"Ready?" Lya calls, a vial filled with purplish-red mist in her hand.
At your signal she tosses it to the ground and the carrion-fiend, once a figure of terror, lies splayed upon the ground. In a fit of artistry you mold it into a ungainly vulture in truth, which Waymar grabs firmly by the throat. For all his misgivings about blood sacrifice, he would be the last to refuse casting a fiend from the world.
Dark Sister flashes in your hand carving out the demon's heart and spilling its foul ichor into the hungering earth, and this time the spirit of the blade does not object to the use near as much as the last, sensing the import of the moment even as you do. The air turns thick and still, heavy with the expectant sight, whether of watchers kindly or not you cannot say.
Then Lya casts out the second and third vials, these ones containing creatures with just enough likeness of natural life to make their oozing many-eyed countenance all the more revolting. Again spell steel digs deep ending a chorus a thousand screaming voices... Then at last the final sacrifice is at hand. You hand the strange weeping doll to the dead sorcerer, along with a dagger of spell-steel, a fitting end for a son of Valyria to end his days however they may have been lived, you must admit.
"Farewell to silence and to gloom," the final deathly whisper falls, and then the dagger plunges into the soul anchor, driven by the hand of its creator. Both to dust and ashes fall... and then the world goes mad.
The ground buckles beneath you like a maddened beast as a great many-voiced harmony beautiful in its wild joy rings out. All at once it is the rush of water and the roar of stones falling, the song of birds and the calls of beasts, and though it all the the True Tongue singing, like a thread of silver through the green.
The weirwood tree shoots up... and up and up, a pillar of white to dwarf those that adorn the temples of men. A storm of red leaves swirl around you as they grow fall then grow again until the entire courtyard is covered in a deep crimson carpet. Two-hundred feet and more, you marvel.
From the corner of your eye you see that the tree's roots had tumbled down the stones of the ruined garden before burying what is was left, though from amid the ruin rose tall black oaks, not set in any pattern by the hand of man, but simply rising where their seeds been buried beneath the grasping vines.
Yet your attention is for the tree, for your task is not yet done. With skill of sorcery born you carve into the tree the face of Lys not as it is perhaps, but as it might one day be, a gentler, kinder place that would still be true to its roots, an isle of serenity such as the long dead dragonlords imagined, yet without the horrors they have wrought.
A face fine-featured and bejeweled, such as one might find from pleasure houses to the halls of the mighty, yet the smile does not lie, it does not hide horror and pain, but simply shows a sly amusement, inviting the viewer to partake. Upon the tree strange ivy blooms and then grows laden with golden berries, blessed to heal and sustain. An air of... peace falls over the godswood.