabbing the wooden beam that separated them. With a mighty effort, he snapped it with his bare hands, freeing Pylos from the wreckage. Fern, still in his grasp, thrashed as she fought for air, her movements growing more frantic with each passing second.
He couldn't let them drown.
With his free hand, Caelum grabbed Pylos, who was gasping for air, his foot bleeding from where it had been pinned under a barrel. Caelum kicked the wrecked wagon away from them, pushing it and the thrashing horses out of their path.
"Hold on! I've got you!" Caelum shouted as they broke the surface, his voice raw with exertion.
Fern gasped for air, coughing violently as she clung to Caelum, her body trembling from the cold and fear. "Caelum! Thank the gods—" Her voice broke as she tried to speak, tears mingling with the water on her face.
Pylos, struggling to stay afloat, latched onto Caelum's arm, his face contorted in pain. "My foot—it's bleeding! Caelum, don't let go!"
"I won't! Just hold on!" Caelum's voice was strained as he kicked hard against the current, fighting to pull them toward the rocky bank. The stormy river threatened to drag them downstream, but he refused to let it.
With a final burst of strength, he propelled them toward the shore.
With a mighty heave, Caelum threw Fern and Pylos onto the bank, their bodies landing with a thud on the rocky ground.
Both of them cried out in pain, gasping for breath, their bodies shaking from the ordeal.
Fern turned to Caelum, her voice trembling with gratitude. "Caelum… you saved us. I don't know how—"
But before she could finish, Caelum dove back into the river without a word, his mind already focused on what he had to do next. The wagon was still in the water, the horses struggling in vain. He couldn't leave them to drown.
Pylos, his voice weak and shaky, called after him, "Caelum! What are you doing? Come back!"
But Caelum didn't stop.
He swam with all his might, the icy water biting into his skin as he fought against the current. Driven by a desperate need to make sure everyone—everything—was safe.
As he reached the wagon again, he could see the terror in the horses' eyes, their movements growing weaker with every passing moment. He reached out, grabbing the harnesses with both hands, and snapped them clean with his hands.
"Come on, come on," he thought to himself, as the horses thrashed under the water, still being crushed by the weight of the wagon and the water.
Caelum summoned every ounce of his strength and pushed the wagon with all his might. The icy water fought against him, but he was relentless, driving the heavy mass straight toward the hull of an Ironborn ship he could see beneath the surface.
The wagon moved with surprising speed, propelled by his overwhelming strength, and slammed into the ship's hull with a deafening crash. Wood splintered and shattered, creating a massive hole in the vessel.
Bubbles erupted around him as the ship began to take on water, the impact rippling through the river. Caelum didn't wait to see the full extent of the damage. He grabbed hold of the horses, who were weak but still struggling, and with a determined pull, he swam toward the high rocky banks.
As he emerged from the water, Pylos and Fern, who had been watching anxiously, gasped in astonishment. They stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Caelum tossed the horses onto the riverbank, their muscles quivering from the cold.
"Caelum… how…?" Pylos's voice trembled with a mix of awe and fear, his eyes darting between Caelum and the horses now scrambling to their feet, shivering but alive.
Fern echoed Pylos's shock, her voice barely above a whisper. "What… what did you just do?"
The horses, now on solid ground, shook off the water and bolted away from the river, their instincts driving them to safety.
Caelum watched them go, a pang of hurt piercing his chest as he noticed the fear in his friends' eyes. It was a look he had dreaded—a look that made him feel like a stranger among them.
But there was no time to dwell on it. He pushed the hurt aside and refocused, his voice steady as he spoke. "We need to get to the inn. We're not safe here."
Pylos, still bleeding from his left foot, limped toward Caelum, his face pale and drawn. "Caelum… how did you do all that?" His voice was shaky, laced with fear and confusion.
Fern, still in shock, nodded. "Please, Caelum… we need to know."
Caelum looked at them both, his heart heavy with the burden of his secret. But they deserved to know something—he was done hiding. "I'll explain on the way," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But right now, we need to move."
Fern hesitated, then nodded, shakily. "You're right. We can't stay here."
Caelum led them through the deserted section of the city, the eerie silence broken only by the distant sounds of battle.
The streets were empty here; everyone had already fled toward the safety of the citadel and the sept. They moved quickly, making their way toward Ragpicker's Wynd, close to the Learned Anchor. Fern's face was tight with worry, her eyes darting around as if searching for any sign of her father.
Sensing her anxiety, Caelum spoke softly, trying to reassure her. "Your father is alright, Fern. Maester Marwyn is with him."
Fern glanced at Caelum, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. "How… how do you know that?"
Pylos, still cradled in Caelum's arms, winced from the pain in his foot but managed to ask, "Yeah, Caelum… how could you know that?"
Caelum hesitated for a moment, then sighed. There was no turning back now. "I can do a lot of things," he admitted, his voice low. "I can see through walls. I can hear people from miles and miles away. I am watching him right now, Fern. He is helping women and children who couldn't flee in time hide in his inn."
Pylos's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing to piece together the implications. Suddenly, it all clicked. "That night… the attack on the manse by the Honeywine… It wasn't a demon, was it? It was you!" His voice was filled with a mix of realization and disbelief.
Caelum stiffened, then nodded, his expression somber. "You are right. It was me. I couldn't just stand by while Maester Qyburn tortured those people. I had to stop him."
Fern, still trembling from the cold and fear, looked at Caelum with a new understanding. "I… I suspected you had learned magic from Archmaester Marwyn," she said shakily. "But I never imagined… this." Her voice trailed off, as if she was still trying to comprehend the full extent of what she was hearing.
Caelum gave a small, sad smile. "The Archmaester helped me control my abilities. He knew I couldn't keep them hidden forever."
Pylos, despite his pain, suddenly exclaimed as another realization hit him. "That's why you're always running off! You're out there helping people—every time you disappear without a word!"
Caelum nodded, his pace quickening as they rushed through the streets. "Yes, but right now, we need to focus on getting to the inn."
Suddenly, Caelum stiffened, his eyes widening in alarm. Pylos, still in his arms, noticed the change and asked nervously, "Caelum… what's wrong?"
"The inn," Caelum said, his voice tense. "The Ironborn have made it there. Liernen is still inside. We need to hurry!"
Fern gasped, her heart lurching in her chest as panic set in. She nodded, pushing herself to keep up with Caelum as they sprinted through the desolate streets, the smell of smoke growing stronger with each step.
They took a sharp turn toward the river, the Learned Anchor looming closer.
As they rounded the corner, the scene before them was one of utter chaos. Ragpicker's Wynd was ablaze, and so was the section of the city where the Learned Anchor stood.
Ironborn raiders swarmed the area, their cruel laughter mingling with the cries of the wounded. Hightower guards and some knights fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered, struggling to hold their ground against the onslaught.
"We have to cross through that?" Pylos's voice was small, filled with fear as he took in the scene before them.
Fern bit her lip, her mind racing. "Why didn't my father flee?" she whispered, her voice trembling with worry.
"He's sheltering the women and children from the brothels of Ragpicker's Wynd," Caelum explained, his voice urgent. "They couldn't run far enough. The inn is large enough to be defended by a few guards."
Fern nodded, determination etched on her face as Pylos stared at Caelum in a mix of awe, fear, and something close to reverence. Caelum met his gaze briefly, then turned away, pushing aside the unease that look gave him.
"We'll have to stick to the back alleys," Caelum said, his voice firm. "We only need to cross one block to get to the inn."
Fern nodded again and led the way toward the alley behind a butcher's home, little more than a pigsty. The stench of blood and old meat filled the air, but none of them complained. The sounds of clashing swords and shouting men grew louder as they moved closer to the inn.
"We have to clear the inn!" a guard's voice rang out, strained with the effort of battle.
Another voice, urgent and weary, replied, "We're outnumbered! We need to retreat, regroup at the sept, and wait for the main garrison from the Hightower!"
An Ironborn raider's jeering laughter cut through the air. "By the time they come, we'll have made off with your women and gold! Run while you can!"
A knight's voice, grim and resolute, retorted, "The main garrison may not show. The Hightower is on fire, and these squid bastards have choked the exits through the labyrinth. We're on our own."
The three kids crept through the alley, with Fern guiding them toward the inn. "This way! We're almost there," she whispered urgently, her eyes scanning the path ahead. Caelum led the way, shouldering through several wooden walls with ease, the wood splintering under his strength like it was nothing.
Pylos, wide-eyed as he watched Caelum's effortless strength, couldn't help but murmur, "How… how are you doing that?"
They were halfway across when a burning building beside them groaned and collapsed, blocking their path with a wall of flaming debris.
Caelum, still carrying Pylos, stared at the blockade for a moment, then took a deep breath, feeling a familiar chill grow in his gut. He exhaled sharply, a stream of frost escaping his mouth and quenching the smoldering fire, turning the flames to icy ash.
Fern watched in awe, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered, "Ice… amidst all the fire…"
Without hesitation, Caelum pushed through the cooled debris, shoving aside the icy remains as he kept Pylos secure in his arms. They emerged onto a burning street, and there, at the end, stood the Learned Anchor. The inn was guarded by several archers on the rooftops and a few knights and guards battling the Ironborn raiders in the streets below.
Before they could take another step, a guard atop the inn shouted, "Raise the shields! Incoming volley!"
Arrows whistled through the air, a deadly rain of sharp metal descending upon them. There was no time to run or hide. Fern, driven by desperation to reach her father, had already darted halfway across the street.
"Fern, no!" Caelum shouted, his heart lurching with fear as he sprinted after her, Pylos still clutched in his arms. He knew he wouldn't reach her in time.
With a burst of pure determination, Caelum hurled Pylos toward the door of the inn, just strong enough to send him skidding safely inside. As Pylos tumbled through the doorway, he gasped, "Caelum, no—!" But before he could say more, Caelum, without breaking stride, leaped toward Fern, every muscle in his body straining.
In the blink of an eye, as thunder rumbled ominously overhead, Caelum threw himself over Fern, shielding her with his body. The arrows struck, pelting his back with relentless force.
Fern gasped, her eyes wide with fear and awe as she looked up at him. "Caelum… you're—"
But Caelum felt no pain. The arrows had embedded themselves in his cloak and clothing, but his skin remained unscathed. When the barrage finally ceased, Caelum looked down at Fern, his voice filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
Fern's breath hitched as she reached out to touch his back, her fingers trembling. "Caelum… you're not hurt. How… how are you not hurt?"
The other men in the street had been too preoccupied with the battle to notice them, but now, as the chaos began to settle, they were starting to turn their attention toward the alley.
Caelum gave Fern a reassuring smile, though there was a hint of something sad in his eyes. "I'm alright, Fern. Everything's alright."
Fern shook her head, her voice filled with disbelief as she inspected his torn cloak, finding no wounds beneath. "Did you know… did you know the arrows wouldn't hurt you?"
Caelum hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "No… I didn't know. But I knew they would hurt you."
Before she could say more, an archer from inside the inn spotted them in the middle of the street and shouted, "There are kids out there! Get them inside, now!"
Liernen's voice rang out from behind the archer, filled with a mix of relief and urgency. "Fern! What in the hells are you three doing here?! You should have stayed outside the city! Get inside, quickly!"
Caelum didn't waste a second. He scooped Fern up into his arms, and dashed toward the safety of the inn.
Caelum, with Fern secure in his arms, quickly entered what little safety the inn provided. The moment they were inside, Liernen rushed forward, gathering Fern from Caelum's arms and pulling her into a tight embrace. His voice trembled between scolding and sobbing, "What in the hells were you thinking, Fern? Coming here, into the heart of this madness? I— I thought I'd lost you."
Fern clung to her father, tears mingling with the soot on her cheeks, "I'm sorry, Papa… I had to find you."
The inn's main hall was filled with huddled figures—mostly women and children—who were gathered away from the windows. Some sat on the stairs, while others were upstairs in the rooms, trying to comfort each other or treat what wounds they could. The air was thick with tension and fear, every face etched with the terror of what lay outside.
A few guards were stationed in the inn—four in total. Three archers were positioned at the windows, firing volleys in support of the men battling the Ironborn in the streets. A lone swordsman stood near the door, his grip tight on his weapon as he listened intently to the sounds of the fight outside.
By the fire stood Maester Marwyn, finishing treating the wound of a whore from Ragpicker's Wynd. As he finished, he turned and locked eyes with Caelum, his gaze penetrating and knowing.
For a moment, nobody spoke, the only sounds coming from the guards as they fought to hold off the attackers.
But Caelum couldn't afford to stand still. He had to help—he could hear the cries for help echoing in his mind, the desperate voices from all across the harbor and docks pulling at his heart.
He turned to leave, his movements quick and almost frantic.
"Caelum," Marwyn's voice was firm, cutting through the chaos. "Are you certain of what you're thinking of doing?"
Liernen, still holding Fern, looked between the Maester and Caelum, confusion turning to realization as his eyes widened in horror. "No… Caelum, you can't be serious. You're just a boy. You'll get yourself killed out there!" He stepped forward, his voice rising with desperation. "You brave, stupid boy! What do you think you're doing?"
Pylos, still clutching his bleeding foot, shook his head and let out a hysterical laugh. "You don't know, Liernen… you don't know what Caelum can do."
Liernen turned sharply to Pylos, his face pale. "He's just a boy! He has no place out there, not against them!"
But Pylos's laughter only grew, tinged with a note of madness. "No, Liernen… it's Providence. Those bastards out there… they have no idea what's coming for them."
Fern, still held by her father, stared at Caelum with a mix of fear, awe, and worry. Her lips trembled as she forced a shy smile, her voice soft, "Please, Caelum… be safe."
Liernen looked at his daughter, aghast. "Fern, don't encourage this madness! He's—"
Before anyone could say more, an archer by the window shouted, "Take cover!" But his warning came too late—arrows whizzed through the window, deadly and swift.
Liernen gasped in horror, but that horror turned to awe as Caelum moved in a blur, catching the arrows in mid-air before they could strike the archer. The room fell silent, every eye on Caelum as he calmly held the arrows in his hand.
Caelum turned toward the window, his expression calm yet resolute. He climbed onto the windowsill, turning back to face the inn's occupants.
He looked over his shoulder, gaze settled on Liernen and Fern, his voice steady and smiled. "Don't worry, Fern. I'll be just fine."
As thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm's fury reflected in his eyes, which now glowed a dark, fiery red.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Time for our boy to shine!
Caelum is gonna go for a walk, a very enthusiastic walk.
No Dawn for the Damned
Chapter 28 –
Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning crackled ominously illuminating the angry dark sky. The smell of the roiling sea was overpowered by the thick soot and ash that clung to the air.
And yet the roar of the thunder; the crackle of lightning; and the choking green fiery smoke from the burning tower were but mere afterthoughts in his mind.
The screams of terror, pleas for help, the echo of the clanging bells, and the horror in the people's voices from all over the city, wouldn't let him focus on anything else.
It was overwhelming.
He hadn't let go of the tight control he had been maintaining over his hearing, not since the sounds had overpowered him back at the tourney of Harrenhall. He had learned since then to harness that magic, to focus on the quietest of sounds from the thousands, hundreds of thousands of voices in a city like Oldtown.
But this? This was beyond him. The raw horror in their voices almost shattered his concentration, threatening to drown him in their agony.
It had been easy to reassure his friends, to claim that he would be alright, to believe that he wouldn't be hurt. Couldn't be. It had been necessary to make that claim, he couldn't stomach the worry they had for him and hoped his reassurances were enough.
The truth was that he was scared. In his very bones, in his soul he was afraid. Afraid that he would not be there in time, that he would not hear the pleas of the people who so desperately needed help. That people would die when he could do something about their pain, their suffering.
"Somebody! Please, help my daughter! My sons! They're burning! Gods ….! Please! Help!" Another horrified scream from a man reached his ear as he ran, faster than he had run ever before in his life.
That's all he had been doing since he had jumped out from the inn.
Running towards the nearest screams, hoping beyond all hope that he was fast enough, that his magic would not fail him now that he desperately needed its aid. That the Gods above would watch over him as he ran to help all those that he could.
There were too many. He didn't have time to think.
He needed to help them. Do something!
People were dying, they were being burnt alive, being crushed under the feet of others as they ran from the cruel angry hordes of the Ironborn raiders.
The Seven damned raiders charged through the streets; their laughter, the sheer malicious cruelty in it was so jarring that the rage he felt at it almost caused him to lose control over the fire broiling behind his eyes. His world was washed in hues of red.
But he couldn't afford to lose himself in the rage, even as the world tinted a piercing hot red, he kept the fire in check. He would not add to the fires that were already burning the heart of the city with more of his own. And yet the rage-filled heat remained bubbling behind his eyes.
The first house he reached was half-collapsed, fire eating away at its upper floors. The flames licked out of the windows like hungry venomous serpents, while the scorched remains of a wooden beam pinned a man to the ground outside.
He was close to the honey wine and the fire had likely come from one of the many ships that were now lining the banks of the treacherous waters of the oft-gentle river.
The city's streets were a maelstrom of bodies. People fled in every direction; their faces twisted with terror. Innkeepers herded whores and patrons into their cellars, mothers clutched their children, and the Starry Sept's bells rang ceaselessly. Ironborn laughter, their toxic hate-filled jeering, taunting echoed through it all — harsh, cruel, jagged like broken glass.
To Caelum, their movement was slower than even that of a snail. And still, it was not enough.
Hundreds were breathing their last due to the sheer cruelty of the Ironborn around him.
And there were hundreds more of people like the man, who were desperately in need of help but had no one to turn to.
No.
Not when he could do something about it.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Faster than the wind, leaving streaks of blazing heat that still threatened to burst from his eyes, as he arrived by the nearly fainting man's side.
The man's leg was gone from the thigh down, blood pooling beneath him like wine spilled from a cask.
Caelum could see that he would not survive more than a few minutes with the buckets of blood that were threatening to flow from the open stump of his leg. Despite all that, the man was pleading for someone to save his children, not him.
Peering through the walls of the burning house, he could see the two boys and their young sister cowering on the upper floor of the house, near the far wall. The fire had begun to lick the windows, and the door was wreathed in tongues of dancing flames.
They would survive for now. He could save the man, and then run to their aid.
Gods, he hoped he was right.
The pace of the world resumed as he assessed the man closer, searching for ways to properly aid him. He tried not to think of the hundreds of similar pleas that were still pounding away in his head.
"My boys! My daughter!" The man was hysterical, nearly out of consciousness. The loss of blood was threatening to take him away. The man hadn't noticed Caelum standing over him, by his side. His ashen, nearly pale face was streaked with tears. "Gods…. please save my children!"
Finding a good place to hold onto the beam that had the man pinned, and with the barest of his overwhelming strength he hefted the weighty thing off the man. The rubble from the burnt and collapsed part of his house flew away in the process.
As the weight lifted, the man's gaze found Caelum, his cracked lips moving to plead. "Oh, Gods… Boy, leave me! I am a dead man! Save my-" he paused, his pained and panicked eyes focusing on the fiery blaze of Caelum's own.
Caelum needed to stop the man's bleeding. When he had removed the beam, what little pressure had slowed the flow of blood keeping him alive had been removed and blood had begun to flow freely. The man would die if nothing was done.
"Clench your teeth, please!" Caelum pleaded to the man, as he focused his gaze on the man's bleeding stump. "This will hurt!"
"No…, no. NO. NOOOO! S-stay away!" The man begged, clawing at the ground, "Gods, Demon! Help! HELP! STAY WAY YOU HELL BORN WRETCH!"
Caelum ignored the pain the man's fear caused in his heart. He focused on the wound and hoped to the Seven above that he could stop the bleeding. Releasing the tight control he had kept on the wrathful fire in his eyes, the scorching flames burst forth.
The man's guttural scream ripped through the air as his body jerked beneath Caelum's grip. Flesh blackened, blood boiled, and he was reminded of Ser Elmar. He felt bile rise in his throat at the horrific reminder of what he had done to the Knight.
It was over in an instant. The man would survive.
Miraculously, he was still holding onto consciousness, whimpering and muttering in pain "Save my children…. Please…...!"
Caelum nodded, now he could focus on the man's children. "I'm so sorry." He didn't have time to waste, there were hundreds more that needed him.
Peering up again into the house, the fire was slowly threatening to gulf the room. One of the girl's older brothers was shielding her from the smoke, while another tried desperately to fight the flames with the covers of their straw bed.
It wouldn't work. The straw was just feeding the flames as it burnt hotter, higher.
Steeling himself, Caelum rushed up the demolished section of the house toward the flames, the debris crunching beneath his feet.
The world slowed around him again, and he thanked the Gods for their aid as he rushed as fast as he could.
Willing the icy chill to fill his lungs, he let the frost from his breath battle the flames. He hadn't practiced this form of his magic with as much zeal as he had done to tame his strength. He could feel the strain from the effort now.
His lungs worked powerfully, the chilly wind from his breath settling a lot of the fire instantly, but the fire was proving to be untamable. It had spread along the houses lining the bank of the river. That was feeding this flame constantly and he couldn't fight them all at once.
It was fortunate that most of those houses had already been abandoned.
Or the people who lived in them were already charred corpses.
He tried not to think of that.
Making his mind and hoping to the Gods that the fire wouldn't damage him like the arrows hadn't, he readied himself.
He darted forward, embers flashing around him. The flames lapped at his tunic, singeing the edges, but the heat was nothing. Thank the Gods for yet another miracle.
His eyes flicked from wall to wall. The fire had spread to every side. He couldn't waste time picking his way through. He'd have to make his own path.
He stepped back, bracing himself. Then, with every ounce of power in his body, he charged forward. The wall buckled, cracked, and then exploded in a storm of shattered wood and stone. Rubble scattered around the children. The older boy threw himself over his siblings, shielding them from the debris.
Smoke filled the air. His tunic had caught fire, but he smothered it with a sweep of his hand. His eyes scanned the children. Their faces were wide with terror, but they were unhurt.
The oldest of the boys was older than Caelum, while the girl seemed younger.
They were all screaming in terror at the sight of him.
"Oh, Gods! No! Father have mercy!" The girl was praying hysterically, sobbing uncontrollably.
The older boy readied himself as if he was going to attack Caelum. But before he could the wood beneath their feet creaked ominously. The three stumbled, as the floor just in front of them collapsed, and hot tongues of flames separated Caelum from them.
Without wasting another second, Caelum breathed frosty air on the flame. Fortunately, this time it proved sufficient to snuff the fire out.
After taking a moment to understand what he had done, the teary-eyed little girl asked almost hesitantly "A-are you …the son of the …the Warrior? Did you come here… for us I mean?"
Caelum paused; he didn't really think he was some sort of a child of the Gods. The fact that his father found him cradled in the lap of a star that fell from the very heavens was of no consequence, he didn't believe that he was of divine blood.
He didn't like contemplating the nature of his being. Didn't like the idea that Gods had sent him with some grand purpose, or had something that he must face in the future. Why else would they grant his magic, The kinds of Power that beggared belief?
There wasn't time to be distracted. He gulped and put it out of his mind.
Shaking his head briefly, he replied "I am here to get you to safety. Your father is wounded down below, I have treated him the best I could. We need to leave."
All three of them looked at him briefly. After a while, the little girl made to approach Caelum, but her elder brother kept her back, "No, Ellyn! S-stay back! Can't you see his demonic eyes?! He… He could be a demon! STAY BACK!"
Caelum was beginning to feel frustrated; he wasn't some damned demon. He understood that people feared what they didn't understand. But all he wanted was to help them.
There were so many voices pounding his head, pleading for help just like these three had been. He couldn't afford to waste time. He needed to get these three to safety and help all the others in similar or worse situations throughout the city.
He decided he didn't care what they believed him to be, all that mattered was that them being safe.
Faster than they could react, he moved like a streak of fiery red. Crossing the broken gap in the floor in a single leap.
The eldest of the three reacted first and began to swing wildly at Caelum with his fists "By the light of the Seve-"
But before he could connect the swing, Caelum quickly took hold of the little girl, and the younger of the boys and hoped that his estimate of the strength of his grip was accurate enough to not break their bones.
At speeds, that Caelum was now certain were magical; he moved again swiftly dodging the blow from the older boy, and rushed with his younger siblings out of the burning house. At the speed he was moving he was trying his damned best to be careful not to break them as he dragged them out.
He had worked tirelessly to tame that unbridled magical strength of his, Archmaester Marwyn had been extremely thorough In helping him, but with the state of the city as it was, he wasn't being as careful as he would have preferred.
Within just a few moments, there were outside the blazing hot house, beside the children's wounded father.
"Wait here, I will go and get your brother!" Caelum tried his best to seem commanding. The fiery red eyes that his roiling rage had created seemed to have helped him succeed.
Within the blink of an eye, he was sprinting up the broken house and was back with the older boy who seemed to have just finished the swing he had launched at Caelum.
The boy spotted Caelum return and spun into a terrified fit of rage, his siblings had seemingly been taken from him; as he tried to charge him. "GIVE THEM BACK! GIVE THEM BACK!"
Caelum effortlessly dodged the charge that felt extremely slow to the magical speeds that Caelum was quickly learning to adapt to. Within one moment and the next, he secured a firm grip on the tunic of the older boy and dragged him out to the rest of his family as well.
The boys and the little girl were disoriented, their breaths coming in sharp gasps as they swayed from the abrupt stop. Their eyes blinked in rapid succession, their minds struggling to catch up with the world that had seemingly shifted around them.
Ellyn's gaze fixed on something behind Caelum. Her eyes widened in horror. "Father!" she cried, darting toward the crumpled form of her father lying in a growing pool of blood. The two boys followed after her, their faces a mix of fear, urgency, and utter confusion.
It seemed like the older boy was debating whether to try yet another attempt at fighting Caelum.
The man's eyes fluttered open, barely a crack, clouded with pain and exhaustion. But when his gaze fell on Ellyn, something in his eyes shifted. Recognition. His cracked lips moved, breath wheezing as he whispered, "Ellyn... I see you... I see you. Gods above… please, you're safe. I hope you're….!"
Tears welled in her eyes as she fell to her knees, clutching his hand. "Father, we're here. We're all here! We're alright…" she said, her voice breaking into sobs.
"'m so happy," the man muttered, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. His eyes glistened, one final tear rolling down his soot-streaked face. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled his daughter into his chest, his arms trembling from the effort. His head drooped as his eyes closed, his body going slack.
"Father!" Ellyn's voice was shrill, her hands shaking him, her sobs breaking into panicked gasps. "Please, wake up! Wake up!"
"He's alive," Caelum's voice cut through, calm but firm. He could see the faint beating of the man's heart. "He's unconscious but alive. You need to move him now if you want to keep him that way."
The oldest boy's head snapped up at Caelum's words. His face hardened; his fear slowly overtaken by grim determination. He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his sleeve, straightening his posture as best he could.
"Pick him up," Caelum ordered as commandingly as he could, stepping forward, his eyes blazing red with barely contained heat. "Carry him to the Starry Sept. You'll be safe there."
The boy's gaze flickered to Caelum's eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed his fear. Slowly, he nodded, eyes darting briefly to his unconscious father. "Earl," he said, turning to the younger of the two boys. "Take Ellyn. Carry her on your back. We're going to the Sept."
Earl's lower lip quivered, but he wiped his tears on his sleeve and gave a firm nod. "Okay," he said with surprising resolve. He turned to Ellyn, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Ellyn. I'll carry you."
"But Father —" Ellyn's eyes darted between her father's limp form and her brothers.
"We're bringing him too," the older boy said, his voice carrying a weight it hadn't had moments before. "Trust me, we'll bring him. But we must go."
Ellyn's face scrunched as fresh tears spilled over, but she nodded, clinging to Earl's neck as he lifted her onto his back. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, her small fingers clutching his tunic. Earl's legs shook for only a moment before he set his jaw and started forward.
"Thank you…. m'lord. I thank the Gods for sending you to us," the older boy said, his voice thick with emotion. He glanced at Caelum, eyes filled with something between awe and fear. "Thank you for saving us."
Caelum's gaze stayed steady on him. "Run. Don't stop. Get to the Sept and don't look back. Stick to the back alleys, and stay away from the river."
The boy bent down, grunting as he hefted his father's arm over his shoulder and slowly lifted him.
With a pained grimace, he staggered forward, step by step, toward safety. Earl followed, carrying Ellyn as best he could. Their father's weight was too much for the older boy, but he moved anyway, slow and steady.
"I knew you were the Warrior's son," Ellyn's small voice drifted back, barely louder than the crackling fire. "You are, aren't you? Please, please …. please, make the bad men go away? You will, please tell me you will?"
Caelum's breath caught in his chest. He stared at the small girl's tear-streaked face, the red tint of the world softening just a touch. He didn't give her any reply and turned his back to the slowly leaving family.
He didn't have time to dwell on her words.
There were more voices in his head. More screams. More pleas for help.
His feet moved before his mind did. He'd already broken into a sprint, a fiery red blur cutting through the chaos as he shot toward the next voice crying out for help.
The voices struck him like hammer blows. Hundreds of them, crashing into his mind with the force of a storm—shouts, screams, sobs, and prayers.
He was getting closer to the docks. The Ironborn had set the entire damned fleet docked there on fire. The voices were getting louder, more terrified.
"Help us! Please, someone, they're breaking down the door!" A woman shrieked in terror.
And another man from a few houses down, "My son! My son is still inside! Please, gods, save him!"
"Get away from her, you squid bastards!" A young boy's angry voice, followed by the slashing and squelching of rent flesh.
"She's a soft one, lads! Jus' look at the breasts on her! We'll savor her tonight! I want a taste of her soft cunt firs'!" A cruel voice, followed by the shriek of a woman, and jeering laughter.
"Hold the door, MEN! HOLD THE DOOR! WE CANNOT LET THEM THROUGH!" Panicked guards from some inn down the street, as they desperately defended against a charging horde of iron born.
"Don't hurt her! Take me instead!" Another girl's scream.
"The fire's too strong! We're trapped in here! We will be cooked alive!"
"Run! Run to the Sept! They'll protect us there!"
"No! No, please, not my daughter! No! Take me, not her!"
The voices spun around him, each one more urgent than the last. It was too much. Too many. He'd wasted too much time trying to talk to that family. In the moments he'd spent convincing them to flee, people had died.
His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
No more.
He pushed his magic harder, faster, and shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. His legs moved like lightning, his breath steady, his focus sharp as steel. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't speak. No more delays. No more explanations. If they feared him, so be it. He'd save them anyway.
The world blurred around him, smoke and flame flashing past in streaks of red and black. He honed in on the nearest voice.
There were three in equal distance all around him.
A woman's voice, cracked with grief, calling for the gods, for anyone to answer her. The cries of a little babe muffled by her side.
The screams of an old man, as he tried to carry his dismembered son, and wife out of a nearly collapsed inn.
The cries of huddled children, terrified of yet another fire in some house that was on the brink of collapse.
They were all near him, but he knew in his very soul. No matter how fast he ran, he would have to choose one to save, the rest would die. He would not be able to save all of them in time.
He prayed to Seven. Prayed to them to have mercy on his soul. And made his choice.
Caelum's feet skidded to a stop in front of a burning house. The door hung open, broken, and burnt on one hinge. Inside, the fire had already consumed most of the lower floor. The air was a furnace, thick with heat and smoke. He peered through the flames and spotted her.
The woman cradled her baby to her chest, rocking back and forth beside the charred remains of a man. Her eyes were hollow with shock, her lips trembling as she muttered prayers through clenched teeth.
"Gods, gods, please... What do I do? Wake up! ROLEN! GODS PLEASE WAKE UP!" Her fingers clutched the child tighter, her knuckles white from the strain as he screamed, pleading for the man to wake up.
Her eyes snapped up when Caelum broke through the wall with a shattering crack of wood and stone. She flinched, curling over her baby as if her body alone could shield it.
"H-help!" she gasped, her voice hoarse from smoke and panic. Her eyes locked on his glowing red gaze. "No! What are you?! No! Stay away! Stay away from us!"
Caelum's jaw tightened, as he righted himself; but he didn't stop. He moved straight to her, his gaze locked on her face. "I'm getting you out of here," he said, his voice hard as iron. "Hold on to your child. Hold on tight."
Her breath hitched, her eyes darting from his eyes to the wreckage behind him. "Gods! Demon! HELP! Stay away! Not my baby too! No, please, my husband—" Her gaze shifted to the charred body even as Caelum hefted her easily in his tiny hand before she could react trying to shield her babe properly; as he leapt out of the house through the opening he had created.
It took her a moment to breathe.
"Rolen… Please, not my babe, no…..he… he…" Her sobs came in shuddering waves, as she collected herself from the ordeal, her body folding in on itself. She curled in on herself, covering her babe. Seeming to understand what had happened to her. "Please, my husband is in there! Please!" Her voice cracked, broken by grief.
Caelum's heart ached at her words, but he didn't let it slow him. He crouched beside her, his hands gentle but firm as he took her by the arm. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, raw with sincerity. "He's gone. You can't help him now. But you can help your child. You have to think of your child."
Her sobs quieted just slightly, her gaze shifting down to the baby in her arms. The little one's cries pierced the air, high-pitched and raw. Her arms shook, but she held him close.
"Go to the Starry Sept or the Citadel," Caelum said firmly. "The streets aren't safe, but the Sept will be. Run. Run and don't stop."
Her breath was ragged, her eyes flicking to the charred remains of her husband one last time. Tears streaked down her soot-stained face. Her lips trembled.
Her arms shifted, cradling the baby tighter.
She rose to her feet on shaky legs, one last, long glance cast at her smoldering home. Her shoulders shook with a silent sob.
"Go," Caelum said, watching her as she stumbled into the street along with the others.
She stumbled again, as she gazed blankly at the rushing and screaming crowd around her, the green blaze from the High Tower, as she tried to comprehend the sudden upending of what was possibly her entire life.
"Gods…." She breathed, clutching her wailing babe closer to her bosom, her eyes lingering on Caelum's fiery red with fear, apprehension, and reverent awe. "Make them pay, m'lord…. Please, for my husband. Make them face the wrath of the warrior himself!"
Caelum didn't know if he had the strength to take all the Ironborn on himself. He didn't even know where to begin.
He needed to move on and hoped the Gods would help him save just one more.
All he could do was nod at the woman, as he watched her stumble along with the fleeing terrified crowd making for what meager safety they could find in the far distance.
Caelum hoped she would make it in time, he needed to keep moving.
He could hear the people dying, as they breathed their last breaths.
He could see the results of the choices he had made; past the throngs of the panicked fleeing crowd being guided along by what few guards were able to do so in the streets. Smoke rose from where the children had been, curling around their charred husks. The old man lay pinned in a ruin of splintered beams, his family's arms still wrapped around.
And from here, he was witnessing some of the most horrifying cruelty he could imagine. People being tortured, women being raped, children being burnt in the most horrifying ways to sate the sick pleasures, and cruelty of the iron born; and he couldn't just not listen.
He needed to keep on moving, keep trying to help whoever he could.
He didn't know if he had the capacity to weigh the value of the lives he had to save.
Should he be rushing straight into battle with the Ironborn?
He had been ignoring the skirmishes in the streets, on the bridges in the honey wine, and wherever open fighting was taking place in the streets and alleys of the city rushing past them, doing what little he could, wherever he felt he had the opportunity to do so.
Till now, all he had done was trip over what little contingent of men had surrounded the guards at the Learned Anchor, with just the briefest of touches as he had rushed out toward the nearest sound of a cry for help and hoped that had been enough for the guards to take them down by themselves.
He had wasted so much time in trying to talk to the people, guide them toward safety. He realized he didn't really have the luxury to do that.
Every moment somebody was dying, somebody that he could have saved if he had been just a little bit more decisive. Just a little faster than he already miraculously was. Smarter in making his actions.
He didn't want to have to choose which lives were more worthy of saving. He had been running toward every single cry for help that he could reach in the shortest time.
Was this what it felt to be a knight?
To weigh the lives of the men and women under your protection? Decide who to protect? Who to serve, and who to let die, and how?
He didn't feel very Knightly in his actions. He felt he could do better.
The problem was, he didn't know how!
What would Luke do?
He would think, slow down, and weigh his actions and their consequences. He was doing that.
Gods he hoped he was doing it well. He didn't think so, people were still dying all around him.
He should stop trying to talk to the people he saved, he could get them to relative safety away from whatever danger is immediately threatening them, and hope they could take care of themselves after the largest of the dangers has been dealt with. Get to safety, follow the crowd, and reach the Sept or the Citadel. Or leave the city entirely.
He could see that looking at someone like him, someone who was so different, so frightening was not helping them much. They all thought he was some sort of a demon from the deepest pits of the Seventh Hell, or a divine being borne from the loins of the Warrior himself.
He wasn't.
It wasn't of any help, and he didn't think he had the time to convince them otherwise.
The deep hot red hue of the world around him intensified as his rage simmered harsher behind his eyes. He seethed with rage — at himself, at the world, even the Gods, and at the Ironborn defiling the city.
Why were they here? The war being fought in the Seven Kingdoms seemed so distant; he hadn't expected an attack so far into the Reach.
Was their aim to encumber reinforcement and resources from the Hightower?
To distract the marching armies making their way for the fields of battle?
Or was this a target of opportunity?
How had they gotten past the chain barricading the Whispering Sound?
No.
That was the problem of more level-headed, responsible men. He did not have the luxury to ponder these questions. All he could do was continue running as fast as his legs, his magic could take him.
He ran like a blur through the city, a horse galloping through the stormy smoky wind. He shouldered past skirmishes in the street, toppling what few Ironborn stood in his way, hoping that was enough for the men around them to overpower them.
He kept leaping through walls of burning homes, half-toppled inns, fiery monasteries, and burning septs in the streets of Oldtown. Saving whoever needed saving inside and leaving them behind before they could even scream and acknowledge his presence.
All the time he felt his soul break inside as he was forced to make the difficult, senseless choice between who to save and who to sacrifice in the heat of the moment.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
For every soul he saved, it seemed two died before he could reach them.
He prayed he'd have a soul left by dawn. But deep down, he knew it was already broken.
If dawn ever came. It didn't feel like it would; the roiling hateful display of abject, senseless cruelty around him didn't make it feel it would.
"YOU'LL NOT TOUCH HER! I WON'T LET YOU-" The roar was cut short abruptly, followed by a gurgled scream and the sound of tearing flesh.
He was very close to the docks now, and he was certain he was near the whore houses. He could see battle isle, and the burning fortress at the base of the Hightower clearly from here. What little reserve fleet that House Hightower had remaining in the bay was now almost entirely ablaze.
Even what little ships they had gotten out to sail when the first ships of the incoming fleet of the Ironborn had been spotted at the horizon beneath the fog of Whispering Sound were surrounded and slowly sinking to depths of the harbor.
He didn't know how many people he had saved by this point. Not enough.
"Oh, we're doin' much more than touch ya old goat! Won't we my sweet?"
He sprinted in the direction of the voices. It was yet another half-burnt building.
"Hold her down!" a man's voice, guttural and thick with glee, cut through the haze. "Don't let her scratch you, lads! She's a wild little cat, this one!"
"Aye, Goren, you talk too much! I'm gettin' my fill now," another barked, his voice closer. "Ain't had cunt fresh in weeks. Let her scream."
Caelum's heart thundered in his chest. His eyes darted toward the sound. The glow of the burning house made shadows dance across the ground, and within those shifting shapes, he saw them.
The old man knelt in front of them, panting, blood streaking his face, his arms limp like broken branches. Two boys lay beside him, twisted and still, their throats opened wide, their blood soaking the dirt. His sons, Caelum realized with a spike of cold horror. Sons who had tried to fight. Sons who had died for it.
The old man's body shook as he dragged himself forward on trembling arms. He clawed at the dirt, toward the girl. She was barely older than Meredith, her face streaked with soot and tears, her dress torn at the collar. Two reavers had her by the arms, their grins sharp as knives as they dragged her to the ground.
"You seein' this, boys?" One of the reavers nudged his companion with a toothy grin. "This old goat's still crawlin'. Ain't that sweet?"
"Aye, it's so sweet, I feel sick..." Another reaver laughed, unsheathing his knife, its edge flashing in the firelight. "I say we cut off his balls, and feed 'em to the girl. Goren, reckon he's got the stones for it?"
The first reaver, Goren, scratched at his beard, sneering. "Let's find out. Do it. That'll shut 'im up."
Caelum's breath hitched.
His legs moved before his mind could catch up, each step striking the ground with the force of a war drum. His eyes locked on the girl's tear-streaked face, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Faster. Faster. He needed to be faster!
One of the reavers grabbed the girl's arm, his fingers curling tight around her wrist as he yanked her down. She twisted and kicked, her foot striking his shin with a dull thud. "She's feisty!" he snarled, yanking her harder. She fell face-first on top of her brother's corpse. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and she gasped like a drowning fish.
"Just watch her squirm" the man sneered, tugging at the frayed hem of her dress. "Quick boys, I'm hard as a rock, I wanna taste her!"
Not again. Caelum's mind reeled with the memory of the tourney grounds, of Pia dragged into the buttery. His chest burned with fury hotter than the flames licking the buildings. His eyes flared, twin infernos casting the world in crimson.
He was too far. Too far. This horror was happening in too many places.
"Can't wait any longer, Goren," said one of the reavers, his breath ragged with anticipation. "Greyjoy said to not waste time, I'm soaked."
"Piss yourself in front of the old squid, aye?" Goren laughed, nudging him. "Go on then, just leave some for the rest of us."
The old man, battered and bleeding, lifted his head. His voice was a rasp of broken glass. "No… not my girl… not her… please… please..."
The reaver with the knife grinned down at him. "You're lucky, old man. You'll be dead; as we take her on top of your dead sons!" He shoved him flat with a boot to the back.
His brain rattled in his skull. The old man died on impact.
Rage exploded inside Caelum. The world flashed red.
He had been preparing himself to be a Knight, but he had been scared of ever being forced to take a life. It was necessary, he knew. An eventuality that he would have to deal with if he ever did become one.
He had given up on that dream already, his magic wouldn't let him have that luxury. But there was no time to worry about his soul anymore. No time to think about what he was about to do.
There was no time to have doubts. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
No time for mercy.
They didn't hear him coming.
Not until the air itself screamed as he broke through the wall of the burning building.
The closest reaver barely had time to turn before Caelum's shoulder smashed into him like a charging bull. Bones crunched, and the man's scream was short-lived as he was hurled through the air like a child's toy. He struck the wall behind him on the other side, spidery cracks forming immediately, a wet thud echoing as his body crumpled to the ground. He did not move.
The others spun, eyes wide with shock. "What the—"
He didn't stop.
He caught the second reaver mid-turn, his hand closing around the man's throat like an iron vise. For a brief moment, the reaver's eyes bulged with terror. He barely managed to choke out, "No, wait—"
"Not so tough now are you?" Caelum squeezed.
There was a crack, sharp as a breaking branch.
Caelum felt his soul crack further.
He dropped the body before it even hit the ground.
"DEMON!" One of the reavers stumbled back, tripping over the old man's corpse. "DEMON, IT'S A DEMON!"
The nine remaining rapers scattered, scrambling for weapons, for footing, for sense.
Too slow.
Caelum moved through them like a storm, a streak of fiery red, faster than their minds could comprehend. His fists struck like thunderbolts. A jaw shattered. A ribcage crumpled. A heart exploded. A reaver spun wildly, eyes rolling back as his body collapsed. The sharp tang of blood filled the air, fresh and hot.
The walls of the house were shattered completely, the roof standing on the legs of the last two.
A blade came for him from the side. He twisted, the world moving in slow, deliberate snails pace as he watched the blade crawl toward him. His hand snapped out, catching the reaver's wrist mid-swing. His eyes met the man's.
The reaver's face twisted with fear. "No, please, gods—"
Caelum's gaze burned hotter than the flames. His hand wrenched the blade free, twisting it back toward its owner. Steel pierced flesh.
The reaver gasped, his eyes going wide.
Caelum let him fall.
One of the reavers bolted for the door, his boots thundering against the floor. He didn't make it. A rock, hurled like a ballista bolt, struck him in the back of the skull. He dropped face-first into the dirt, limbs twitching once before going still.
Three left.
Two of them backed away, eyes darting toward the exits. The third, Goren, stayed. His lips curled back, revealing yellow, crooked quivering teeth. He drew his axe from his belt, gripping it tight. "T-the drowned gods take you" he growled, his eyes narrowing with a predator's focus. "T-THE DEVIL WILL DIE BY MY AXE!"
"I would like to see you try!" Caelum growled.
The fire behind him framed him like a figure from a nightmare from the depths of the seven hells. The world itself seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his presence, and the light of his fiery eyes, two burning bright red coals, cast long shadows across the ground.
Goren hesitated. He barked a fake laugh to steady himself, taking a step forward. "Y-you think I'm afraid? I will piss on your grave! What is dead may never die!"
He lunged.
Caelum didn't move until the last moment. When he did, it was as though he disappeared. Goren's swing cut through empty air.
The reaver had a second to blink before Caelum was behind him. His foot shot out, a sharp, brutal kick to the back of Goren's knee. The man dropped with a howl, falling to one knee.
Caelum's hand shot out, seizing the back of his head.
He shoved it into the dirt.
"Not so tough now! Are you?!" Caelum said, his voice low, barely more than a growl. He squeezed, blood flowed on his trembling hands, and the man died choked instantly.
The other two reavers ran.
He let them. They wouldn't get far.
The girl was still there.
Her father lay unmoving, the girl sobbing as she cradled his blood-stained head in her lap. "Father! Father, wake up!" Her hands shook him, fingers stained with dirt and blood. Her wide, terrified eyes darted to Caelum. Her gaze lingered on the fiery glow of his eyes.
"Are you—are you the Warrior?" she asked, her voice fragile, a thread stretched too thin. "Please…. Please, help my father! You can, can't you?"
He crouched beside her, eyes softening, the fire in them dimming. He could still hear more screams from the docks. The weight of it all pressed on him, suffocating and endless.
Caelum gulped hard, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His hands shook uncontrollably, stained with warmth that wasn't his own. His palms stung where his nails had dug into them, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Not now.
He glanced down at the girl, still cradling her father's head. Her face was a mask of soot, blood, and tears, eyes swollen and red from crying. She clung to the old man's hand like it was the last anchor in a world gone mad.
"I—" his voice cracked. He swallowed again and forced his words out. "There's no time."
The girl shook her head wildly, tears running hot down her cheeks. "Please, please, please," she sobbed, her voice brittle and broken. Her small frame shook with every word. "He's breathing, he's breathing, he's still breathing—please—"
Her father was not breathing.
Her eyes met his, wide and full of desperate hope. Hope that was already dead.
Caelum's chest ached, a deep, hollow pain that felt like it was digging into his ribs. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. If you think, you'll break. If you think, you'll stop. You can't stop. You can't stop.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."
Her face crumpled, the last of her resolve crumbling like a clay figure struck by a hammer. Her sobs were quiet now, choked and uneven, her face pressed against her father's chest. Her fingers wouldn't let him go. She clung to his body with all the might of a child too young to understand why the world was so cruel.
The roof groaned above them, a low, drawn-out creak. Embers flickered down like fireflies, little pinpricks of light drifting toward the ground. The final walls of the house buckled under the weight, smoke billowing out from the gaps. The orange glow of flames cast shadows that danced like specters on every surface.
Move. Move now.
Caelum moved before his mind could argue. He leaned down, his arms sliding beneath the girl's shoulders and knees. She fought for only a moment, gripping her father tighter before her fingers slipped free. Her sobs turned into wailing cries, her legs kicking weakly as she reached out for him. "No! No, no, no! Please, please, please!" she wailed, her voice higher than it should have been, raw from screaming. "Please, don't leave him! DON'T LEAVE HIM!"
Her cries burned deeper than any fire ever could. His eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat too long. When he opened them, he was already sprinting.
One more. Just one more.
The building collapsed behind him. Fire roared louder than thunder as the last of the walls crumbled into ash and rubble. Black smoke billowed outward, filling the street with choking soot. The girl screamed as she watched it fall, her voice hoarse and wild, like a trapped animal caught in a snare.
Don't look back.
Caelum didn't stop. His legs moved with the same steady rhythm he'd kept all night. Every house, every street, every alley felt the same. The smell of burning flesh. The heat of roaring flames. The cries of men, women, and children. His eyes stayed locked on the road ahead. He didn't wait for her to thank him. He didn't wait for her to say a word. He didn't dare look back.
"Run for the Sept or the Citadel!" he called, his voice rough as sand. "Don't stop! Run!"
He didn't look to see if she obeyed.
The world blurred around him, a collage of flickering orange light and suffocating darkness. His lungs heaved, pulling in air that tasted like soot and copper.
More voices echoed in his head. The screams never stopped.
The docks were worse.
He could hear it all.
Every footstep. Every wail. Every scream. Every cruel laugh of the Ironborn.
"Take 'er to the longship, boys! She's a fine one—give her to the Greyjoy for first pickin'!"
A child's high-pitched wail, barely human in its raw terror.
"Don't cry, girl, you'll be home soon enough. I'll teach you to love it."
The heavy thud of a man being thrown to the ground, followed by the wet crunch of a boot cracking his ribs.
"PLEASE! TAKE THE GOLD, TAKE IT ALL! JUST LEAVE THEM BE!"
He felt like he was drowning in it all.
For every soul he saved, three more were being dragged from their homes, thrown onto Ironborn ships, or pinned to the ground by cruel, cruel men. For every scream he silenced, three more rose in its place.
It will never be enough. It will never be enough.
Caelum's breaths were shallow now. His muscles ached, his legs burned with every push forward. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Not when he could hear the sound of bones breaking.
Not when he could hear the gurgling chokes of dying men.
Not when he could hear women sobbing, their words broken into incomprehensible pleas.
Not when he could hear the wet slap of flesh.
He ran.
He ran faster than he'd ever run before.
He burst into homes without warning, rubble flying as he barreled through walls and burning timber. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think.
There was no time to think.
Each home was the same.
Fires.
Bodies.
Blood on the walls.
He dragged children from the wreckage. He snatched mothers and fathers from the flames, from the bodies of their children. Children from the corpses of their mothers. He threw men to safety. Saved holy men from burning monasteries and septs.
Every face blurred into one. They were all the same. They all had the same wide, tear-streaked faces. They all cried. They all begged for loved ones they would never see again.
Each time, he told them the same thing. "Run for the Starry Sept or the Citadel. RUN!"
And every time, he didn't wait to see if they listened.
The fights were harder now. slower.
He clashed with the Ironborn directly.
They were cruel men, laughing as they killed, grinning as they fought. All their faces twisted to pure abject terror at the sight of him.
Each time he met them, his hands moved faster than thought. Bones shattered beneath his fists. His arms swung like battering rams, his strength barely held in check. He didn't stop.
Every punch crunched through bone.
Every swing ended with a body crumpled at his feet.
He felt each impact like it was his own soul breaking.
He felt every bone snap, every chest cave inward, every lung collapse. He heard every crunch, every gurgle of blood. His hands were red and slick with it.
I'm dirty.
He clenched his fists, squeezing his fingers until his knuckles cracked. It's their blood, not mine. Their blood, not mine. Their blood. Not mine.
He crushed their ribs.
He snapped their necks.
He twisted their arms until they broke.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He wasn't saving people anymore. He was killing men.
He wasn't sure when it had started. He wasn't sure when he had decided it was necessary. But now his hands moved before his mind did. His heart pounded with every blow. His breathing was shallow and quick, the heat of his rage radiating from his eyes like a furnace.
His soul felt heavier now. He could feel the weight of it. Every life he took, every breath he ended, it pulled him further and further down.
I'm not the Warrior. I am not his son.
He stared at his hands, fingers trembling, palms stained red.
I'm not a knight. I will never be one.
He could hear them still. Screaming. Pleading. Dying.
They called him "Demon." They called him "The Warrior." They called him "Savior." They didn't know what he was.
He didn't know what he was.
His gaze turned toward the heart of Oldtown. Toward the Hightower, its green flames spiraling upward like a beacon of ruin. Lit up alongside the burning fortress at its feet.
Toward the burning ships in the harbor. Toward the men dying on the bridges.
This has to end.
He didn't know if he could end it.
But he knew he had to try.
The fires of his rage burned hotter. I need this to end. I need it to end.
He shot forward, a streak of red and gold. His eyes were brighter now. His world was red, and the flames looked so much like home.
Caelum scanned the bay. There were no boats across.
The Honeywine churned with wreckage, its black waters swallowing debris, bodies, and flames alike. Every ship that wasn't already burning was an Ironborn vessel.
His gaze lifted to the Hightower. Its flames spiraled into the storm, a pillar of green fire at the heart of the city. Battle Isle lay just beyond, surrounded by raging water. He could hear the clash of steel from behind its walls.
Screams. Shouts. Orders to get the flames under control.
He had to get there. Free the main garrison. Help them somehow.
His eyes darted down the main street. The cobblestones were slick with rain, blood, and ash. Skirmishes raged around him. Ironborn cut down Hightower guards. Civilians ran, trampled, or fell. His path was clear — a straight shot from here to the docks where Lord and Lady Hightower's ship once docked.
The river is too wide. No boat. No time.
His hands clenched into trembling fists. His blood-soaked fingers flexed. His legs tensed.
He needed to jump.
His heart pounded.
Could he make it? There was no time to doubt. No time to think.
His breath shuddered as he took a step back, eyes locked on the far shore. His chest heaved. His blood roared in his ears. The storm rumbled above, thunder rolling like a drumbeat for war.
Run. Run and don't stop. Don't think. Just jump.
He bolted. Faster than he'd ever run throughout the night. He was certain he could match a galloping horse in speed.
His feet struck the ground like thunderclaps, each step faster than the last. The world slowed around him. Skirmishes blurred into red and steel. Rain froze midair. Flames bent and stretched like streaks of light.
The edge of the dock rushed toward him. He didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. His legs coiled, muscles tight like a spring drawn to its limit. His eyes fixed on the far shore.
Jump.
He leapt.
The world fell away.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
I AM BACK!
Well. I have been back for a while... I just graduated.
And have been job hunting. Rejection sucks.
Anyway!
This chapter is half complete! I am working on the other half. I wanted to write the entire thing in a single night. But there is so much to cover. A lot of this, I felt was necessary
I am expecting some people will have issues with Caelum killing in this chapter. I feel everyone knew that was coming. I mean, in MoS Clark was forced to Kill General Zod, when he felt he had no other choice.
There is a reason I chose that version of Superman for this. But trust me, I have a plan for him. I have a plan to deal with that.
I will have the next part of this chapter out soon. I promise I won't take as long as I did to get this out.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning crackled ominously illuminating the angry dark sky. The smell of the roiling sea was overpowered by the thick soot and ash that clung to the air.
And yet the roar of the thunder; the crackle of lightning; and the choking green fiery smoke from the burning tower were but mere afterthoughts in his mind.
The screams of terror, pleas for help, the echo of the clanging bells, and the horror in the people's voices from all over the city, wouldn't let him focus on anything else.
It was overwhelming.
He hadn't let go of the tight control he had been maintaining over his hearing, not since the sounds had overpowered him back at the tourney of Harrenhall. He had learned since then to harness that magic, to focus on the quietest of sounds from the thousands, hundreds of thousands of voices in a city like Oldtown.
But this? This was beyond him. The raw horror in their voices almost shattered his concentration, threatening to drown him in their agony.
It had been easy to reassure his friends, to claim that he would be alright, to believe that he wouldn't be hurt. Couldn't be. It had been necessary to make that claim, he couldn't stomach the worry they had for him and hoped his reassurances were enough.
The truth was that he was scared. In his very bones, in his soul he was afraid. Afraid that he would not be there in time, that he would not hear the pleas of the people who so desperately needed help. That people would die when he could do something about their pain, their suffering.
"Somebody! Please, help my daughter! My sons! They're burning! Gods ….! Please! Help!" Another horrified scream from a man reached his ear as he ran, faster than he had run ever before in his life.
That's all he had been doing since he had jumped out from the inn.
Running towards the nearest screams, hoping beyond all hope that he was fast enough, that his magic would not fail him now that he desperately needed its aid. That the Gods above would watch over him as he ran to help all those that he could.
There were too many. He didn't have time to think.
He needed to help them. Do something!
People were dying, they were being burnt alive, being crushed under the feet of others as they ran from the cruel angry hordes of the Ironborn raiders.
The Seven damned raiders charged through the streets; their laughter, the sheer malicious cruelty in it was so jarring that the rage he felt at it almost caused him to lose control over the fire broiling behind his eyes. His world was washed in hues of red.
But he couldn't afford to lose himself in the rage, even as the world tinted a piercing hot red, he kept the fire in check. He would not add to the fires that were already burning the heart of the city with more of his own. And yet the rage-filled heat remained bubbling behind his eyes.
The first house he reached was half-collapsed, fire eating away at its upper floors. The flames licked out of the windows like hungry venomous serpents, while the scorched remains of a wooden beam pinned a man to the ground outside.
He was close to the honey wine and the fire had likely come from one of the many ships that were now lining the banks of the treacherous waters of the oft-gentle river.
The city's streets were a maelstrom of bodies. People fled in every direction; their faces twisted with terror. Innkeepers herded whores and patrons into their cellars, mothers clutched their children, and the Starry Sept's bells rang ceaselessly. Ironborn laughter, their toxic hate-filled jeering, taunting echoed through it all — harsh, cruel, jagged like broken glass.
To Caelum, their movement was slower than even that of a snail. And still, it was not enough.
Hundreds were breathing their last due to the sheer cruelty of the Ironborn around him.
And there were hundreds more of people like the man, who were desperately in need of help but had no one to turn to.
No.
Not when he could do something about it.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Faster than the wind, leaving streaks of blazing heat that still threatened to burst from his eyes, as he arrived by the nearly fainting man's side.
The man's leg was gone from the thigh down, blood pooling beneath him like wine spilled from a cask.
Caelum could see that he would not survive more than a few minutes with the buckets of blood that were threatening to flow from the open stump of his leg. Despite all that, the man was pleading for someone to save his children, not him.
Peering through the walls of the burning house, he could see the two boys and their young sister cowering on the upper floor of the house, near the far wall. The fire had begun to lick the windows, and the door was wreathed in tongues of dancing flames.
They would survive for now. He could save the man, and then run to their aid.
Gods, he hoped he was right.
The pace of the world resumed as he assessed the man closer, searching for ways to properly aid him. He tried not to think of the hundreds of similar pleas that were still pounding away in his head.
"My boys! My daughter!" The man was hysterical, nearly out of consciousness. The loss of blood was threatening to take him away. The man hadn't noticed Caelum standing over him, by his side. His ashen, nearly pale face was streaked with tears. "Gods…. please save my children!"
Finding a good place to hold onto the beam that had the man pinned, and with the barest of his overwhelming strength he hefted the weighty thing off the man. The rubble from the burnt and collapsed part of his house flew away in the process.
As the weight lifted, the man's gaze found Caelum, his cracked lips moving to plead. "Oh, Gods… Boy, leave me! I am a dead man! Save my-" he paused, his pained and panicked eyes focusing on the fiery blaze of Caelum's own.
Caelum needed to stop the man's bleeding. When he had removed the beam, what little pressure had slowed the flow of blood keeping him alive had been removed and blood had begun to flow freely. The man would die if nothing was done.
"Clench your teeth, please!" Caelum pleaded to the man, as he focused his gaze on the man's bleeding stump. "This will hurt!"
"No…, no. NO. NOOOO! S-stay away!" The man begged, clawing at the ground, "Gods, Demon! Help! HELP! STAY WAY YOU HELL BORN WRETCH!"
Caelum ignored the pain the man's fear caused in his heart. He focused on the wound and hoped to the Seven above that he could stop the bleeding. Releasing the tight control he had kept on the wrathful fire in his eyes, the scorching flames burst forth.
The man's guttural scream ripped through the air as his body jerked beneath Caelum's grip. Flesh blackened, blood boiled, and he was reminded of Ser Elmar. He felt bile rise in his throat at the horrific reminder of what he had done to the Knight.
It was over in an instant. The man would survive.
Miraculously, he was still holding onto consciousness, whimpering and muttering in pain "Save my children…. Please…...!"
Caelum nodded, now he could focus on the man's children. "I'm so sorry." He didn't have time to waste, there were hundreds more that needed him.
Peering up again into the house, the fire was slowly threatening to gulf the room. One of the girl's older brothers was shielding her from the smoke, while another tried desperately to fight the flames with the covers of their straw bed.
It wouldn't work. The straw was just feeding the flames as it burnt hotter, higher.
Steeling himself, Caelum rushed up the demolished section of the house toward the flames, the debris crunching beneath his feet.
The world slowed around him again, and he thanked the Gods for their aid as he rushed as fast as he could.
Willing the icy chill to fill his lungs, he let the frost from his breath battle the flames. He hadn't practiced this form of his magic with as much zeal as he had done to tame his strength. He could feel the strain from the effort now.
His lungs worked powerfully, the chilly wind from his breath settling a lot of the fire instantly, but the fire was proving to be untamable. It had spread along the houses lining the bank of the river. That was feeding this flame constantly and he couldn't fight them all at once.
It was fortunate that most of those houses had already been abandoned.
Or the people who lived in them were already charred corpses.
He tried not to think of that.
Making his mind and hoping to the Gods that the fire wouldn't damage him like the arrows hadn't, he readied himself.
He darted forward, embers flashing around him. The flames lapped at his tunic, singeing the edges, but the heat was nothing. Thank the Gods for yet another miracle.
His eyes flicked from wall to wall. The fire had spread to every side. He couldn't waste time picking his way through. He'd have to make his own path.
He stepped back, bracing himself. Then, with every ounce of power in his body, he charged forward. The wall buckled, cracked, and then exploded in a storm of shattered wood and stone. Rubble scattered around the children. The older boy threw himself over his siblings, shielding them from the debris.
Smoke filled the air. His tunic had caught fire, but he smothered it with a sweep of his hand. His eyes scanned the children. Their faces were wide with terror, but they were unhurt.
The oldest of the boys was older than Caelum, while the girl seemed younger.
They were all screaming in terror at the sight of him.
"Oh, Gods! No! Father have mercy!" The girl was praying hysterically, sobbing uncontrollably.
The older boy readied himself as if he was going to attack Caelum. But before he could the wood beneath their feet creaked ominously. The three stumbled, as the floor just in front of them collapsed, and hot tongues of flames separated Caelum from them.
Without wasting another second, Caelum breathed frosty air on the flame. Fortunately, this time it proved sufficient to snuff the fire out.
After taking a moment to understand what he had done, the teary-eyed little girl asked almost hesitantly "A-are you …the son of the …the Warrior? Did you come here… for us I mean?"
Caelum paused; he didn't really think he was some sort of a child of the Gods. The fact that his father found him cradled in the lap of a star that fell from the very heavens was of no consequence, he didn't believe that he was of divine blood.
He didn't like contemplating the nature of his being. Didn't like the idea that Gods had sent him with some grand purpose, or had something that he must face in the future. Why else would they grant his magic, The kinds of Power that beggared belief?
There wasn't time to be distracted. He gulped and put it out of his mind.
Shaking his head briefly, he replied "I am here to get you to safety. Your father is wounded down below, I have treated him the best I could. We need to leave."
All three of them looked at him briefly. After a while, the little girl made to approach Caelum, but her elder brother kept her back, "No, Ellyn! S-stay back! Can't you see his demonic eyes?! He… He could be a demon! STAY BACK!"
Caelum was beginning to feel frustrated; he wasn't some damned demon. He understood that people feared what they didn't understand. But all he wanted was to help them.
There were so many voices pounding his head, pleading for help just like these three had been. He couldn't afford to waste time. He needed to get these three to safety and help all the others in similar or worse situations throughout the city.
He decided he didn't care what they believed him to be, all that mattered was that them being safe.
Faster than they could react, he moved like a streak of fiery red. Crossing the broken gap in the floor in a single leap.
The eldest of the three reacted first and began to swing wildly at Caelum with his fists "By the light of the Seve-"
But before he could connect the swing, Caelum quickly took hold of the little girl, and the younger of the boys and hoped that his estimate of the strength of his grip was accurate enough to not break their bones.
At speeds, that Caelum was now certain were magical; he moved again swiftly dodging the blow from the older boy, and rushed with his younger siblings out of the burning house. At the speed he was moving he was trying his damned best to be careful not to break them as he dragged them out.
He had worked tirelessly to tame that unbridled magical strength of his, Archmaester Marwyn had been extremely thorough In helping him, but with the state of the city as it was, he wasn't being as careful as he would have preferred.
Within just a few moments, there were outside the blazing hot house, beside the children's wounded father.
"Wait here, I will go and get your brother!" Caelum tried his best to seem commanding. The fiery red eyes that his roiling rage had created seemed to have helped him succeed.
Within the blink of an eye, he was sprinting up the broken house and was back with the older boy who seemed to have just finished the swing he had launched at Caelum.
The boy spotted Caelum return and spun into a terrified fit of rage, his siblings had seemingly been taken from him; as he tried to charge him. "GIVE THEM BACK! GIVE THEM BACK!"
Caelum effortlessly dodged the charge that felt extremely slow to the magical speeds that Caelum was quickly learning to adapt to. Within one moment and the next, he secured a firm grip on the tunic of the older boy and dragged him out to the rest of his family as well.
The boys and the little girl were disoriented, their breaths coming in sharp gasps as they swayed from the abrupt stop. Their eyes blinked in rapid succession, their minds struggling to catch up with the world that had seemingly shifted around them.
Ellyn's gaze fixed on something behind Caelum. Her eyes widened in horror. "Father!" she cried, darting toward the crumpled form of her father lying in a growing pool of blood. The two boys followed after her, their faces a mix of fear, urgency, and utter confusion.
It seemed like the older boy was debating whether to try yet another attempt at fighting Caelum.
The man's eyes fluttered open, barely a crack, clouded with pain and exhaustion. But when his gaze fell on Ellyn, something in his eyes shifted. Recognition. His cracked lips moved, breath wheezing as he whispered, "Ellyn... I see you... I see you. Gods above… please, you're safe. I hope you're….!"
Tears welled in her eyes as she fell to her knees, clutching his hand. "Father, we're here. We're all here! We're alright…" she said, her voice breaking into sobs.
"'m so happy," the man muttered, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. His eyes glistened, one final tear rolling down his soot-streaked face. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled his daughter into his chest, his arms trembling from the effort. His head drooped as his eyes closed, his body going slack.
"Father!" Ellyn's voice was shrill, her hands shaking him, her sobs breaking into panicked gasps. "Please, wake up! Wake up!"
"He's alive," Caelum's voice cut through, calm but firm. He could see the faint beating of the man's heart. "He's unconscious but alive. You need to move him now if you want to keep him that way."
The oldest boy's head snapped up at Caelum's words. His face hardened; his fear slowly overtaken by grim determination. He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his sleeve, straightening his posture as best he could.
"Pick him up," Caelum ordered as commandingly as he could, stepping forward, his eyes blazing red with barely contained heat. "Carry him to the Starry Sept. You'll be safe there."
The boy's gaze flickered to Caelum's eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed his fear. Slowly, he nodded, eyes darting briefly to his unconscious father. "Earl," he said, turning to the younger of the two boys. "Take Ellyn. Carry her on your back. We're going to the Sept."
Earl's lower lip quivered, but he wiped his tears on his sleeve and gave a firm nod. "Okay," he said with surprising resolve. He turned to Ellyn, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Ellyn. I'll carry you."
"But Father —" Ellyn's eyes darted between her father's limp form and her brothers.
"We're bringing him too," the older boy said, his voice carrying a weight it hadn't had moments before. "Trust me, we'll bring him. But we must go."
Ellyn's face scrunched as fresh tears spilled over, but she nodded, clinging to Earl's neck as he lifted her onto his back. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, her small fingers clutching his tunic. Earl's legs shook for only a moment before he set his jaw and started forward.
"Thank you…. m'lord. I thank the Gods for sending you to us," the older boy said, his voice thick with emotion. He glanced at Caelum, eyes filled with something between awe and fear. "Thank you for saving us."
Caelum's gaze stayed steady on him. "Run. Don't stop. Get to the Sept and don't look back. Stick to the back alleys, and stay away from the river."
The boy bent down, grunting as he hefted his father's arm over his shoulder and slowly lifted him.
With a pained grimace, he staggered forward, step by step, toward safety. Earl followed, carrying Ellyn as best he could. Their father's weight was too much for the older boy, but he moved anyway, slow and steady.
"I knew you were the Warrior's son," Ellyn's small voice drifted back, barely louder than the crackling fire. "You are, aren't you? Please, please …. please, make the bad men go away? You will, please tell me you will?"
Caelum's breath caught in his chest. He stared at the small girl's tear-streaked face, the red tint of the world softening just a touch. He didn't give her any reply and turned his back to the slowly leaving family.
He didn't have time to dwell on her words.
There were more voices in his head. More screams. More pleas for help.
His feet moved before his mind did. He'd already broken into a sprint, a fiery red blur cutting through the chaos as he shot toward the next voice crying out for help.
The voices struck him like hammer blows. Hundreds of them, crashing into his mind with the force of a storm—shouts, screams, sobs, and prayers.
He was getting closer to the docks. The Ironborn had set the entire damned fleet docked there on fire. The voices were getting louder, more terrified.
"Help us! Please, someone, they're breaking down the door!" A woman shrieked in terror.
And another man from a few houses down, "My son! My son is still inside! Please, gods, save him!"
"Get away from her, you squid bastards!" A young boy's angry voice, followed by the slashing and squelching of rent flesh.
"She's a soft one, lads! Jus' look at the breasts on her! We'll savor her tonight! I want a taste of her soft cunt firs'!" A cruel voice, followed by the shriek of a woman, and jeering laughter.
"Hold the door, MEN! HOLD THE DOOR! WE CANNOT LET THEM THROUGH!" Panicked guards from some inn down the street, as they desperately defended against a charging horde of iron born.
"Don't hurt her! Take me instead!" Another girl's scream.
"The fire's too strong! We're trapped in here! We will be cooked alive!"
"Run! Run to the Sept! They'll protect us there!"
"No! No, please, not my daughter! No! Take me, not her!"
The voices spun around him, each one more urgent than the last. It was too much. Too many. He'd wasted too much time trying to talk to that family. In the moments he'd spent convincing them to flee, people had died.
His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
No more.
He pushed his magic harder, faster, and shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. His legs moved like lightning, his breath steady, his focus sharp as steel. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't speak. No more delays. No more explanations. If they feared him, so be it. He'd save them anyway.
The world blurred around him, smoke and flame flashing past in streaks of red and black. He honed in on the nearest voice.
There were three in equal distance all around him.
A woman's voice, cracked with grief, calling for the gods, for anyone to answer her. The cries of a little babe muffled by her side.
The screams of an old man, as he tried to carry his dismembered son, and wife out of a nearly collapsed inn.
The cries of huddled children, terrified of yet another fire in some house that was on the brink of collapse.
They were all near him, but he knew in his very soul. No matter how fast he ran, he would have to choose one to save, the rest would die. He would not be able to save all of them in time.
He prayed to Seven. Prayed to them to have mercy on his soul. And made his choice.
Caelum's feet skidded to a stop in front of a burning house. The door hung open, broken, and burnt on one hinge. Inside, the fire had already consumed most of the lower floor. The air was a furnace, thick with heat and smoke. He peered through the flames and spotted her.
The woman cradled her baby to her chest, rocking back and forth beside the charred remains of a man. Her eyes were hollow with shock, her lips trembling as she muttered prayers through clenched teeth.
"Gods, gods, please... What do I do? Wake up! ROLEN! GODS PLEASE WAKE UP!" Her fingers clutched the child tighter, her knuckles white from the strain as he screamed, pleading for the man to wake up.
Her eyes snapped up when Caelum broke through the wall with a shattering crack of wood and stone. She flinched, curling over her baby as if her body alone could shield it.
"H-help!" she gasped, her voice hoarse from smoke and panic. Her eyes locked on his glowing red gaze. "No! What are you?! No! Stay away! Stay away from us!"
Caelum's jaw tightened, as he righted himself; but he didn't stop. He moved straight to her, his gaze locked on her face. "I'm getting you out of here," he said, his voice hard as iron. "Hold on to your child. Hold on tight."
Her breath hitched, her eyes darting from his eyes to the wreckage behind him. "Gods! Demon! HELP! Stay away! Not my baby too! No, please, my husband—" Her gaze shifted to the charred body even as Caelum hefted her easily in his tiny hand before she could react trying to shield her babe properly; as he leapt out of the house through the opening he had created.
It took her a moment to breathe.
"Rolen… Please, not my babe, no…..he… he…" Her sobs came in shuddering waves, as she collected herself from the ordeal, her body folding in on itself. She curled in on herself, covering her babe. Seeming to understand what had happened to her. "Please, my husband is in there! Please!" Her voice cracked, broken by grief.
Caelum's heart ached at her words, but he didn't let it slow him. He crouched beside her, his hands gentle but firm as he took her by the arm. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, raw with sincerity. "He's gone. You can't help him now. But you can help your child. You have to think of your child."
Her sobs quieted just slightly, her gaze shifting down to the baby in her arms. The little one's cries pierced the air, high-pitched and raw. Her arms shook, but she held him close.
"Go to the Starry Sept or the Citadel," Caelum said firmly. "The streets aren't safe, but the Sept will be. Run. Run and don't stop."
Her breath was ragged, her eyes flicking to the charred remains of her husband one last time. Tears streaked down her soot-stained face. Her lips trembled.
Her arms shifted, cradling the baby tighter.
She rose to her feet on shaky legs, one last, long glance cast at her smoldering home. Her shoulders shook with a silent sob.
"Go," Caelum said, watching her as she stumbled into the street along with the others.
She stumbled again, as she gazed blankly at the rushing and screaming crowd around her, the green blaze from the High Tower, as she tried to comprehend the sudden upending of what was possibly her entire life.
"Gods…." She breathed, clutching her wailing babe closer to her bosom, her eyes lingering on Caelum's fiery red with fear, apprehension, and reverent awe. "Make them pay, m'lord…. Please, for my husband. Make them face the wrath of the warrior himself!"
Caelum didn't know if he had the strength to take all the Ironborn on himself. He didn't even know where to begin.
He needed to move on and hoped the Gods would help him save just one more.
All he could do was nod at the woman, as he watched her stumble along with the fleeing terrified crowd making for what meager safety they could find in the far distance.
Caelum hoped she would make it in time, he needed to keep moving.
He could hear the people dying, as they breathed their last breaths.
He could see the results of the choices he had made; past the throngs of the panicked fleeing crowd being guided along by what few guards were able to do so in the streets. Smoke rose from where the children had been, curling around their charred husks. The old man lay pinned in a ruin of splintered beams, his family's arms still wrapped around.
And from here, he was witnessing some of the most horrifying cruelty he could imagine. People being tortured, women being raped, children being burnt in the most horrifying ways to sate the sick pleasures, and cruelty of the iron born; and he couldn't just not listen.
He needed to keep on moving, keep trying to help whoever he could.
He didn't know if he had the capacity to weigh the value of the lives he had to save.
Should he be rushing straight into battle with the Ironborn?
He had been ignoring the skirmishes in the streets, on the bridges in the honey wine, and wherever open fighting was taking place in the streets and alleys of the city rushing past them, doing what little he could, wherever he felt he had the opportunity to do so.
Till now, all he had done was trip over what little contingent of men had surrounded the guards at the Learned Anchor, with just the briefest of touches as he had rushed out toward the nearest sound of a cry for help and hoped that had been enough for the guards to take them down by themselves.
He had wasted so much time in trying to talk to the people, guide them toward safety. He realized he didn't really have the luxury to do that.
Every moment somebody was dying, somebody that he could have saved if he had been just a little bit more decisive. Just a little faster than he already miraculously was. Smarter in making his actions.
He didn't want to have to choose which lives were more worthy of saving. He had been running toward every single cry for help that he could reach in the shortest time.
Was this what it felt to be a knight?
To weigh the lives of the men and women under your protection? Decide who to protect? Who to serve, and who to let die, and how?
He didn't feel very Knightly in his actions. He felt he could do better.
The problem was, he didn't know how!
What would Luke do?
He would think, slow down, and weigh his actions and their consequences. He was doing that.
Gods he hoped he was doing it well. He didn't think so, people were still dying all around him.
He should stop trying to talk to the people he saved, he could get them to relative safety away from whatever danger is immediately threatening them, and hope they could take care of themselves after the largest of the dangers has been dealt with. Get to safety, follow the crowd, and reach the Sept or the Citadel. Or leave the city entirely.
He could see that looking at someone like him, someone who was so different, so frightening was not helping them much. They all thought he was some sort of a demon from the deepest pits of the Seventh Hell, or a divine being borne from the loins of the Warrior himself.
He wasn't.
It wasn't of any help, and he didn't think he had the time to convince them otherwise.
The deep hot red hue of the world around him intensified as his rage simmered harsher behind his eyes. He seethed with rage — at himself, at the world, even the Gods, and at the Ironborn defiling the city.
Why were they here? The war being fought in the Seven Kingdoms seemed so distant; he hadn't expected an attack so far into the Reach.
Was their aim to encumber reinforcement and resources from the Hightower?
To distract the marching armies making their way for the fields of battle?
Or was this a target of opportunity?
How had they gotten past the chain barricading the Whispering Sound?
No.
That was the problem of more level-headed, responsible men. He did not have the luxury to ponder these questions. All he could do was continue running as fast as his legs, his magic could take him.
He ran like a blur through the city, a horse galloping through the stormy smoky wind. He shouldered past skirmishes in the street, toppling what few Ironborn stood in his way, hoping that was enough for the men around them to overpower them.
He kept leaping through walls of burning homes, half-toppled inns, fiery monasteries, and burning septs in the streets of Oldtown. Saving whoever needed saving inside and leaving them behind before they could even scream and acknowledge his presence.
All the time he felt his soul break inside as he was forced to make the difficult, senseless choice between who to save and who to sacrifice in the heat of the moment.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
For every soul he saved, it seemed two died before he could reach them.
He prayed he'd have a soul left by dawn. But deep down, he knew it was already broken.
If dawn ever came. It didn't feel like it would; the roiling hateful display of abject, senseless cruelty around him didn't make it feel it would.
"YOU'LL NOT TOUCH HER! I WON'T LET YOU-" The roar was cut short abruptly, followed by a gurgled scream and the sound of tearing flesh.
He was very close to the docks now, and he was certain he was near the whore houses. He could see battle isle, and the burning fortress at the base of the Hightower clearly from here. What little reserve fleet that House Hightower had remaining in the bay was now almost entirely ablaze.
Even what little ships they had gotten out to sail when the first ships of the incoming fleet of the Ironborn had been spotted at the horizon beneath the fog of Whispering Sound were surrounded and slowly sinking to depths of the harbor.
He didn't know how many people he had saved by this point. Not enough.
"Oh, we're doin' much more than touch ya old goat! Won't we my sweet?"
He sprinted in the direction of the voices. It was yet another half-burnt building.
"Hold her down!" a man's voice, guttural and thick with glee, cut through the haze. "Don't let her scratch you, lads! She's a wild little cat, this one!"
"Aye, Goren, you talk too much! I'm gettin' my fill now," another barked, his voice closer. "Ain't had cunt fresh in weeks. Let her scream."
Caelum's heart thundered in his chest. His eyes darted toward the sound. The glow of the burning house made shadows dance across the ground, and within those shifting shapes, he saw them.
The old man knelt in front of them, panting, blood streaking his face, his arms limp like broken branches. Two boys lay beside him, twisted and still, their throats opened wide, their blood soaking the dirt. His sons, Caelum realized with a spike of cold horror. Sons who had tried to fight. Sons who had died for it.
The old man's body shook as he dragged himself forward on trembling arms. He clawed at the dirt, toward the girl. She was barely older than Meredith, her face streaked with soot and tears, her dress torn at the collar. Two reavers had her by the arms, their grins sharp as knives as they dragged her to the ground.
"You seein' this, boys?" One of the reavers nudged his companion with a toothy grin. "This old goat's still crawlin'. Ain't that sweet?"
"Aye, it's so sweet, I feel sick..." Another reaver laughed, unsheathing his knife, its edge flashing in the firelight. "I say we cut off his balls, and feed 'em to the girl. Goren, reckon he's got the stones for it?"
The first reaver, Goren, scratched at his beard, sneering. "Let's find out. Do it. That'll shut 'im up."
Caelum's breath hitched.
His legs moved before his mind could catch up, each step striking the ground with the force of a war drum. His eyes locked on the girl's tear-streaked face, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Faster. Faster. He needed to be faster!
One of the reavers grabbed the girl's arm, his fingers curling tight around her wrist as he yanked her down. She twisted and kicked, her foot striking his shin with a dull thud. "She's feisty!" he snarled, yanking her harder. She fell face-first on top of her brother's corpse. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and she gasped like a drowning fish.
"Just watch her squirm" the man sneered, tugging at the frayed hem of her dress. "Quick boys, I'm hard as a rock, I wanna taste her!"
Not again. Caelum's mind reeled with the memory of the tourney grounds, of Pia dragged into the buttery. His chest burned with fury hotter than the flames licking the buildings. His eyes flared, twin infernos casting the world in crimson.
He was too far. Too far. This horror was happening in too many places.
"Can't wait any longer, Goren," said one of the reavers, his breath ragged with anticipation. "Greyjoy said to not waste time, I'm soaked."
"Piss yourself in front of the old squid, aye?" Goren laughed, nudging him. "Go on then, just leave some for the rest of us."
The old man, battered and bleeding, lifted his head. His voice was a rasp of broken glass. "No… not my girl… not her… please… please..."
The reaver with the knife grinned down at him. "You're lucky, old man. You'll be dead; as we take her on top of your dead sons!" He shoved him flat with a boot to the back.
His brain rattled in his skull. The old man died on impact.
Rage exploded inside Caelum. The world flashed red.
He had been preparing himself to be a Knight, but he had been scared of ever being forced to take a life. It was necessary, he knew. An eventuality that he would have to deal with if he ever did become one.
He had given up on that dream already, his magic wouldn't let him have that luxury. But there was no time to worry about his soul anymore. No time to think about what he was about to do.
There was no time to have doubts. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
No time for mercy.
They didn't hear him coming.
Not until the air itself screamed as he broke through the wall of the burning building.
The closest reaver barely had time to turn before Caelum's shoulder smashed into him like a charging bull. Bones crunched, and the man's scream was short-lived as he was hurled through the air like a child's toy. He struck the wall behind him on the other side, spidery cracks forming immediately, a wet thud echoing as his body crumpled to the ground. He did not move.
The others spun, eyes wide with shock. "What the—"
He didn't stop.
He caught the second reaver mid-turn, his hand closing around the man's throat like an iron vise. For a brief moment, the reaver's eyes bulged with terror. He barely managed to choke out, "No, wait—"
"Not so tough now are you?" Caelum squeezed.
There was a crack, sharp as a breaking branch.
Caelum felt his soul crack further.
He dropped the body before it even hit the ground.
"DEMON!" One of the reavers stumbled back, tripping over the old man's corpse. "DEMON, IT'S A DEMON!"
The nine remaining rapers scattered, scrambling for weapons, for footing, for sense.
Too slow.
Caelum moved through them like a storm, a streak of fiery red, faster than their minds could comprehend. His fists struck like thunderbolts. A jaw shattered. A ribcage crumpled. A heart exploded. A reaver spun wildly, eyes rolling back as his body collapsed. The sharp tang of blood filled the air, fresh and hot.
The walls of the house were shattered completely, the roof standing on the legs of the last two.
A blade came for him from the side. He twisted, the world moving in slow, deliberate snails pace as he watched the blade crawl toward him. His hand snapped out, catching the reaver's wrist mid-swing. His eyes met the man's.
The reaver's face twisted with fear. "No, please, gods—"
Caelum's gaze burned hotter than the flames. His hand wrenched the blade free, twisting it back toward its owner. Steel pierced flesh.
The reaver gasped, his eyes going wide.
Caelum let him fall.
One of the reavers bolted for the door, his boots thundering against the floor. He didn't make it. A rock, hurled like a ballista bolt, struck him in the back of the skull. He dropped face-first into the dirt, limbs twitching once before going still.
Three left.
Two of them backed away, eyes darting toward the exits. The third, Goren, stayed. His lips curled back, revealing yellow, crooked quivering teeth. He drew his axe from his belt, gripping it tight. "T-the drowned gods take you" he growled, his eyes narrowing with a predator's focus. "T-THE DEVIL WILL DIE BY MY AXE!"
"I would like to see you try!" Caelum growled.
The fire behind him framed him like a figure from a nightmare from the depths of the seven hells. The world itself seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his presence, and the light of his fiery eyes, two burning bright red coals, cast long shadows across the ground.
Goren hesitated. He barked a fake laugh to steady himself, taking a step forward. "Y-you think I'm afraid? I will piss on your grave! What is dead may never die!"
He lunged.
Caelum didn't move until the last moment. When he did, it was as though he disappeared. Goren's swing cut through empty air.
The reaver had a second to blink before Caelum was behind him. His foot shot out, a sharp, brutal kick to the back of Goren's knee. The man dropped with a howl, falling to one knee.
Caelum's hand shot out, seizing the back of his head.
He shoved it into the dirt.
"Not so tough now! Are you?!" Caelum said, his voice low, barely more than a growl. He squeezed, blood flowed on his trembling hands, and the man died choked instantly.
The other two reavers ran.
He let them. They wouldn't get far.
The girl was still there.
Her father lay unmoving, the girl sobbing as she cradled his blood-stained head in her lap. "Father! Father, wake up!" Her hands shook him, fingers stained with dirt and blood. Her wide, terrified eyes darted to Caelum. Her gaze lingered on the fiery glow of his eyes.
"Are you—are you the Warrior?" she asked, her voice fragile, a thread stretched too thin. "Please…. Please, help my father! You can, can't you?"
He crouched beside her, eyes softening, the fire in them dimming. He could still hear more screams from the docks. The weight of it all pressed on him, suffocating and endless.
Caelum gulped hard, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His hands shook uncontrollably, stained with warmth that wasn't his own. His palms stung where his nails had dug into them, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Not now.
He glanced down at the girl, still cradling her father's head. Her face was a mask of soot, blood, and tears, eyes swollen and red from crying. She clung to the old man's hand like it was the last anchor in a world gone mad.
"I—" his voice cracked. He swallowed again and forced his words out. "There's no time."
The girl shook her head wildly, tears running hot down her cheeks. "Please, please, please," she sobbed, her voice brittle and broken. Her small frame shook with every word. "He's breathing, he's breathing, he's still breathing—please—"
Her father was not breathing.
Her eyes met his, wide and full of desperate hope. Hope that was already dead.
Caelum's chest ached, a deep, hollow pain that felt like it was digging into his ribs. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. If you think, you'll break. If you think, you'll stop. You can't stop. You can't stop.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."
Her face crumpled, the last of her resolve crumbling like a clay figure struck by a hammer. Her sobs were quiet now, choked and uneven, her face pressed against her father's chest. Her fingers wouldn't let him go. She clung to his body with all the might of a child too young to understand why the world was so cruel.
The roof groaned above them, a low, drawn-out creak. Embers flickered down like fireflies, little pinpricks of light drifting toward the ground. The final walls of the house buckled under the weight, smoke billowing out from the gaps. The orange glow of flames cast shadows that danced like specters on every surface.
Move. Move now.
Caelum moved before his mind could argue. He leaned down, his arms sliding beneath the girl's shoulders and knees. She fought for only a moment, gripping her father tighter before her fingers slipped free. Her sobs turned into wailing cries, her legs kicking weakly as she reached out for him. "No! No, no, no! Please, please, please!" she wailed, her voice higher than it should have been, raw from screaming. "Please, don't leave him! DON'T LEAVE HIM!"
Her cries burned deeper than any fire ever could. His eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat too long. When he opened them, he was already sprinting.
One more. Just one more.
The building collapsed behind him. Fire roared louder than thunder as the last of the walls crumbled into ash and rubble. Black smoke billowed outward, filling the street with choking soot. The girl screamed as she watched it fall, her voice hoarse and wild, like a trapped animal caught in a snare.
Don't look back.
Caelum didn't stop. His legs moved with the same steady rhythm he'd kept all night. Every house, every street, every alley felt the same. The smell of burning flesh. The heat of roaring flames. The cries of men, women, and children. His eyes stayed locked on the road ahead. He didn't wait for her to thank him. He didn't wait for her to say a word. He didn't dare look back.
"Run for the Sept or the Citadel!" he called, his voice rough as sand. "Don't stop! Run!"
He didn't look to see if she obeyed.
The world blurred around him, a collage of flickering orange light and suffocating darkness. His lungs heaved, pulling in air that tasted like soot and copper.
More voices echoed in his head. The screams never stopped.
The docks were worse.
He could hear it all.
Every footstep. Every wail. Every scream. Every cruel laugh of the Ironborn.
"Take 'er to the longship, boys! She's a fine one—give her to the Greyjoy for first pickin'!"
A child's high-pitched wail, barely human in its raw terror.
"Don't cry, girl, you'll be home soon enough. I'll teach you to love it."
The heavy thud of a man being thrown to the ground, followed by the wet crunch of a boot cracking his ribs.
"PLEASE! TAKE THE GOLD, TAKE IT ALL! JUST LEAVE THEM BE!"
He felt like he was drowning in it all.
For every soul he saved, three more were being dragged from their homes, thrown onto Ironborn ships, or pinned to the ground by cruel, cruel men. For every scream he silenced, three more rose in its place.
It will never be enough. It will never be enough.
Caelum's breaths were shallow now. His muscles ached, his legs burned with every push forward. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Not when he could hear the sound of bones breaking.
Not when he could hear the gurgling chokes of dying men.
Not when he could hear women sobbing, their words broken into incomprehensible pleas.
Not when he could hear the wet slap of flesh.
He ran.
He ran faster than he'd ever run before.
He burst into homes without warning, rubble flying as he barreled through walls and burning timber. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think.
There was no time to think.
Each home was the same.
Fires.
Bodies.
Blood on the walls.
He dragged children from the wreckage. He snatched mothers and fathers from the flames, from the bodies of their children. Children from the corpses of their mothers. He threw men to safety. Saved holy men from burning monasteries and septs.
Every face blurred into one. They were all the same. They all had the same wide, tear-streaked faces. They all cried. They all begged for loved ones they would never see again.
Each time, he told them the same thing. "Run for the Starry Sept or the Citadel. RUN!"
And every time, he didn't wait to see if they listened.
The fights were harder now. slower.
He clashed with the Ironborn directly.
They were cruel men, laughing as they killed, grinning as they fought. All their faces twisted to pure abject terror at the sight of him.
Each time he met them, his hands moved faster than thought. Bones shattered beneath his fists. His arms swung like battering rams, his strength barely held in check. He didn't stop.
Every punch crunched through bone.
Every swing ended with a body crumpled at his feet.
He felt each impact like it was his own soul breaking.
He felt every bone snap, every chest cave inward, every lung collapse. He heard every crunch, every gurgle of blood. His hands were red and slick with it.
I'm dirty.
He clenched his fists, squeezing his fingers until his knuckles cracked. It's their blood, not mine. Their blood, not mine. Their blood. Not mine.
He crushed their ribs.
He snapped their necks.
He twisted their arms until they broke.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He wasn't saving people anymore. He was killing men.
He wasn't sure when it had started. He wasn't sure when he had decided it was necessary. But now his hands moved before his mind did. His heart pounded with every blow. His breathing was shallow and quick, the heat of his rage radiating from his eyes like a furnace.
His soul felt heavier now. He could feel the weight of it. Every life he took, every breath he ended, it pulled him further and further down.
I'm not the Warrior. I am not his son.
He stared at his hands, fingers trembling, palms stained red.
I'm not a knight. I will never be one.
He could hear them still. Screaming. Pleading. Dying.
They called him "Demon." They called him "The Warrior." They called him "Savior." They didn't know what he was.
He didn't know what he was.
His gaze turned toward the heart of Oldtown. Toward the Hightower, its green flames spiraling upward like a beacon of ruin. Lit up alongside the burning fortress at its feet.
Toward the burning ships in the harbor. Toward the men dying on the bridges.
This has to end.
He didn't know if he could end it.
But he knew he had to try.
The fires of his rage burned hotter. I need this to end. I need it to end.
He shot forward, a streak of red and gold. His eyes were brighter now. His world was red, and the flames looked so much like home.
Caelum scanned the bay. There were no boats across.
The Honeywine churned with wreckage, its black waters swallowing debris, bodies, and flames alike. Every ship that wasn't already burning was an Ironborn vessel.
His gaze lifted to the Hightower. Its flames spiraled into the storm, a pillar of green fire at the heart of the city. Battle Isle lay just beyond, surrounded by raging water. He could hear the clash of steel from behind its walls.
Screams. Shouts. Orders to get the flames under control.
He had to get there. Free the main garrison. Help them somehow.
His eyes darted down the main street. The cobblestones were slick with rain, blood, and ash. Skirmishes raged around him. Ironborn cut down Hightower guards. Civilians ran, trampled, or fell. His path was clear — a straight shot from here to the docks where Lord and Lady Hightower's ship once docked.
The river is too wide. No boat. No time.
His hands clenched into trembling fists. His blood-soaked fingers flexed. His legs tensed.
He needed to jump.
His heart pounded.
Could he make it? There was no time to doubt. No time to think.
His breath shuddered as he took a step back, eyes locked on the far shore. His chest heaved. His blood roared in his ears. The storm rumbled above, thunder rolling like a drumbeat for war.
Run. Run and don't stop. Don't think. Just jump.
He bolted. Faster than he'd ever run throughout the night. He was certain he could match a galloping horse in speed.
His feet struck the ground like thunderclaps, each step faster than the last. The world slowed around him. Skirmishes blurred into red and steel. Rain froze midair. Flames bent and stretched like streaks of light.
The edge of the dock rushed toward him. He didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. His legs coiled, muscles tight like a spring drawn to its limit. His eyes fixed on the far shore.
Jump.
He leapt.
The world fell away.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
I AM BACK!
Well. I have been back for a while... I just graduated.
And have been job hunting. Rejection sucks.
Anyway!
This chapter is half complete! I am working on the other half. I wanted to write the entire thing in a single night. But there is so much to cover. A lot of this, I felt was necessary
I am expecting some people will have issues with Caelum killing in this chapter. I feel everyone knew that was coming. I mean, in MoS Clark was forced to Kill General Zod, when he felt he had no other choice.
There is a reason I chose that version of Superman for this. But trust me, I have a plan for him. I have a plan to deal with that.
I will have the next part of this chapter out soon. I promise I won't take as long as I did to get this out.
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FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS I LAY DORMANT, WHO HAS DISTURBED MY- Oh, it's OrangePanther01 uploading a new chapter of A Song of Sun and Stars.
Glorious.
Glorious.
I think I would have lot more of a problem if he didn't kill. I understand you want to be faithful to superman, but this superman grew up very differently to a very different world. I think it makes alot more sense that he employs different tactics and has different ideas on what is right.
Anyway, Good chapter
Anyway, Good chapter
Yeah, I entirely agree. I'd be annoyed if he didn't kill. He's growing up in Westeros where the idea of Justice is killing criminals. I'm not saying he should be a bloodthirsty monster, killing everyone for the slightest crime, but I also don't believe he should be showing mercy to reavers like the ironborn when they're in the middle of sacking a city. I think you captured it perfectly. Someone who holds value in life and grieves for having to take it even when he knows it's the right thing to do. It's not that he views life as worthless and that he has the right to take it, it is that he is forced into the impossible decision of having to choose who to save.
I love how he views himself as unworthy of becoming a knight. when in truth, through his actions, he's probably a greater knight than any has existed in the seven kingdoms. Both for his compassion and care.
Although I do have a sort of interesting idea of this being my adventures with Superman, Superman, where, overall, he's roughly the same character as here, But he has interactions with Kara, and I'm having this funny idea of when she shows up He and everyone else assumes that she's there to marry him. Because in Westeros, marrying your cousin is completely normal. So when she says she has come across the stars in order to reunite with him and restore their house, everyone assumes that she's basically propositioning him for marriage. And she is horrified and disgusted by that.
In this I also imagine Cersei being one of his suitors and at the same time, you have people like her being entirely indignant, because what does this girl have that she doesn't sure she's tall, blonde, beautiful can fly, shoot fire from her eyes and level entire armies and has access to more resources than her father could ever dream of. But, well, she's Cersei Lannister, so obviously she's better!
I love how he views himself as unworthy of becoming a knight. when in truth, through his actions, he's probably a greater knight than any has existed in the seven kingdoms. Both for his compassion and care.
Although I do have a sort of interesting idea of this being my adventures with Superman, Superman, where, overall, he's roughly the same character as here, But he has interactions with Kara, and I'm having this funny idea of when she shows up He and everyone else assumes that she's there to marry him. Because in Westeros, marrying your cousin is completely normal. So when she says she has come across the stars in order to reunite with him and restore their house, everyone assumes that she's basically propositioning him for marriage. And she is horrified and disgusted by that.
In this I also imagine Cersei being one of his suitors and at the same time, you have people like her being entirely indignant, because what does this girl have that she doesn't sure she's tall, blonde, beautiful can fly, shoot fire from her eyes and level entire armies and has access to more resources than her father could ever dream of. But, well, she's Cersei Lannister, so obviously she's better!
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
Very happy to see this new update. Speaking of;
Superman didn't became Superman at Caelum's age, let alone growing up in the war-torned world that is Westeros, where Might is Justice and it is too easy for monstruous acts to happen with no one available, or even willing, to stop it.
The fact Caelum is hurt everytime he kills an Ironborn shows the strength of his heart. He doesn't enjoy this, and many would not judge him if he did.
He tries his best. Even superpowers can't change the fact he can't save everyone. Just as many as he can.
Either by saving those in danger, or ending those that are threats.
In any case, by the time the Ironborn are forced to retreat, I hope Caelum becomes Old Town's Hero figure. Superheroes doing good deeds with no desire for approval is nice and all, but Caelum is going to need all the positive feedback he can get after being getting his very soul turned by the horrors that happened.
PS: Also, Caelum's low-profile might as well kiss goodbye after so many people being saved by him, and all the dead Ironborn by laser and crushing force. Oh outside of Old Town most would not believe such tales, but Hightower won't have such luxury...
I'm on the same mindset of my fellow readers.
Superman didn't became Superman at Caelum's age, let alone growing up in the war-torned world that is Westeros, where Might is Justice and it is too easy for monstruous acts to happen with no one available, or even willing, to stop it.
The fact Caelum is hurt everytime he kills an Ironborn shows the strength of his heart. He doesn't enjoy this, and many would not judge him if he did.
He tries his best. Even superpowers can't change the fact he can't save everyone. Just as many as he can.
Either by saving those in danger, or ending those that are threats.
In any case, by the time the Ironborn are forced to retreat, I hope Caelum becomes Old Town's Hero figure. Superheroes doing good deeds with no desire for approval is nice and all, but Caelum is going to need all the positive feedback he can get after being getting his very soul turned by the horrors that happened.
PS: Also, Caelum's low-profile might as well kiss goodbye after so many people being saved by him, and all the dead Ironborn by laser and crushing force. Oh outside of Old Town most would not believe such tales, but Hightower won't have such luxury...
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The Godling of Oldtown
Chapter 29 –
Her ears hurt.
A crow cawed incessantly, even this high up the tower.
The thunder was getting louder, more frequent. The lightning was crackling with so much energy, she was of half a mind to believe that the Ironborn had arrived with the fury of some Storm God chasing after them. The sharp crackles of the green flames, from the signal fire lit on top of the tower were gut-wrenching.
"Mummy, is father going to be alright?"
It took her a significantly long moment to even acknowledge her little Lynesse's question.
"He will be perfectly alright, Lynesse. There is no need to worry about him. Your father is a powerful man, with a mighty force at his back." She replied projecting calm that she did not truly feel.
She needed her daughter's mind off what was happening outside, she needed to get her distracted from worrying for her father "Now, how do you feel about listening to some of the sweet songs from Rosamund that you love so dearly?"
It was fortunate that her daughter was easy to please, that just some rather lovely songs from her handmaiden; or some little trinket of pearl jewellery were enough to garner and hold her attention for a while.
She was glad, perhaps for the first time in her life, that her two sons, Gunthor and Humfrey were nowhere near the city, having been sent for fostering to Houses Fossoway and Cupps.
At her daughter's nod, the handmaiden in question began singing. Lynesse nestled deeper into the covers of her bed as soon as the singing began, and she couldn't help but brush the locks of her daughter's silvery hair.
They were all huddled in the warmth and safety of her bedchambers. Seven handmaidens, her daughter, and herself. Two guards were posted outside the door, standing vigil for any would-be threat that could come for them during such a time.
At any other time of the year, she would say that Rosamund had one of the prettiest of voices in all of Oldtown. But she could not begrudge her upon hearing the cracks that flowed, due to the fear she was certainly trying her best to hide in her sweet voice. She sang one of Lynesse's most beloved songs.
In truth, she was unable to concentrate herself.
Her city was run amock with those filthy savages from the iron islands. Her husband was making preparations to mount some form of counter-offensive into the city, alongside most of his trusted Knights, men-at-arms, and most of the Garrison inside the fortress. And Ser Humphrey Mullendore, their master-at-arms, was leading the rest of the force in their attempts to put out the damned fires in the upper fortress outside.
She had no clue how those wretched half-witted Ironborn had managed to start a fire inside the very tower. Had Maester Walys not assured her that there was no threat of the tower toppling, she would have abandoned the tower altogether. Fled to the courtyard, or joined her husband down in the mazes.
The Maester was absolutely certain that the tower had been built with such ingenuity in mind, that after the burning of the Tower before the era of King Uthor of the High Tower, no force would ever be able to burn it down and topple it again.
She believed in the maester's reassurances, but they would be thoroughly put to the test tonight. The maester had claimed that the fire would soon die, as they worked to smother it from all sides.
Setting fire to just the fortress itself, without the use of long-dead Dragons, had been such a nigh unimaginable idea before the damned Ironborn proved them wrong, that the fact that they were somehow capable of setting a blaze in the very tower that the fortress was protecting was extremely frightening.
And as if all her worries were not enough, as if the Gods above had not made this one of the blackest nights of her life; that fool of a girl, Malora was missing. Her husband's first-born daughter had been searching for her equally foolish, completely simple-minded freak of a handmaiden since early morning.
There was a knock on their door, and she was broken out of her slowly darkening thoughts.
Composing herself, she cleared her thoughts and said, "You may come in!" bidding the latest addition to the retinue of landed knights in the Tower, followed quickly by maester Walys shuffling in behind him.
Ser Elmar would have made for a powerful figure if he yet possessed his right arm. The Knight had been crippled some months prior in what she believed, was the result of some vile Alchemical experiment that the exiled maester, Qyburn had been conducting in his manse, down the Honeywine river.
The Knight himself had sworn to every god imaginable, to whomever would deign to listen that he had been set upon by some Demon that arose from the fires of the Seventh Hell itself. That he had fought it during his attempts at saving the stable boy, Baz from the burning stable.
She scoffed again internally.
Hah.
Demons indeed.
If the Knight had seen a Demon that night, then she was birthed in the visage of the Maiden herself. Demons, and Magic, and whatever other insane indulgences her husband and Malora liked to believe in were just drunken fabrications of men like the Knight before her.
The man had likely been drunk out of the sanity of his mind and had conjured up the entire tale in his stupor. Perhaps as a way to explain away the crippling wounds he received from the fires that night.
Alas, her husband was one of the many fools that the Knight had managed to sway into believing the tall tale.
The man had been rewarded with a small holdfast of his own, given a healthy sum of gold, alongside a permanent position as the sworn shield of her husband's most favored daughter for his efforts. Even Baz the stable hand at the manse, had been raised in station to be trained by the Stable Master of the tower itself.
In times like these, she was glad her husband favored his firstborn daughter, from his first wife; more than any other child of his blood.
At the very least, her children weren't saddled with incompetent brutes with more brawn than brains to ensure their safety. The Knight had managed to lose his sole responsibility. During such a dangerous time like this.
Quickly, she directed them away from her daughter, and her singing handmaidens, and into the often-unused parlor of her bedchamber. She rarely used this bedchamber, often sharing beds with her old husband.
"Well…?" She stretched the word as imperiously as she could manage. "Have you found her? Where is she?"
The Knight in question trembled slightly under her stern gaze, as he fumbled. "M'lady….I, erm…" He stuttered, then with visible effort took control of himself, and continued "M'lady, I have set five men scouring the entirety of the tower for her-"
"So, you do not know!" She cut him off swiftly and sharply. "You have managed to somehow lose the one responsibility you were given, the one person you swore your very life to protect. During one of the worst raids by the Gods damned Ironborn imaginable! Half of the docks are burning, Ser Elmar! I would have your head if even a hair on hers is found damaged come tomorrow morn!"
For all that the girl served as a reminder of the fact that her husband would never love her daughter as much as he did Malora, she did not hate her. She did not wish the fool dead.
If at all, she pitied the girl in truth. Far past marriageable age, at two and twenty, the girl had been denied what should have been rightfully hers, at far too many times in her life.
If she were her daughter, she would have fought tooth and nail to secure the marriage to the Tyrells, that Alerie's mother had managed for her daughter instead. The fact that Malora had no desire for the match, or any match whatsoever was not an issue. The girl could care less if any suitor passed her over for younger sisters, believing her to be a maddened raving witch or whatever else they called her.
In fact, Rhea was almost certain, Malora reveled in knowing what most thought of her behind her back.
"M-m'lady, I can assure you it will not come to that!" The Knight responded almost pleadingly.
She raised an eyebrow at the man. "Can you, Ser? Can you truly? Where does this surety come from, I wonder?"
She did not appreciate false promises and hot air being blown in her face, especially when the lives of any children of her husband were in question. Even if it was Malora out of all of them.
"I am certain that Lady Malora has not left the walls of the tower – nay, the fortress." The Knight tried to sound certain of that "I will have her found within the hour!"
"Which is it? The Tower or the Fortress?" She questioned, and then shook her head "Better yet, why come here at all, Ser? Surely you could be doing that at this very moment, instead of reporting to me?"
And she was truly perplexed by the Knight's behavior. She knew the Knight was incompetent, but he was certainly not a complete fool without a sense of self-preservation.
The Knight took a deep gulp of air, as he corrected what posture he hadn't already in his earlier round of straightening. "M'lady… I believe Lady Malora ran off in search of her handmaiden, Dotty. The girl was last seen by the guards of the treasury in the tower, they think she wanted to see the star metal one more time."
Dotty. The freakishly simple-minded handmaiden that her husband had assigned to Malora at the girl's request. The girl would rarely ever speak. If she ever did deign to utter a word, it would be so low that one would have to quieten everything else and strain their ears as far as possible to make sense of what was said.
Most of the time, the girl would be staring with her eerie moon-like eyes at whatever caught her fancy that time of day.
Often those fancies revolved around whatever harebrained scheme that Malora had cooked up in her observation chamber, just a floor below the signal fire of the Hightower. Or she would stare at Malora herself.
At times she was almost certain Malora was a saddle licker, with the way the two would just stare at each other at odd times of the day, often lost in worlds of their own.
"And why would I need to know where that foolish girl's little simpleton was last seen? You do not know where either of them are now, do you?!"
This time, maester Walys, who had been shuffling from foot to foot beside the crippled Knight, replied, "Lady Rhea, the fire inside the tower began somewhere near the treasury, and we believe that it occurred around the time she was last seen nearby…."
"You believe that Dotty had a hand in setting the fire….?" She had never heard a more absurd theory, and she had heard her fair share of them during her time when she sat by her husband as he handled court. "That girl doesn't eat without Malora by her side, she doesn't take a shit or piss without Malora knowing about it, she doesn't even sleep without Malora being somewhere nearby….and you would have me believe it was that simpleton that set the damned treasury on fire?"
She shook her head in complete disbelief.
The Knight she could understand, but the maester too? Had the maester fallen to the Knight's ravings and delusions as well? The maester should be with Ser Humphrey, assisting the master-at-arms in extinguishing the fires, not here chasing after batty little girls, and throwing accusations with no basis to stand on.
"What else am I to believe next?" She screamed at the fools standing before her, "Did she lower the boom and chain in the bay too? Prepare a welcoming ceremony for the damned Ironborn up in her chamber? Are they all up there, sharing a warm meal, drinking ale, and dancing away while the city burns around us as we speak?!"
There was silence as the incompetent fool of a Knight, and the apparently extremely gullible maester took in her words.
The crow flying outside cawed by the window.
She could see the fire eating away from the center of the docks.
From the peasant's port in the far distance, the entirety of the harbor street, the spice markets, the Sept of Arrivals, the Temples of the faiths, the Merchant's district, the Dock whorehouses, everything was set on fire. Crawling with the damnable Ironborn.
The harbor was swarmed with their fleet, on guard against any retaliatory force her husband could mount.
She had too much to be worried about this night, she did not deserve this.
Damn Malora for her wilfulness. Damn Dotty for her foolish naïve half-wittedness. And Damn these fools for not understanding the severity of the situation unfolding around her, and acting with the seriousness it deserves.
She turned around to face the two standing in her parlor.
She made to admonish them one last time and send them away out of her sight to do what they should already have been doing. But she paused, when what little color had that yet remained on the Ser Elmar's face after her tirade completely washed away.
The man trembled where he stood like a twig amid a strong breeze. His one remaining left hand reached for the sword at his belt, fumbling and failing to extract it from its sheath.
The maester beside him was staring wide-eyed, horrified behind her, at the window; and she couldn't help but turn around.
The first thing she saw were its eyes.
Two blazing coals of searing, molten red. They seethed with a depthless fury that no mortal could ever possess. They were not the eyes of a man. They weren't even the eyes of a beast.
No, no beast had ever been born with eyes like that. Those were the eyes of something born in suffering, forged in wrath, and let loose from the pits of the Seven Hells. The glow flickered like molten magma, making its twisted face seem to shift and writhe as if it were barely contained within its own pale skin.
It was hunched low on the stone sill, framed by green flickering firelight and the crackles of frequent lightning. Shadows clung to it like a second skin, its form half-swallowed by darkness, half-revealed in the glow of the distant green flames. It was small — too small for a man — but it held itself with a beast's predatory stillness, every muscle coiled and tense, like it was waiting for the perfect moment to spring. Water dripped from its form, steam rising in faint tendrils where droplets hissed against the skin near its eyes.
Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled. She stumbled back, her hand clutching the corner of the table like it was a holy relic. Her voice caught in her throat, a dry rasp that refused to form words.
Its snarl deepened.
Sharp teeth bared behind thin, its lips pulled back in a feral, inhuman grimace. Not a snarl of rage, no — worse than that. It was a snarl of disgust. Disgust at her. She could feel it. It hated her.
No, not her.
It hated everything it saw. The rain, the fire, the tower, the very world itself. She swore she could hear it breathing, heavy and labored, a beast crouched at the edge of the hunt.
"D-demon! DEMON! GUARDS! GUARDS!"
"No... no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NOOOO!" She didn't know if it was her, or the Knight who screamed louder. "NOT AGAIN! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING AGAIN!"
Whoever it was, caused the entire chamber to fall into pure terrified chaos.
The handmaidens stopped singing, one of them peeked in from the bed-chambers and quickly fell on her back as she crawled away shrieking uncontrollably.
The Knight had finally managed to unsheathe his blade, and had it held trembling terribly in his left hand as he placed himself ahead of her.
She could hear the shrieks of the rest of the girls just beginning to sound, and the dull thuds of boots on stone as the guards stationed outside began to barge in as quickly as they could.
The door burst open. Her heart lifted for half a breath — they'll kill it. Whatever it was, it needed to die!
In a remarkable display of bravery, the Knight charged the thing. "D-DAMN YOU! GO BACK TO THE DEPTHS OF HE-"
But then it moved.
It moved in an angry demonic red blur. The air cracked like thunder. The stone of the window cracked.
The sword was gone from Elmar's hand, now embedded halfway into the stone wall with a shuddering clang. The Knight himself was a pained heap on the ground clutching his last remaining arm. The maester had been knocked off his feet by the sheer pressure it exuded as it moved. The guards staggered, gasping, swords shattered at their feet as they groaned in pain on the ground clutching at their hands and fingers, their swords were broken, snapped in half before they could even think to take a swing.
The thing was now at the door.
The door to her bedchamber. The door that led to her little Lynesse!
Her heart stopped. Lynesse was in there.
Her daughter's hiccupping scream; the handmaiden's shrieks reached her ears, sharp as a blade to the heart. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.
The thing didn't move. Its back faced the door, shielding it. Its eyes flickered, those burning embers watching her intently.
"Tell me where is the main garrison?! How do I free them?!" it said, its voice far too calm, far too human. Almost pleading? "Where are they stationed? Why can't I see them? Where are they?! Tell me, Please!"
No one answered. Everyone stared. Ser Elmar and the guards groaned in pain on the ground. No one else even dared to breathe.
The maester stammered, shaking like a leaf on the ground, crawling away to the far wall. His voice cracking, as he screamed in horror, "W-why? W-why would a d-demon like you want to know? What v-vile things have you p-planned d-demon?!"
The thing's frustration was clear to her, she was just beginning to make out more features on its drenched pale face. Angry red pulsing lines were crawling the pale pasty skin around its eyes. The lines crinkled and deepened as an angry snarl formed on its short face.
"There isn't any time!" The thing roared, as it gripped the stone frame of the door between the bedchamber and her parlor. The stone in its grip smashed into fine dust. It's hot glowing eyes intensified in heat, pulsing with barely contained malevolence. "Tell me where they are, and I will leave!"
For a moment, she stood stock still under the creature's terrifying gaze.
She couldn't breathe. She needed the thing away from her daughter. Somehow, some way, she needed it far away from her Lynesse!
She could not think clearly. She was terrified that it would burn her alive from the inside, the angry fire in its eyes promised a painful, scorching death.
She had to do something.
Her husband was in the mazes underneath the fortress. Making way to the remaining fleet docked under the safety and security of the old Black Stone Fortress. Could she let this thing know that?
What would it do then? Massacre all the men, like it so effortlessly dealt with the plated Knight alongside the armed and armored guards?
The maester responded "W-we will not tell you! Y-you will not have them! The Light of the Seve-"
Thunder crackled, the very tower rumbled, there was an ominous thunderous groan from somewhere as it swayed and shook.
What was the wretched thing doing?!
It looked very intently at the floor, its wet dark hair cascading around its pale face, as its glowing red eyes narrowed dangerously, the pulsing veins around them writhing with increased intensity.
The moment it vanished, the world held its breath.
Then came the screams.
"HE TOOK ROSAMUND! LYNESSE! OH GODS!"
Her heart stopped. Cold dread spread through her chest, rooting her to the spot. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. No. No, no, no.
She rushed through the door to look for her daughter, to be certain that she was still there. That this was all a cruel jape.
Her handmaidens broke into blind panic, shrieking and scrambling over each other like frightened hens. Dresses tangled, limbs clawed, and bodies collided as they clawed for the door, desperate to escape.
The air shifted. A baleful gale swept the room, bringing with it the crack of thunder.
A flash of searing red. Another scream. Two more handmaidens gone.
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
Her mind refused to comprehend it. Her legs buckled. Her chest heaved. The icy grip of despair sank deep into her gut. I should've told it. I should've told it where Leyton was. I should've—
The air split apart.
A crushing force seized her by the shoulder. Her feet left the ground. Her world spun violently as the air itself howled in her ears. Rain slapped her face. Her stomach lurched, twisting into knots.
I'm falling. I'm falling! Oh, Gods, I'm about to die.
Her scream caught in her throat.
She hit the ground hard, knees buckling, shoulder throbbing from the brutal grip that had held her. Mud splattered up her legs, seeping into her dress. Cold. Wet. Sharp. Somehow, she didn't feel the pain from such a fall.
Her lungs burned as she gasped in shock, heart hammering like a drum. She looked around wildly, eyes darting, vision swimming.
Her daughter, Lynesse.
Caked in mud, eyes wide with terror, she was bent forward, gagging, retching into the dirt. Her tiny frame heaved with every sobbing gasp.
"Lynesse!" Her voice cracked. She crawled toward her, limbs shaking, fingers clawing at the slick ground.
Her hands reached her daughter's face. Warm. Alive. Tears poured freely down her cheeks as she pulled her in, crushing her to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
There was another loud crack. A dull thud.
The ground cracked under the force of its landing. Mud splashed in every direction as two bodies slammed into the dirt beside it—Ser Elmar and Maester Walys.
Both men screamed. Walys crawled on his hands and knees, retching violently into the mud. Ser Elmar rolled onto his side, cradling his arm, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. His eyes darted wildly, glazed with pain and terror.
Before she could even register it, the thing was gone again. Just a blur of red infernal heat.
Rhea gripped Lynesse tighter. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath shallow, every muscle in her body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. Her eyes darted to the spot where it had been, to the two writhing men it had left behind.
"What is it?" Walys croaked, his face still buried in the mud. "The Seven save us… what is it?!"
Ser Elmar's breath came in ragged heaves, his fingers clawing the dirt. "The demon… It's back. It's back. It's come for us! GODS, PLEASE! NO!" He sobbed into the ground, his face streaked with blood and grime.
Another loud thunderous crack. Another dull thud.
Two more bodies fell with it. The Guards. One guard groaned, clutching his wrist bent at an unnatural angle.
"W-what… what happened?! Where am I?!" he gasped, his eyes darting wildly as he blinked away shock. Another guard gagged, hands gripping his chest as he vomited onto his armor.
The demon-child blurred away again.
The courtyard was slowly filling up, becoming crowded by all the souls the demonic child dragged out of the tower. All her handmaidens, Rosamund, and the guards who had been working hard to fight the fires set on the fortress walls poured in around them.
"W-what… what happened?! Where am I?!" one of the guards gasped, his eyes darting wildly as he blinked away shock. Another gagged, hands gripping his chest as he vomited onto his armor.
The demon-child blurred away again.
Another crack. Another thud. More bodies hit the ground.
The cooks this time. Two women and one of the boys from the scullery. The boy curled into himself, face twisted in pain as he clutched his ankle. "My leg! My leg!" he screamed, voice shrill with agony.
"Where am I?! What's happening?!" one of the cooks shrieked, her wide eyes locking onto Rhea like she was supposed to have answers.
"Oh gods!" another woman screamed, scrambling backward on all fours. "The squids have sent a monster for us all!" She gasped as she glanced up at the tower. "It's climbing the tower! It's dragging us out!" Her voice cracked with hysteria, hands clawing at her face.
Another crack. Another thud.
The steward of the tower, More servants. More guards. A chambermaid, tears streaking her soot-stained face. She fell hard, hitting the ground with a pained cry.
"HELP ME! PLEASE! WHAT IS THIS?!" Her eyes darted in every direction. "What's happening?! WHERE ARE WE?!"
"GET BACK! ALL OF YOU, GET BACK!" One of the older guards tried to shout, but his voice was hoarse, broken. He coughed hard, spitting mud as he dragged himself to his feet. His eyes locked on the tower, his face pale as bone. "Oh, Gods, It's coming back!" he croaked, his voice cracking in terror. "It's COMING BACK!"
Another crack. Another thud.
More guards. Their armor clattered like falling pots. Groans. Gasps. Panicked shouts. She twisted to see up the tower.
The thing was climbing up the side of the tower. Punching its fists into the stone as it scaled the tower like a beast of legend. Each strike shattered chunks of stone, sending dust and debris raining down from above as it created ledges for itself in the thick stone walls of the tower. It moved with inhuman speed, its body taut with tension, every motion sharp, precise, and furious.
Green firelight bathed its figure. Rain streaked its skin.
Now, from the distance between them, it looked so much more like a child. Panicked, in a desperate frenzy as it returned again with more souls from within the tower.
But its eyes.
Those eyes, that were now burned in her memory. Seared into her very soul. Red, blazing, and angry. Framed by wet dark hair, upon a pale ghostly face.
Now, with her daughter clutched tightly in her hand, she almost believed that it looked quite remarkably like the Weirwood faces the savages from the North worship and prostrate to.
Was it a retaliation from the Gods of the North then? The wrath of the Old Gods, in divine retribution for sins of Andals long past? Or was it a more recent slight against their divinity? The attempted abduction of one of noble Stark Blood, Lyanna Stark, from the heart of a Weirwood forest? Were they the ones to pay for the crimes of the Targaryen mad prince?
The tower shuddered and groaned terribly. The creaks echoing from some levels up,
Cracks formed, the stone melted due to the inferno roaring around the levels that secured their treasury. From here, she could see the blazing hot fire roaring out the windows around that level.
That should not be possible! Only Dragon fire was known to melt stone that thick!
What had the pea-brained Maester claimed? No force possible even in just thought would ever be able to burn it down and topple it again.
The Demon leapt out through one of those very stone walls, as if it were made merely of thin, flimsy parchment. High up the tower, where the beacon was still blazing away, he was falling toward the earth, clutching the very familiar form of a woman in his two arms.
Finally, Malora was here. Caked in mud, and heaving into the dirt. All it had taken was a Godly Demon from the very bowels of the Seven Hells to find her.
This time, the demon did not move. It stood stock-still in the middle of the courtyard, observing the tower intently with its wispy fiery eyes.
Nobody spoke. Nobody dared breathe.
CRACK.
The sound came from above. Every head snapped up. There was a massive crack in the stone structure of the tower.
"THE TOWER! THE TOWER, ITS GOING TO FALL ON OUR HEADS!"
"IT'S CLIMBING AGAIN!" someone shrieked.
Her breath caught. She craned her neck, eyes wide, heart racing. Her chest felt tight, like a rope had been pulled taut around her ribs.
And yet again, there he was.
Climbing. Punching, his way up the tower. Each blow was a thunderclap, each leap more frantic than the last. Shards of stone rained down, splashing into the mud below.
"HE'S BRINGIN' THE TOWER DOWN!" a voice howled, high and raw with fear. "GET BACK! RUN!"
"NO! NO! NOOOO! GODS!" another voice cried. "THERE'S NOWHERE TO RUN! THE FORTRESS IS ON FIRE, THE BRIDGES ARE OVER RUN! WE'RE TRAPPED!"
"OH GODS, THE STRANGER HAS COME FOR US ALL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"
"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
They scattered. Like ants scattering beneath a descending boot, they bolted in every direction.
But Rhea couldn't run. Her daughter was screaming in her arms, no matter how much she tried she couldn't get herself to move.
She watched, holding on to her wailing daughter. Her eyes stayed locked on him as he reached the breach in the tower wall, his small frame perched at the edge peering intently into the inferno.
She had forgotten the fire was even there, she hadn't expected to be burning that high!
What was he doing?
She held her breath.
The boy leaned forward. His blazing eyes pulsed with anger, determination.
A sharp, icy wind howled down from above. Her breath fogged in front of her face. Cold. It was so cold.
More gasps. More shouts.
"WHAT IS HAPPENIN'?! OH GODS, FATHER HAVE MERCY! WHAT IS IT DOIN'?!"
"IT'S— IT'S DARK MAGIC!" a man stammered, stumbling back. "HE'S MAKIN' ICE MAGIC! HE'S FIGHTING THE FLAMES WITH DARK ICE MAGIC!"
The flames flickered. Shrunk. Steam hissed from the breach.
Her breath hitched. Her heart leapt to her throat. He was fighting the damned inferno.
The wind grew stronger. Steam poured from the breach, twisting like ghosts through the stormy night air. She felt it bite at her skin, sharp and hot, as it poured with the rain.
The inferno roaring in the tower fought the boy's magic. It sizzled, it roared but the chilly winds did not subside. The boy kept clung to the melted stone edge of the opening, as he poured what she could almost feel was every ounce of his magic in quenching the flame.
Slowly, the massive flame lessened, the flame flickered, ash rose to the air like a thick blanket, and ice settled on the sides of the tower as the last of the fire died out.
For a moment, all that remained was the pouring rain, the ash in the air, and the distant green flame that was still burning away atop the top.
"H-he… d-did he save us from the fire?!" Someone voiced what everyone was thinking.
"Oh, gods…there's so much pain…so much ash…" another moaned.
Every soul in the courtyard, from the cooks to the cleaners, to the guards, to the servants; all were staring at the massive, frozen hole in the side of the tower.
She could see clearer now.
The ash had settled underneath the strong, chilly wind, under the force of… whatever it was…under the force of its magic. The thick stone had been melted clean through. Massive sections, multiple levels of the tower had simply turned to blackened slag. Cracks had formed in what remained from the upper quarter of the tower and would have toppled sooner rather than later had the fires not been dealt with.
No fire should have the strength, the intensity to melt that much stone. Not unless there were Dragons involved, and those were long dead. Unless there was something else the heavens, or hells had in store for her, some other earth-shattering revelation she was soon to be a witness to. That stone should have never been melted.
Either way; come hell or high water, she would have the maester's head when the night ended. If it ever ended.
She had trusted the man's judgment and placed her safety, her daughter's safety atop the tower when a massive section of it was engulfed in such a terrifying flame based on his arrogant, foolish assessment that it would dealt with with ease.
People were crying, huddled amongst each other, as their minds reeled catching up to what had happened to them, how they had nearly survived dying a most gruesome death.
Then, as if the night had not been enough already, they had not suffered enough as it is.
The remaining, frozen stone around the breach of the tower cracked. The tower groaned loudly. Stone ground against stone. Wooden beams that formed its internal supports bent, and what remained of its charred husk gave away.
Almost like a single reed under a slow breeze, the frozen stone cracked. The tower leaned forward. Small chunks of it started falling to the ground.
The tower tipped like a tall reed in a slow breeze.
Stone scraped against stone, a deafening. Cracks spidered around the frozen breach, snapping like whips. The tower leaned, slow but inevitable, like a great tree bowing to the axe.
Screams erupted.
"OH BLOODY HELLS! IT'S FALLING! RUN! RUN!"
"FUCK ME! MOVE!"
People shoved past her. Boots trampled over hands. Someone's knee struck her cheek. Mud caked her face as she clutched Lynesse tighter, her heart hammering in her chest. She crawled, nails clawing at the wet ground, gritting her teeth as she took blow after blow from the frantic crowd.
"MOVE! MOVE!"
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
"GODS I DON'T WANNA DIE!"
Her breath came in sharp gasps, lungs burning as she dragged herself through the throng, shielding Lynesse with her body. Her daughter's sobs cut through the chaos, sharp and broken.
Then—
BOOM.
The shockwave hit her chest like a warhammer.
Her ears rang. Her heart skipped.
Her head snapped up. Her breath caught in her throat.
The Godling….what else could he be at this point?
He was a fiery streak that tore through the sky, a comet of blazing red. He'd launched himself off the wall, soaring in an arc that left trails of burning red behind him, a scar against the night. He was heading straight for the mass of the crowd.
Her heart froze in her chest. She could see it in his red angry eyes, even from this distance — he knew. He knew what was about to happen.
Chunks of stone rained down, crashing into the courtyard with bone-shattering force.
"LOOK OUT! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
"THAT THING'LL CRUSH US ALL, RUN!"
"RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN!"
The boy shifted midair. The fire of his eyes burned brighter, hotter. Furious.
Then—
CRACK. He was on the ground.
Then her world spun. Her whole body jerked backward, weightless for a heartbeat. Rain slapped her face, wind howled in her ears. Her scream caught in her throat, eyes wide with shock. She was flying.
Her dress whipped in the air. Her arms locked around Lynesse.
No, not flying. Falling.
She hit the wall with a crunch. Her bones sang with pain, ribs crunching against stone. Her other shoulder popped with a sharp crack, the pain blinding, breath knocked from her lungs.
Her scream came out as a weak, breathless rasp. Her legs crumpled. She hit the ground, curling herself around Lynesse as they slid down the cold, wet wall. Her heart pounded, her chest heaving as she fought to breathe.
Lynesse whimpered, her little arms squeezing her like a vice.
He had pulled them away. The Godling had saved her life.
Her eyes darted up, wide and wild, just in time to see it—
Fiery Red streaks. Everywhere.
People vanished and appeared around her, smashing into a heap at the wall away from the center of the courtyard. Flashes of crimson, he moved faster than a horse in the throng, pushing people away with such force that her mind refused to believe it was even happening.
Men were snatched out of the falling tower's path. Women. Children. Their screams echoed. Their confusion was palpable. She saw a guard land hard in the mud nearby, gasping, his armor twisted at an odd angle. Another stumbled to his feet, staggering, eyes darting wildly. A woman sobbed into her hands.
She heard Malora scream as she too was thrown into the wall by her side.
Others were crushed under the falling debris. Screams of pain, terror, and despair filled the courtyard. Stone smashed flesh, bones snapped like twigs. But the Godling saved whoever he could.
CRACK. BOOM.
The fiery trail shifted. A flash of blazing red, cutting across the sky. In a single spectacular jump. One Singular bound. One impossible leap that left cracks in the very earth. The Godling launched himself upward, soaring in an arc so high it left streaks of burning light against the stormy night.
He reached the top wall of the upper fortress, slamming into the stone with a deafening THUD, on his knee, one hand steadying his fall. Dust and debris crumbled around him.
He stood up, a fiery sentinel. Perched high, framed against the storm, rain dripping down his pale, sharp face. His fiery red eyes never left the tower.
It was still falling.
The top third of the tower lurched toward him, slow but unstoppable. Chunks of stone broke away, spinning as they fell, and at its peak, tumbling end over end, was the green fire of the beacon.
A weaker, less potent mix of wildfire.
But it didn't need to be strong. If it hit the walls, it would ignite everything, spread everywhere. The courtyard would be a sea of fire. Every soul trapped within these walls would burn alive, as would those unfortunate enough to be between the walls of the fortress itself, mounting what defense they were against the raiders outside, or fighting the fires sprung there.
Her breath stopped. Her heart seized in her chest.
Surely, he would die.
The tower was too large. Too heavy. Nothing could survive such a massive structure falling on their head!
He's going to die.
The boy didn't move. His jaw tightened, eyes locked on the falling mass of stone and fire. The glow in his eyes intensified, bright as molten iron.
He's going to die.
He raised his arms.
No, no, no—
He braced himself. His hands open, palms steady.
Surely, he doesn't believe he can withhold that!
BOOOOM.
Stone met stone. The world shook. The fortress wall shuddered. Cracks webbed through the stone as a deafening, world-ending crunch echoed across the courtyard.
She flinched, eyes wide with horror, breath frozen in her throat. Lynesse whimpered in her grasp, Malora weeped beside her.
The tower's top third lay ruined, shattered across the wall. Great chunks of stone hung on the edge, some tumbling down in slow, deliberate rolls.
But the green fiery beacon spun through the air like a loose wheel, rolling and rolling—
SPLASH.
It tumbled beyond the walls and into the dark waters of the whispering sea. Green fire flickered once on the surface, then vanished beneath the waves.
Silence.
Her ears rang. Her heart thudded in her chest, sharp and loud in the absence of sound. Her lips parted. Her eyes darted to the wall.
Nothing moved. No sound. No red glow.
The Godling was dead.
Her breath hitched. Her chest heaved.
The silence in the courtyard was absolute.
A lone crow cawed in the silence.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Well then!
Caelum played volleyball with a flaming beacon. (My estimate is that it would weigh the same range as a bus. So well within his strength range at the moment)
Here we are. I had most of this chapter pre-written a LONG time ago. A lot of the beginnings of the next are already jotted down. Initially the plan was to cover everything in one single chapter.
But as I kept writing, I realized there was more and more to cover, more that needed to be addressed. This entire scene deserves the detail I am currently trying to give it.
Now.
To head off certain questions.
Caelum cannot see beyond the black stone of the lower original fortress, on which the Upper new fortress and the Hightower are built. Because it's made of magic rock. He had jumped to the island, specifically to set the garrison free, to get some form of counter-offensive going. He's essentially placing his trust in the adults in this way.
But well, the Garrison he'd been looking for wasn't visible to him, and bro often can see everything. He essentially missed the giant blind spot in his search. Probably looks black matching the ocean floor or something.
Headcanon time!
I believe inside the maze of the Lower Fortress, there is space for yet another smaller fleet of ships. A good place to hide a reserved fleet. Leyton Hightower and the main garrison is there. Caelum had initially been searching for them.
Now, the collapsing of the Tower.
The Maester is not stupid. Lady Rhea Florent is not stupid.
Normally, you don't stay on top of a tower that's partially on fire. You evacuate immediately. Problem is, the fortress on the outside is on fire too. And heading into the maze down below is…. an extreme last resort.
The maester had deemed that a fire inside the tower could easily be killed if you cut off its supply of air. Which is how the High Tower was built by whoever built it, be it Bran the Builder, Garth Greenhand, or whoever else was a magic Bob the Builder in the ASOIAF of those times. It was designed in such a way that all ventilation to fires in the tower could be cut off.
This fire however was set precisely in the best location to collapse the structure and its supports from the inside. It was set up somehow. Some way to be the hottest fire in existence, without using dragons, or Wildfire.
Magic baby!
Who set it, how, that's all next chapter. Where, hopefully, I will wrap this up.
I've written the reason for the tower being on fire since MONTHS! I just need to finish the rest of it. And close all lose ends.
Her ears hurt.
A crow cawed incessantly, even this high up the tower.
The thunder was getting louder, more frequent. The lightning was crackling with so much energy, she was of half a mind to believe that the Ironborn had arrived with the fury of some Storm God chasing after them. The sharp crackles of the green flames, from the signal fire lit on top of the tower were gut-wrenching.
"Mummy, is father going to be alright?"
It took her a significantly long moment to even acknowledge her little Lynesse's question.
"He will be perfectly alright, Lynesse. There is no need to worry about him. Your father is a powerful man, with a mighty force at his back." She replied projecting calm that she did not truly feel.
She needed her daughter's mind off what was happening outside, she needed to get her distracted from worrying for her father "Now, how do you feel about listening to some of the sweet songs from Rosamund that you love so dearly?"
It was fortunate that her daughter was easy to please, that just some rather lovely songs from her handmaiden; or some little trinket of pearl jewellery were enough to garner and hold her attention for a while.
She was glad, perhaps for the first time in her life, that her two sons, Gunthor and Humfrey were nowhere near the city, having been sent for fostering to Houses Fossoway and Cupps.
At her daughter's nod, the handmaiden in question began singing. Lynesse nestled deeper into the covers of her bed as soon as the singing began, and she couldn't help but brush the locks of her daughter's silvery hair.
They were all huddled in the warmth and safety of her bedchambers. Seven handmaidens, her daughter, and herself. Two guards were posted outside the door, standing vigil for any would-be threat that could come for them during such a time.
At any other time of the year, she would say that Rosamund had one of the prettiest of voices in all of Oldtown. But she could not begrudge her upon hearing the cracks that flowed, due to the fear she was certainly trying her best to hide in her sweet voice. She sang one of Lynesse's most beloved songs.
In truth, she was unable to concentrate herself.
Her city was run amock with those filthy savages from the iron islands. Her husband was making preparations to mount some form of counter-offensive into the city, alongside most of his trusted Knights, men-at-arms, and most of the Garrison inside the fortress. And Ser Humphrey Mullendore, their master-at-arms, was leading the rest of the force in their attempts to put out the damned fires in the upper fortress outside.
She had no clue how those wretched half-witted Ironborn had managed to start a fire inside the very tower. Had Maester Walys not assured her that there was no threat of the tower toppling, she would have abandoned the tower altogether. Fled to the courtyard, or joined her husband down in the mazes.
The Maester was absolutely certain that the tower had been built with such ingenuity in mind, that after the burning of the Tower before the era of King Uthor of the High Tower, no force would ever be able to burn it down and topple it again.
She believed in the maester's reassurances, but they would be thoroughly put to the test tonight. The maester had claimed that the fire would soon die, as they worked to smother it from all sides.
Setting fire to just the fortress itself, without the use of long-dead Dragons, had been such a nigh unimaginable idea before the damned Ironborn proved them wrong, that the fact that they were somehow capable of setting a blaze in the very tower that the fortress was protecting was extremely frightening.
And as if all her worries were not enough, as if the Gods above had not made this one of the blackest nights of her life; that fool of a girl, Malora was missing. Her husband's first-born daughter had been searching for her equally foolish, completely simple-minded freak of a handmaiden since early morning.
There was a knock on their door, and she was broken out of her slowly darkening thoughts.
Composing herself, she cleared her thoughts and said, "You may come in!" bidding the latest addition to the retinue of landed knights in the Tower, followed quickly by maester Walys shuffling in behind him.
Ser Elmar would have made for a powerful figure if he yet possessed his right arm. The Knight had been crippled some months prior in what she believed, was the result of some vile Alchemical experiment that the exiled maester, Qyburn had been conducting in his manse, down the Honeywine river.
The Knight himself had sworn to every god imaginable, to whomever would deign to listen that he had been set upon by some Demon that arose from the fires of the Seventh Hell itself. That he had fought it during his attempts at saving the stable boy, Baz from the burning stable.
She scoffed again internally.
Hah.
Demons indeed.
If the Knight had seen a Demon that night, then she was birthed in the visage of the Maiden herself. Demons, and Magic, and whatever other insane indulgences her husband and Malora liked to believe in were just drunken fabrications of men like the Knight before her.
The man had likely been drunk out of the sanity of his mind and had conjured up the entire tale in his stupor. Perhaps as a way to explain away the crippling wounds he received from the fires that night.
Alas, her husband was one of the many fools that the Knight had managed to sway into believing the tall tale.
The man had been rewarded with a small holdfast of his own, given a healthy sum of gold, alongside a permanent position as the sworn shield of her husband's most favored daughter for his efforts. Even Baz the stable hand at the manse, had been raised in station to be trained by the Stable Master of the tower itself.
In times like these, she was glad her husband favored his firstborn daughter, from his first wife; more than any other child of his blood.
At the very least, her children weren't saddled with incompetent brutes with more brawn than brains to ensure their safety. The Knight had managed to lose his sole responsibility. During such a dangerous time like this.
Quickly, she directed them away from her daughter, and her singing handmaidens, and into the often-unused parlor of her bedchamber. She rarely used this bedchamber, often sharing beds with her old husband.
"Well…?" She stretched the word as imperiously as she could manage. "Have you found her? Where is she?"
The Knight in question trembled slightly under her stern gaze, as he fumbled. "M'lady….I, erm…" He stuttered, then with visible effort took control of himself, and continued "M'lady, I have set five men scouring the entirety of the tower for her-"
"So, you do not know!" She cut him off swiftly and sharply. "You have managed to somehow lose the one responsibility you were given, the one person you swore your very life to protect. During one of the worst raids by the Gods damned Ironborn imaginable! Half of the docks are burning, Ser Elmar! I would have your head if even a hair on hers is found damaged come tomorrow morn!"
For all that the girl served as a reminder of the fact that her husband would never love her daughter as much as he did Malora, she did not hate her. She did not wish the fool dead.
If at all, she pitied the girl in truth. Far past marriageable age, at two and twenty, the girl had been denied what should have been rightfully hers, at far too many times in her life.
If she were her daughter, she would have fought tooth and nail to secure the marriage to the Tyrells, that Alerie's mother had managed for her daughter instead. The fact that Malora had no desire for the match, or any match whatsoever was not an issue. The girl could care less if any suitor passed her over for younger sisters, believing her to be a maddened raving witch or whatever else they called her.
In fact, Rhea was almost certain, Malora reveled in knowing what most thought of her behind her back.
"M-m'lady, I can assure you it will not come to that!" The Knight responded almost pleadingly.
She raised an eyebrow at the man. "Can you, Ser? Can you truly? Where does this surety come from, I wonder?"
She did not appreciate false promises and hot air being blown in her face, especially when the lives of any children of her husband were in question. Even if it was Malora out of all of them.
"I am certain that Lady Malora has not left the walls of the tower – nay, the fortress." The Knight tried to sound certain of that "I will have her found within the hour!"
"Which is it? The Tower or the Fortress?" She questioned, and then shook her head "Better yet, why come here at all, Ser? Surely you could be doing that at this very moment, instead of reporting to me?"
And she was truly perplexed by the Knight's behavior. She knew the Knight was incompetent, but he was certainly not a complete fool without a sense of self-preservation.
The Knight took a deep gulp of air, as he corrected what posture he hadn't already in his earlier round of straightening. "M'lady… I believe Lady Malora ran off in search of her handmaiden, Dotty. The girl was last seen by the guards of the treasury in the tower, they think she wanted to see the star metal one more time."
Dotty. The freakishly simple-minded handmaiden that her husband had assigned to Malora at the girl's request. The girl would rarely ever speak. If she ever did deign to utter a word, it would be so low that one would have to quieten everything else and strain their ears as far as possible to make sense of what was said.
Most of the time, the girl would be staring with her eerie moon-like eyes at whatever caught her fancy that time of day.
Often those fancies revolved around whatever harebrained scheme that Malora had cooked up in her observation chamber, just a floor below the signal fire of the Hightower. Or she would stare at Malora herself.
At times she was almost certain Malora was a saddle licker, with the way the two would just stare at each other at odd times of the day, often lost in worlds of their own.
"And why would I need to know where that foolish girl's little simpleton was last seen? You do not know where either of them are now, do you?!"
This time, maester Walys, who had been shuffling from foot to foot beside the crippled Knight, replied, "Lady Rhea, the fire inside the tower began somewhere near the treasury, and we believe that it occurred around the time she was last seen nearby…."
"You believe that Dotty had a hand in setting the fire….?" She had never heard a more absurd theory, and she had heard her fair share of them during her time when she sat by her husband as he handled court. "That girl doesn't eat without Malora by her side, she doesn't take a shit or piss without Malora knowing about it, she doesn't even sleep without Malora being somewhere nearby….and you would have me believe it was that simpleton that set the damned treasury on fire?"
She shook her head in complete disbelief.
The Knight she could understand, but the maester too? Had the maester fallen to the Knight's ravings and delusions as well? The maester should be with Ser Humphrey, assisting the master-at-arms in extinguishing the fires, not here chasing after batty little girls, and throwing accusations with no basis to stand on.
"What else am I to believe next?" She screamed at the fools standing before her, "Did she lower the boom and chain in the bay too? Prepare a welcoming ceremony for the damned Ironborn up in her chamber? Are they all up there, sharing a warm meal, drinking ale, and dancing away while the city burns around us as we speak?!"
There was silence as the incompetent fool of a Knight, and the apparently extremely gullible maester took in her words.
The crow flying outside cawed by the window.
She could see the fire eating away from the center of the docks.
From the peasant's port in the far distance, the entirety of the harbor street, the spice markets, the Sept of Arrivals, the Temples of the faiths, the Merchant's district, the Dock whorehouses, everything was set on fire. Crawling with the damnable Ironborn.
The harbor was swarmed with their fleet, on guard against any retaliatory force her husband could mount.
She had too much to be worried about this night, she did not deserve this.
Damn Malora for her wilfulness. Damn Dotty for her foolish naïve half-wittedness. And Damn these fools for not understanding the severity of the situation unfolding around her, and acting with the seriousness it deserves.
She turned around to face the two standing in her parlor.
She made to admonish them one last time and send them away out of her sight to do what they should already have been doing. But she paused, when what little color had that yet remained on the Ser Elmar's face after her tirade completely washed away.
The man trembled where he stood like a twig amid a strong breeze. His one remaining left hand reached for the sword at his belt, fumbling and failing to extract it from its sheath.
The maester beside him was staring wide-eyed, horrified behind her, at the window; and she couldn't help but turn around.
The first thing she saw were its eyes.
Two blazing coals of searing, molten red. They seethed with a depthless fury that no mortal could ever possess. They were not the eyes of a man. They weren't even the eyes of a beast.
No, no beast had ever been born with eyes like that. Those were the eyes of something born in suffering, forged in wrath, and let loose from the pits of the Seven Hells. The glow flickered like molten magma, making its twisted face seem to shift and writhe as if it were barely contained within its own pale skin.
It was hunched low on the stone sill, framed by green flickering firelight and the crackles of frequent lightning. Shadows clung to it like a second skin, its form half-swallowed by darkness, half-revealed in the glow of the distant green flames. It was small — too small for a man — but it held itself with a beast's predatory stillness, every muscle coiled and tense, like it was waiting for the perfect moment to spring. Water dripped from its form, steam rising in faint tendrils where droplets hissed against the skin near its eyes.
Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled. She stumbled back, her hand clutching the corner of the table like it was a holy relic. Her voice caught in her throat, a dry rasp that refused to form words.
Its snarl deepened.
Sharp teeth bared behind thin, its lips pulled back in a feral, inhuman grimace. Not a snarl of rage, no — worse than that. It was a snarl of disgust. Disgust at her. She could feel it. It hated her.
No, not her.
It hated everything it saw. The rain, the fire, the tower, the very world itself. She swore she could hear it breathing, heavy and labored, a beast crouched at the edge of the hunt.
"D-demon! DEMON! GUARDS! GUARDS!"
"No... no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NOOOO!" She didn't know if it was her, or the Knight who screamed louder. "NOT AGAIN! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING AGAIN!"
Whoever it was, caused the entire chamber to fall into pure terrified chaos.
The handmaidens stopped singing, one of them peeked in from the bed-chambers and quickly fell on her back as she crawled away shrieking uncontrollably.
The Knight had finally managed to unsheathe his blade, and had it held trembling terribly in his left hand as he placed himself ahead of her.
She could hear the shrieks of the rest of the girls just beginning to sound, and the dull thuds of boots on stone as the guards stationed outside began to barge in as quickly as they could.
The door burst open. Her heart lifted for half a breath — they'll kill it. Whatever it was, it needed to die!
In a remarkable display of bravery, the Knight charged the thing. "D-DAMN YOU! GO BACK TO THE DEPTHS OF HE-"
But then it moved.
It moved in an angry demonic red blur. The air cracked like thunder. The stone of the window cracked.
The sword was gone from Elmar's hand, now embedded halfway into the stone wall with a shuddering clang. The Knight himself was a pained heap on the ground clutching his last remaining arm. The maester had been knocked off his feet by the sheer pressure it exuded as it moved. The guards staggered, gasping, swords shattered at their feet as they groaned in pain on the ground clutching at their hands and fingers, their swords were broken, snapped in half before they could even think to take a swing.
The thing was now at the door.
The door to her bedchamber. The door that led to her little Lynesse!
Her heart stopped. Lynesse was in there.
Her daughter's hiccupping scream; the handmaiden's shrieks reached her ears, sharp as a blade to the heart. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.
The thing didn't move. Its back faced the door, shielding it. Its eyes flickered, those burning embers watching her intently.
"Tell me where is the main garrison?! How do I free them?!" it said, its voice far too calm, far too human. Almost pleading? "Where are they stationed? Why can't I see them? Where are they?! Tell me, Please!"
No one answered. Everyone stared. Ser Elmar and the guards groaned in pain on the ground. No one else even dared to breathe.
The maester stammered, shaking like a leaf on the ground, crawling away to the far wall. His voice cracking, as he screamed in horror, "W-why? W-why would a d-demon like you want to know? What v-vile things have you p-planned d-demon?!"
The thing's frustration was clear to her, she was just beginning to make out more features on its drenched pale face. Angry red pulsing lines were crawling the pale pasty skin around its eyes. The lines crinkled and deepened as an angry snarl formed on its short face.
"There isn't any time!" The thing roared, as it gripped the stone frame of the door between the bedchamber and her parlor. The stone in its grip smashed into fine dust. It's hot glowing eyes intensified in heat, pulsing with barely contained malevolence. "Tell me where they are, and I will leave!"
For a moment, she stood stock still under the creature's terrifying gaze.
She couldn't breathe. She needed the thing away from her daughter. Somehow, some way, she needed it far away from her Lynesse!
She could not think clearly. She was terrified that it would burn her alive from the inside, the angry fire in its eyes promised a painful, scorching death.
She had to do something.
Her husband was in the mazes underneath the fortress. Making way to the remaining fleet docked under the safety and security of the old Black Stone Fortress. Could she let this thing know that?
What would it do then? Massacre all the men, like it so effortlessly dealt with the plated Knight alongside the armed and armored guards?
The maester responded "W-we will not tell you! Y-you will not have them! The Light of the Seve-"
Thunder crackled, the very tower rumbled, there was an ominous thunderous groan from somewhere as it swayed and shook.
What was the wretched thing doing?!
It looked very intently at the floor, its wet dark hair cascading around its pale face, as its glowing red eyes narrowed dangerously, the pulsing veins around them writhing with increased intensity.
The moment it vanished, the world held its breath.
Then came the screams.
"HE TOOK ROSAMUND! LYNESSE! OH GODS!"
Her heart stopped. Cold dread spread through her chest, rooting her to the spot. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. No. No, no, no.
She rushed through the door to look for her daughter, to be certain that she was still there. That this was all a cruel jape.
Her handmaidens broke into blind panic, shrieking and scrambling over each other like frightened hens. Dresses tangled, limbs clawed, and bodies collided as they clawed for the door, desperate to escape.
The air shifted. A baleful gale swept the room, bringing with it the crack of thunder.
A flash of searing red. Another scream. Two more handmaidens gone.
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
Her mind refused to comprehend it. Her legs buckled. Her chest heaved. The icy grip of despair sank deep into her gut. I should've told it. I should've told it where Leyton was. I should've—
The air split apart.
A crushing force seized her by the shoulder. Her feet left the ground. Her world spun violently as the air itself howled in her ears. Rain slapped her face. Her stomach lurched, twisting into knots.
I'm falling. I'm falling! Oh, Gods, I'm about to die.
Her scream caught in her throat.
She hit the ground hard, knees buckling, shoulder throbbing from the brutal grip that had held her. Mud splattered up her legs, seeping into her dress. Cold. Wet. Sharp. Somehow, she didn't feel the pain from such a fall.
Her lungs burned as she gasped in shock, heart hammering like a drum. She looked around wildly, eyes darting, vision swimming.
Her daughter, Lynesse.
Caked in mud, eyes wide with terror, she was bent forward, gagging, retching into the dirt. Her tiny frame heaved with every sobbing gasp.
"Lynesse!" Her voice cracked. She crawled toward her, limbs shaking, fingers clawing at the slick ground.
Her hands reached her daughter's face. Warm. Alive. Tears poured freely down her cheeks as she pulled her in, crushing her to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
There was another loud crack. A dull thud.
The ground cracked under the force of its landing. Mud splashed in every direction as two bodies slammed into the dirt beside it—Ser Elmar and Maester Walys.
Both men screamed. Walys crawled on his hands and knees, retching violently into the mud. Ser Elmar rolled onto his side, cradling his arm, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. His eyes darted wildly, glazed with pain and terror.
Before she could even register it, the thing was gone again. Just a blur of red infernal heat.
Rhea gripped Lynesse tighter. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath shallow, every muscle in her body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. Her eyes darted to the spot where it had been, to the two writhing men it had left behind.
"What is it?" Walys croaked, his face still buried in the mud. "The Seven save us… what is it?!"
Ser Elmar's breath came in ragged heaves, his fingers clawing the dirt. "The demon… It's back. It's back. It's come for us! GODS, PLEASE! NO!" He sobbed into the ground, his face streaked with blood and grime.
Another loud thunderous crack. Another dull thud.
Two more bodies fell with it. The Guards. One guard groaned, clutching his wrist bent at an unnatural angle.
"W-what… what happened?! Where am I?!" he gasped, his eyes darting wildly as he blinked away shock. Another guard gagged, hands gripping his chest as he vomited onto his armor.
The demon-child blurred away again.
The courtyard was slowly filling up, becoming crowded by all the souls the demonic child dragged out of the tower. All her handmaidens, Rosamund, and the guards who had been working hard to fight the fires set on the fortress walls poured in around them.
"W-what… what happened?! Where am I?!" one of the guards gasped, his eyes darting wildly as he blinked away shock. Another gagged, hands gripping his chest as he vomited onto his armor.
The demon-child blurred away again.
Another crack. Another thud. More bodies hit the ground.
The cooks this time. Two women and one of the boys from the scullery. The boy curled into himself, face twisted in pain as he clutched his ankle. "My leg! My leg!" he screamed, voice shrill with agony.
"Where am I?! What's happening?!" one of the cooks shrieked, her wide eyes locking onto Rhea like she was supposed to have answers.
"Oh gods!" another woman screamed, scrambling backward on all fours. "The squids have sent a monster for us all!" She gasped as she glanced up at the tower. "It's climbing the tower! It's dragging us out!" Her voice cracked with hysteria, hands clawing at her face.
Another crack. Another thud.
The steward of the tower, More servants. More guards. A chambermaid, tears streaking her soot-stained face. She fell hard, hitting the ground with a pained cry.
"HELP ME! PLEASE! WHAT IS THIS?!" Her eyes darted in every direction. "What's happening?! WHERE ARE WE?!"
"GET BACK! ALL OF YOU, GET BACK!" One of the older guards tried to shout, but his voice was hoarse, broken. He coughed hard, spitting mud as he dragged himself to his feet. His eyes locked on the tower, his face pale as bone. "Oh, Gods, It's coming back!" he croaked, his voice cracking in terror. "It's COMING BACK!"
Another crack. Another thud.
More guards. Their armor clattered like falling pots. Groans. Gasps. Panicked shouts. She twisted to see up the tower.
The thing was climbing up the side of the tower. Punching its fists into the stone as it scaled the tower like a beast of legend. Each strike shattered chunks of stone, sending dust and debris raining down from above as it created ledges for itself in the thick stone walls of the tower. It moved with inhuman speed, its body taut with tension, every motion sharp, precise, and furious.
Green firelight bathed its figure. Rain streaked its skin.
Now, from the distance between them, it looked so much more like a child. Panicked, in a desperate frenzy as it returned again with more souls from within the tower.
But its eyes.
Those eyes, that were now burned in her memory. Seared into her very soul. Red, blazing, and angry. Framed by wet dark hair, upon a pale ghostly face.
Now, with her daughter clutched tightly in her hand, she almost believed that it looked quite remarkably like the Weirwood faces the savages from the North worship and prostrate to.
Was it a retaliation from the Gods of the North then? The wrath of the Old Gods, in divine retribution for sins of Andals long past? Or was it a more recent slight against their divinity? The attempted abduction of one of noble Stark Blood, Lyanna Stark, from the heart of a Weirwood forest? Were they the ones to pay for the crimes of the Targaryen mad prince?
The tower shuddered and groaned terribly. The creaks echoing from some levels up,
Cracks formed, the stone melted due to the inferno roaring around the levels that secured their treasury. From here, she could see the blazing hot fire roaring out the windows around that level.
That should not be possible! Only Dragon fire was known to melt stone that thick!
What had the pea-brained Maester claimed? No force possible even in just thought would ever be able to burn it down and topple it again.
The Demon leapt out through one of those very stone walls, as if it were made merely of thin, flimsy parchment. High up the tower, where the beacon was still blazing away, he was falling toward the earth, clutching the very familiar form of a woman in his two arms.
Finally, Malora was here. Caked in mud, and heaving into the dirt. All it had taken was a Godly Demon from the very bowels of the Seven Hells to find her.
This time, the demon did not move. It stood stock-still in the middle of the courtyard, observing the tower intently with its wispy fiery eyes.
Nobody spoke. Nobody dared breathe.
CRACK.
The sound came from above. Every head snapped up. There was a massive crack in the stone structure of the tower.
"THE TOWER! THE TOWER, ITS GOING TO FALL ON OUR HEADS!"
"IT'S CLIMBING AGAIN!" someone shrieked.
Her breath caught. She craned her neck, eyes wide, heart racing. Her chest felt tight, like a rope had been pulled taut around her ribs.
And yet again, there he was.
Climbing. Punching, his way up the tower. Each blow was a thunderclap, each leap more frantic than the last. Shards of stone rained down, splashing into the mud below.
"HE'S BRINGIN' THE TOWER DOWN!" a voice howled, high and raw with fear. "GET BACK! RUN!"
"NO! NO! NOOOO! GODS!" another voice cried. "THERE'S NOWHERE TO RUN! THE FORTRESS IS ON FIRE, THE BRIDGES ARE OVER RUN! WE'RE TRAPPED!"
"OH GODS, THE STRANGER HAS COME FOR US ALL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"
"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
They scattered. Like ants scattering beneath a descending boot, they bolted in every direction.
But Rhea couldn't run. Her daughter was screaming in her arms, no matter how much she tried she couldn't get herself to move.
She watched, holding on to her wailing daughter. Her eyes stayed locked on him as he reached the breach in the tower wall, his small frame perched at the edge peering intently into the inferno.
She had forgotten the fire was even there, she hadn't expected to be burning that high!
What was he doing?
She held her breath.
The boy leaned forward. His blazing eyes pulsed with anger, determination.
A sharp, icy wind howled down from above. Her breath fogged in front of her face. Cold. It was so cold.
More gasps. More shouts.
"WHAT IS HAPPENIN'?! OH GODS, FATHER HAVE MERCY! WHAT IS IT DOIN'?!"
"IT'S— IT'S DARK MAGIC!" a man stammered, stumbling back. "HE'S MAKIN' ICE MAGIC! HE'S FIGHTING THE FLAMES WITH DARK ICE MAGIC!"
The flames flickered. Shrunk. Steam hissed from the breach.
Her breath hitched. Her heart leapt to her throat. He was fighting the damned inferno.
The wind grew stronger. Steam poured from the breach, twisting like ghosts through the stormy night air. She felt it bite at her skin, sharp and hot, as it poured with the rain.
The inferno roaring in the tower fought the boy's magic. It sizzled, it roared but the chilly winds did not subside. The boy kept clung to the melted stone edge of the opening, as he poured what she could almost feel was every ounce of his magic in quenching the flame.
Slowly, the massive flame lessened, the flame flickered, ash rose to the air like a thick blanket, and ice settled on the sides of the tower as the last of the fire died out.
For a moment, all that remained was the pouring rain, the ash in the air, and the distant green flame that was still burning away atop the top.
"H-he… d-did he save us from the fire?!" Someone voiced what everyone was thinking.
"Oh, gods…there's so much pain…so much ash…" another moaned.
Every soul in the courtyard, from the cooks to the cleaners, to the guards, to the servants; all were staring at the massive, frozen hole in the side of the tower.
She could see clearer now.
The ash had settled underneath the strong, chilly wind, under the force of… whatever it was…under the force of its magic. The thick stone had been melted clean through. Massive sections, multiple levels of the tower had simply turned to blackened slag. Cracks had formed in what remained from the upper quarter of the tower and would have toppled sooner rather than later had the fires not been dealt with.
No fire should have the strength, the intensity to melt that much stone. Not unless there were Dragons involved, and those were long dead. Unless there was something else the heavens, or hells had in store for her, some other earth-shattering revelation she was soon to be a witness to. That stone should have never been melted.
Either way; come hell or high water, she would have the maester's head when the night ended. If it ever ended.
She had trusted the man's judgment and placed her safety, her daughter's safety atop the tower when a massive section of it was engulfed in such a terrifying flame based on his arrogant, foolish assessment that it would dealt with with ease.
People were crying, huddled amongst each other, as their minds reeled catching up to what had happened to them, how they had nearly survived dying a most gruesome death.
Then, as if the night had not been enough already, they had not suffered enough as it is.
The remaining, frozen stone around the breach of the tower cracked. The tower groaned loudly. Stone ground against stone. Wooden beams that formed its internal supports bent, and what remained of its charred husk gave away.
Almost like a single reed under a slow breeze, the frozen stone cracked. The tower leaned forward. Small chunks of it started falling to the ground.
The tower tipped like a tall reed in a slow breeze.
Stone scraped against stone, a deafening. Cracks spidered around the frozen breach, snapping like whips. The tower leaned, slow but inevitable, like a great tree bowing to the axe.
Screams erupted.
"OH BLOODY HELLS! IT'S FALLING! RUN! RUN!"
"FUCK ME! MOVE!"
People shoved past her. Boots trampled over hands. Someone's knee struck her cheek. Mud caked her face as she clutched Lynesse tighter, her heart hammering in her chest. She crawled, nails clawing at the wet ground, gritting her teeth as she took blow after blow from the frantic crowd.
"MOVE! MOVE!"
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
"GODS I DON'T WANNA DIE!"
Her breath came in sharp gasps, lungs burning as she dragged herself through the throng, shielding Lynesse with her body. Her daughter's sobs cut through the chaos, sharp and broken.
Then—
BOOM.
The shockwave hit her chest like a warhammer.
Her ears rang. Her heart skipped.
Her head snapped up. Her breath caught in her throat.
The Godling….what else could he be at this point?
He was a fiery streak that tore through the sky, a comet of blazing red. He'd launched himself off the wall, soaring in an arc that left trails of burning red behind him, a scar against the night. He was heading straight for the mass of the crowd.
Her heart froze in her chest. She could see it in his red angry eyes, even from this distance — he knew. He knew what was about to happen.
Chunks of stone rained down, crashing into the courtyard with bone-shattering force.
"LOOK OUT! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
"THAT THING'LL CRUSH US ALL, RUN!"
"RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN!"
The boy shifted midair. The fire of his eyes burned brighter, hotter. Furious.
Then—
CRACK. He was on the ground.
Then her world spun. Her whole body jerked backward, weightless for a heartbeat. Rain slapped her face, wind howled in her ears. Her scream caught in her throat, eyes wide with shock. She was flying.
Her dress whipped in the air. Her arms locked around Lynesse.
No, not flying. Falling.
She hit the wall with a crunch. Her bones sang with pain, ribs crunching against stone. Her other shoulder popped with a sharp crack, the pain blinding, breath knocked from her lungs.
Her scream came out as a weak, breathless rasp. Her legs crumpled. She hit the ground, curling herself around Lynesse as they slid down the cold, wet wall. Her heart pounded, her chest heaving as she fought to breathe.
Lynesse whimpered, her little arms squeezing her like a vice.
He had pulled them away. The Godling had saved her life.
Her eyes darted up, wide and wild, just in time to see it—
Fiery Red streaks. Everywhere.
People vanished and appeared around her, smashing into a heap at the wall away from the center of the courtyard. Flashes of crimson, he moved faster than a horse in the throng, pushing people away with such force that her mind refused to believe it was even happening.
Men were snatched out of the falling tower's path. Women. Children. Their screams echoed. Their confusion was palpable. She saw a guard land hard in the mud nearby, gasping, his armor twisted at an odd angle. Another stumbled to his feet, staggering, eyes darting wildly. A woman sobbed into her hands.
She heard Malora scream as she too was thrown into the wall by her side.
Others were crushed under the falling debris. Screams of pain, terror, and despair filled the courtyard. Stone smashed flesh, bones snapped like twigs. But the Godling saved whoever he could.
CRACK. BOOM.
The fiery trail shifted. A flash of blazing red, cutting across the sky. In a single spectacular jump. One Singular bound. One impossible leap that left cracks in the very earth. The Godling launched himself upward, soaring in an arc so high it left streaks of burning light against the stormy night.
He reached the top wall of the upper fortress, slamming into the stone with a deafening THUD, on his knee, one hand steadying his fall. Dust and debris crumbled around him.
He stood up, a fiery sentinel. Perched high, framed against the storm, rain dripping down his pale, sharp face. His fiery red eyes never left the tower.
It was still falling.
The top third of the tower lurched toward him, slow but unstoppable. Chunks of stone broke away, spinning as they fell, and at its peak, tumbling end over end, was the green fire of the beacon.
A weaker, less potent mix of wildfire.
But it didn't need to be strong. If it hit the walls, it would ignite everything, spread everywhere. The courtyard would be a sea of fire. Every soul trapped within these walls would burn alive, as would those unfortunate enough to be between the walls of the fortress itself, mounting what defense they were against the raiders outside, or fighting the fires sprung there.
Her breath stopped. Her heart seized in her chest.
Surely, he would die.
The tower was too large. Too heavy. Nothing could survive such a massive structure falling on their head!
He's going to die.
The boy didn't move. His jaw tightened, eyes locked on the falling mass of stone and fire. The glow in his eyes intensified, bright as molten iron.
He's going to die.
He raised his arms.
No, no, no—
He braced himself. His hands open, palms steady.
Surely, he doesn't believe he can withhold that!
BOOOOM.
Stone met stone. The world shook. The fortress wall shuddered. Cracks webbed through the stone as a deafening, world-ending crunch echoed across the courtyard.
She flinched, eyes wide with horror, breath frozen in her throat. Lynesse whimpered in her grasp, Malora weeped beside her.
The tower's top third lay ruined, shattered across the wall. Great chunks of stone hung on the edge, some tumbling down in slow, deliberate rolls.
But the green fiery beacon spun through the air like a loose wheel, rolling and rolling—
SPLASH.
It tumbled beyond the walls and into the dark waters of the whispering sea. Green fire flickered once on the surface, then vanished beneath the waves.
Silence.
Her ears rang. Her heart thudded in her chest, sharp and loud in the absence of sound. Her lips parted. Her eyes darted to the wall.
Nothing moved. No sound. No red glow.
The Godling was dead.
Her breath hitched. Her chest heaved.
The silence in the courtyard was absolute.
A lone crow cawed in the silence.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N)
Well then!
Caelum played volleyball with a flaming beacon. (My estimate is that it would weigh the same range as a bus. So well within his strength range at the moment)
Here we are. I had most of this chapter pre-written a LONG time ago. A lot of the beginnings of the next are already jotted down. Initially the plan was to cover everything in one single chapter.
But as I kept writing, I realized there was more and more to cover, more that needed to be addressed. This entire scene deserves the detail I am currently trying to give it.
Now.
To head off certain questions.
Caelum cannot see beyond the black stone of the lower original fortress, on which the Upper new fortress and the Hightower are built. Because it's made of magic rock. He had jumped to the island, specifically to set the garrison free, to get some form of counter-offensive going. He's essentially placing his trust in the adults in this way.
But well, the Garrison he'd been looking for wasn't visible to him, and bro often can see everything. He essentially missed the giant blind spot in his search. Probably looks black matching the ocean floor or something.
Headcanon time!
I believe inside the maze of the Lower Fortress, there is space for yet another smaller fleet of ships. A good place to hide a reserved fleet. Leyton Hightower and the main garrison is there. Caelum had initially been searching for them.
Now, the collapsing of the Tower.
The Maester is not stupid. Lady Rhea Florent is not stupid.
Normally, you don't stay on top of a tower that's partially on fire. You evacuate immediately. Problem is, the fortress on the outside is on fire too. And heading into the maze down below is…. an extreme last resort.
The maester had deemed that a fire inside the tower could easily be killed if you cut off its supply of air. Which is how the High Tower was built by whoever built it, be it Bran the Builder, Garth Greenhand, or whoever else was a magic Bob the Builder in the ASOIAF of those times. It was designed in such a way that all ventilation to fires in the tower could be cut off.
This fire however was set precisely in the best location to collapse the structure and its supports from the inside. It was set up somehow. Some way to be the hottest fire in existence, without using dragons, or Wildfire.
Magic baby!
Who set it, how, that's all next chapter. Where, hopefully, I will wrap this up.
I've written the reason for the tower being on fire since MONTHS! I just need to finish the rest of it. And close all lose ends.
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
Wait, so it wasn't even Wildfire? Then what it was?! Because that's some dangerous Magic BS our homeboi will have to deal with some day
Also, God, Caelum must be feeling horrible. Having some people he just saved getting killed by the falling tower.
And now I wonder what the Tree-eyed Raven must be thinking, seeing Caelum pulling BS not seen since the Age of Heroes
One question, why is his eyes glowing? Don't remember if that was pointed out or not. Superman usually has to actually trigger his heat vision for it to be glowing so why is he constantly on the edge of vaporizing people?
In DCEU, Superman's heat vision is often triggered under extreme anger.
It happens when Lex Luthor tells him he's taken Martha, it happens when Zod arrives and threatens the entire planet.
I believe, Clark has to reign in his anger, have a lot of patience and think with a clear head.
This version of him does not have that sort of training. Yet. He is still adapting to new powers, this situation is so new to him, that he's still learning how to manage everything.
This is also his first exposure to senseless, abject cruelty that's happening en masse. That's make him furious to the extreme, add in his frustration at the fact that despite having what are essentially godlike abilities, people are still suffering.
He is furious at himself, at the ironborn, at the world and that's causing him to constantly keep Heat Vision in check.
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Humility?