'Tis Magic That Hath Ravaged Me (ASOIAF Celestial Grimoire Peggy Sue)

[Whenyouseeyou]

I got to say this will definitely be a slow burn to where they get to close the rift

 

[Deathstorm50]

I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word,​

And have a care to be most civil;

It's really kind of such a noble Lord

So humanly to gossip with the Devil!

-Faust, Prologue, Mephistopheles,

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe​

Interlude: Gossip With The Devil

In a far away realm, on a distant and dark world, in the wretched, ruined castle of Villain's Vale, Maleficent lurked. An ancient and powerful faerie queen lacking any true queendom. Reviled by even the coldest of Unseelie for her cruelty, she courted the wicked attentions of Hell itself for her ambition. When she had plumbed the depths of Hell for power and found them lacking, she turned to a far more potent power.

Darkness.

Darkness persisted in all mens' hearts, the seed from which evil sprouts. As the Mistress of All Evil, she would court that Darkness and make it her own. Her path had twisted and turned many a time, always revolving around those blasted keyblade wielders. She still shuddered to recall the… incident, in the Castle That Never Was. The first and ideally last time she would ever side with the Light.

Perhaps she had grown too arrogant when she squashed those pests so easily, before the old man came to show her the true breadth of Creation. Every step of her journey into the depths of Darkness had unravelled some veil, uncovering more of the world that had lain beyond her reach since time immemorial. One day, it would all be hers, and her dominion would encompass all worlds!

For now, she plotted to obtain the key to her conquests: The Book of Prophecies. That fool in the black coat may hold it for now, but she was confident in her ability to retrieve it when the time was right. When scheming, Maleficent preferred to stalk about the uppermost towers and glare down at the barren wasteland of blue and violet stone that defined her current residence. It drove her to more devious heights to look down upon her realm.

In the distance, a brilliant light gleamed most unpleasantly. Radiant Garden, that ridiculous beacon she has been made to live in the shadow of. She gave the city a most hateful glare before a wretched odour made itself known to her upturned nose. A familiar one, the rancid smell of brimstone wafting up from the depths. Searching for the source, her eyes were drawn to a crossroads sitting at the base of her castle.

An odd thing, as there were no roads through the Dark Depths between her and the Garden.

Such an anomaly was well worth investigating, as there were few things beyond her power to confront. If her instincts led her aright, this was an invitation of some sort. The placement of the oddity was too obviously out of place, the scent familiar and… indicative. It seemed that Hell had come calling, but for what remained to be seen. This was not their usual modus operandi. As swiftly as it had caught her attention, the stench was whisked away on the wind.

Taking the hint, she turned about regally and ventured down the twisting stairwells of her palace at a leisurely pace. Rushing would be unseemly, but some measure of respect for fellow devotees to the principles of evil kept her from her usual abrasive glaciality. Pete, her utterly inept pet, stumbled to the ground as she passed. He nearly shook the ground with his girth as she refused to even acknowledge his presence.

"Wo-oah!" The sound of shattering plates indicated he had been bringing her a meal of some sort. Doubtlessly trying to ingratiate himself to her like the worm he was, but even Maleficent did not know where he got his ridiculous ideas. She'd not partaken of anything not fetched by her own power in ten thousand years and she wouldn't start now; She knew all the tricks of her kind.

Not that she expected something so dastardly from Pete. His greatest claims to villainy are but petty, spiteful things. Maleficent could enjoy such spite and pettiness, and made a point to do so often, but her love for wickedness ran far deeper. In comparison to the other fools she'd had cause to collude with, he was practically a saint. How sickening. The only redeeming quality he possessed was his loyalty, and even then only for that it was loyalty to her. She left him to clean up his mess.

It didn't take him long, unfortunately, and soon enough he was following along like a lost puppy. "Say, uh, what's the rush, Maleficent?" She regretted the day she gave up on ever getting the buffoon to use her various titles. One of the few things she missed from the days when she commanded vaguely-intelligent servants rather than the voiceless but very powerful Heartless was having everyone affirming her majesty and excellence.

"Come along, oaf. We have guests." He was far too stupid to leave this alone, so she may as well keep him where she could see him.

"Uh? What kinda guests?" A dim light flickered in his eyes. "If it's dem Keyblade brats, just lemme at 'em!" He pounded his fists together in a manner that might intimidate a poodle, if it were young enough. They walked through the castle's decaying main gate, to stand at the crossroad that shouldn't be.

"Nay. Our guests are rather more pleasant. Old colleagues of mine, from a darker time. Stay your tongue in their presence, lest it endanger your immortal soul." She cared not for his well-being in truth, and indeed wondered if it might be worth trading Pete away for a leg up in the negotiations to come. Still, it had never hurt her to pretend once in a while. It made his hope more satisfying to crush. Pete gulped, but kept pace with her.

Hell had not overly impressed her with their dealings in the past; Chernobog being the most devilish of the lot. Titanic in size and cruelty, but no cleverer than the average man. A fool, in other words; child's play to manipulate into several rather favourable deals ere he ever caught on. By then, she knew enough to banish him out to the Realm of Darkness; all-in-all, a satisfactory conquest.

From the moment she trod his path, she knew this visitor was not of the Hell she'd known. A man stood at the crossroads, plain in every way to her eyes and senses. Even the brimstone, which had reached her nose at the height of her towers, had vanished without a trace. One look at his coal-black eyes, fixed on hers, and she knew his nature. Not that they were particularly unnatural, dark irises were common enough. No, it was the sharpness in them, the wicked intelligence; the eyes of one so boundlessly cruel it would shrivel a mortal's mind.

For the first time in her aeons of life, Maleficent felt a flicker of attraction. She spent a moment luxuriating in the novelty - before squashing it wholesale. Ultimately, 'twould be of no aid to her.

Those same wicker eyes greeted her in the mirror during her occasional fits of vanity. Eyes that could behold no good without tarnishing it, his eyes bespoke true evil. She smiled. "Well, well! 'Tis a rare treat indeed, to find a kindred soul so far from home." Pete moved to stand at her side, but slammed the butt of her staff into his foot to keep him silent. The stranger smiled in turn, a dark pleasure radiating from him.

"Gotta say, I feel the same." His voice was cold and oily, so well practised in spreading lies it learned to treat them as truth. "A Faerie with Infernal Might? Never thought I'd see the day. You guys mostly run when we come calling." Maleficent scoffed; Her kind were indeed most weak-willed, meekly assisting mankind in their works, playing fairy god-mother and blessing mortals frivolously. They knew nought of true power.

"You'll find I am a singular existence. Now, who calls upon me at this hour, and for what purpose?"

"Elgrim, if it pleases Her Grace, and I call for a purpose most wicked, I assure you." He said confidently. "I'm new to these parts, but when I sensed your presence I knew I had to have you work on something big."

"Oh?" If this had come from any lesser demon, or even Chernabog, she would figure the only projects they had in mind were wanton destruction. An idle afternoon's activity, but little more. "Something worthy of my attention, I should hope?"

"You bet!" He leaned in closely. "I hear that you're after a book, yes? A book of… prophecy?"

Gripping her staff ever so slightly tighter, she allowed no emotion to break the still waters of her regal expression of disinterest. "Do my personal projects align with yours, then?"

"Oh, no." He shook his head, grinning. "No, see, things just got really shook up where I'm from, and everybody is scrambling. A whole new world of possibility opened for us. If you're willing, it might just be open to you, too."

"I already seek to conquer all worlds." She sniffed disdainfully. "How do I stand to benefit from the world you speak of." He chuckled.

"This ain't the kind of world you're familiar with. Your local cosmology? Absolutely nuts, by the by. No, this world starts far apart from the realms you've known all your life. I would know; it was sure as Hell beyond mine!"

"The limits of your experience interest me not." Despite her demeanour, this new world was beginning to intrigue her. "Tell me more of this world of opportunity."

"To tell the truth, it's a lot like mine." That meant little and less, for truth was beyond most demons. "Kingdoms, knights, the occasional dragon. Big difference? Someone fucked up royally."

"Explain."

"There are barriers that weren't ever meant to be broken, so strong that they go almost totally unnoticed by everyone. Some mage kid, though? He went and did it anyway, and now his world's reaping the consequences. We could be some of those consequences, if you wanted."

"Ah, a tale as old as time. A magus who thinks their power to be greater than it is and stumbles for their hubris. A delightful spectacle, I'm sure, but why would it garner my interest?" The lands described seemed interesting enough. Charmingly familiar, almost quaint. But the mere temptation of crushing more 'holy' knights in her draconic jaws would not be enough to sway her to a demon's side.

"Why do you want a book of prophecy?"

"The Book is Prophecy, as I understand it. By holding it, I would hold power over all worlds, and my domain would be infinite and eternal." He whistled.

"Damn, that's pretty good." He shook his head."Gotta say, was not expecting that. But anyway, this mage kid? I have it on good, evil authority that he is responsible for a major Fate-based fault in reality."

"Speak plainly, if you wouldst keep my interest."

"Heh, you got it. Long story short? He broke a prophecy,-" He what!? "Something to do with royal lineage, you know, lost heir returning to the throne, new golden age, yadda yadda, you know the drill."

"Did he now?" Maleficent said calmly as her mind whirled with possibility.

"Yup. Crazy thing is, that wasn't what broke everything! No, the real crime was when he tried to go back - put right what he upturned and all - and boy did the world not like that at all!" Time travel and fate-breaking? This was turning out to be quite the profitable meeting - if she could trust a single word from the beast's mouth.

"However did he manage that?" She asked, not truly expecting an answer.

"Hey, beats me!" He shrugged. Of course. "But I bet you could find out, if you wanted. It's a free-for-all down there as far as Hell is concerned, but I looked things over there and made my way here, on a hunch. And then I found you. Whaddaya say?" He stuck his hand out to shake. "We have a deal?"

"Perhaps. First, tell me what you intend to gain from this arrangement." Her mind was set, this was too critical a potential power to ignore; but she would first know what price the devil would demand be paid. There was always a price.

"What, for the knowledge of the New World? Oh, your presence in this world will be enough, I assure you. The odd partnership with me, now and then, in exchange for Infernal knowledge wouldn't go amiss, of course. " He held her gaze. "I know you, know what you're capable of. I sense you have gathered Infernal power, but you know little of its darkest depths. I could teach you, and together we could bring about a true Hell on Earth."

Hmmm. She disliked the way he phrased it, but… 'twas true she knew little of whatever infernal pit this being had crawled from, and she misliked that greatly. After a moment of musing, she reached out and daintily grabbed his hand. "Very well. We have a bargain."

"Great!" He shook her graceful hand with unbecoming gusto. "Now lemme tell you a little bit about this place. There's a lot, and I mean a lot, of eyes on the kid, so we can't be after him directly. But his world's a wide place, and there's evil to work in the meantime. What's your opinion on chivalry?"

"A loathsome philosophy, existing only to make obedient lapdogs for kings." Elgrim's grin somehow grew even wider.

"Then I know just the place to start!"

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"At the place where the Honeywine River meets the Whispering Sound, there stands a grand city. Not the grandest, but storied; ancient. So ancient, indeed, that they actually call the place Oldtown. They aren't the greatest at naming things in the Reach, as you'll come to see."

The night was dark, lit by pale moonlight and rampant fires as the Corridor of Darkness opened to the highest floor of the grand keep on the river. From the swirling portal comes a striking and gaunt figure, with skin green as poison and robes black as night. Raven at her shoulder, she looked over what she intended to claim as her newest dominion.

"Lotsa places of note here, all of them very poorly named. Best place to start, I'd say the Citadel. No, I'm not joking, it's literally just a big fortress called 'The Citadel.' Subverting expectations, however, it is not home to a family of pompous nobles. Rather, it houses the third and fourth sons of many, many pompous nobles coming together to join a great fraternity of learned men, masters of their respective crafts. Care to guess their name?"

Following after his mistress came the bumbling Pete, much the worse for wear. He'd long mastered the art of traversing the Corridors, but that trip had been something else entirely.

"Close! They call themselves Maesters, with an 'e' in there because they're so bloody special. As no lord rules there, it does not share the protection that the Light has seen fit to grant to the noble and 'holy' places of this world. In addition, if you play your cards right there is a very useful little minion-to-be waiting in the wings for you there. Marwyn the Mage, they call him, though he knows little of true magic."

"Come, fool." Maleficent snapped. She bore the weariness of distant travel well, but it still had taken a toll. "We have a mage to greet,"

"Uh, but-" Pete whined. He wanted to at least use a potion to take the edge off; it could be hard finding the damned things, though - he could never remember which pockets and zippers were for what.

"Now, wretch." He gulped, and - trying to ignore the shooting pain in his knees - followed swiftly after her.

"Once you suborn or slaughter the rest of the Maesters, you'll want to turn your attention to the actual lords of the city. Lord Hightower - his real name - is also a wannabe mage, stuck up in his keep. His keep, called - guess what? The Hightower! - which is, admittedly, a very tall tower, will be protected from the Darkness. Your Heartless, already rampant in the streets, will not be able to pass the walls - unless they are invited."

She strode into the keep from above, sending out Shadows and Soldiers to scout the area. She knew mages, knew what to look for - ageing, greying, a room full of books and pictures of odd things. Bric-a-brac from far and wide, and a certain disdain of cultural mores. She expected him to be frantically trying every paltry trick he'd ever learned to save himself from the flood of Darkness that washed over the land like a tidal wave.

Her experience in channelling the power of Darkness gave her a unique perspective on the matter. In all her travels, every world she had visited had long known the Darkness - it was a fundamental part of the realms. Yet here, she could feel it acting like it never had before; it flowed and spilled, gathering in great storms and settling into niches long left unfilled.

It seems that Elgrim had, for a surprise, not been lying. This world was as he said - new and unknown to the powers of her realm. Despite herself, she held a little smile on her face. Novelty was such a rare indulgence for one such as her, after all. Much less novelty that promises power.

"I'll leave the matter of getting that invitation to you, you're more than clever enough I'm sure. One last thing, though - once you have the throne of the city under you, there will still be one threat to your power, and it's an unpleasant one. You see, in days of yore, the Faith of that land held its seat of power there as well, in the place called the Starry Sept.

"Almost sounds like a good name, until you know that all their houses of worship are called septs and its claim to fame is the black stone walls and high arched windows that give the impression of the night sky. Still more creative than anything in that blasted town, I suppose. Anyway, it'll be brimming with the power of Light - no way you'll be able to siege it. That's where I come in; when you conquer the nobles, I will teach you how to conduct the rites to bring Hell to earth. This will weaken the Light's power. Sneak into the Sept in the dead hours of night, and perform my rites, and you will have the whole city under your thumb."

Her scouts reported with good news - they had found the most eclectic room in the keep, by far. Within was a frenzied man in a circle of salt, with a slightly smaller circle of books surrounding him; reference material for protective magics, she assumed. Nothing of any great power, she could tell - she could hardly tell if any magic was being invoked at all. A piss-poor mage, indeed.

Still, all tools have their uses. She opened his door, and delighted in his frightened face.

"Good luck, your Majesty. Not that you need it."

"Marwyn the Mage, I presume?" She began, Pete closing the door behind her. "I believe we have much to discuss."

Spoiler: Author's Note

I RETURN!

Sorry about the wait, y'all. One of these interludes, the next one I plan on posting in fact - it struck me with such terrible writer's block, I simply hated the things my brain was making me describe. I think I've obscured everything that happens to an acceptable degree, but it was not fun to write. I only hope it reads fine, because easily the entire past month and change had been spent to get that out. The third and final interlude, that one was done in a few days once the block was done. And then I wrote the second half of this in one day.

Christ, I think I just really, really hate the Lannisters.

But anyway, yeah I decided that having more experienced villains about might make things interesting. Before anyone worries, the only characters from other works that will show up, at least this early, are going to be ones that could reasonably make an interdimensional journey, or whose existences extend through powers Bran has access to. So yes Chaos Gods, no Orks, if you catch my drift.

In other news, I changed my google docs settings to british english instead of american, so if you notice a change in spelling, that's why. my instinct is in british, and I got tired of google incorrectly correcting me.

 

[Deathstorm50]

Hellfire! Dark fire!

This fire in my skin!

This burning

Desire

Is turning me to

Sin!

-Hellfire,

The Hunchback of Notre Dame​

Interlude: Hellfire


Jaime tossed and turned in his bedroll, resting in a tent thrown together in utter exhaustion to keep the daylight out. They had ridden hard all through the night, even cutting loose the wheelhouse to free the horses needed. Demons had dogged their trail every step of the way, but seemed to melt back into the shadows when dawn's light broke.

They had loitered in a clearing marked only by the four tall trees that surrounded it, each one the height of Winterfell's walls; combined with the undergrowth crowding beneath them they gave the subtle impression of a natural crossroads. As the morning crept onwards, no sign of the beasts showed, and it was deemed safe enough for every man to get a few hours rest, in cycles. Not much, for they would need to cover as much ground as possible before night fell and ride even harder once it did. Cutting away the wheelhouse had allowed swift enough travel that even Cersei did not complain.

Not that they were truly defenseless; When first a shade thought to take the king, one blow of his hammer sent it back to the hell it had crawled from. The other knights, bolstered by Robert's bravery, took to the field themselves and many found their blades striking true in a manner Jaime's could not. Each blow he made passed through the demons as though they were the shadows they resembled.

He was not alone in this, as neither Ser Meryn nor Ser Boros could scratch the bastards. His sister's men more than the king's, he knew them to have done terrible things in her name. Of the other knights in the party, only some quarter of them had little trouble cutting the beasts down. The cruel and callous, the corrupt and bought, the whoremongers and the vicious; the blades of these knights found no purchase in the demon's hide. Many fell in the hasty retreat, and of one hundred knights only two score and five remained. Ten warriors who could fight back, and well over a score who couldn't.

A thought had nagged at him the entire frantic ride: Why had they, in particular, been passed over by whatever benediction had befallen their cursed party? Were they… was this truly some, some trial, conceived of by the Seven-in-One? Were his sins finally coming home to roost? All of theirs? The thoughts nagged, but did not overtake him, for if he faltered in his escape he'd be learning the truth far sooner than he wished.

The enemy did not fear death, and their number seemed infinite. Retreat had been the only recourse, especially once a beast larger than any man made itself known: hunched and wretched like the least of them, yet outmassing even the greatest of the king's warhorses. Yet as they were gathering the youths and setting up their retreat - the only job those who could not fight could do - Jaime found himself drawn to the great beast's eyes, burning yellow like the heart of the sun.

To him, however, they gleamed like molten gold. And he knew its provenance.

Even Cersei had abandoned him to mourn Joffrey's loss. He hadn't the heart to tell her his suspicions, and he knew she'd not have them anyway. His sister had taken his failure as a personal betrayal, and cast him from her side; possibly her heart as well. She had taken their remaining children and fixed herself by her husband's side. 'Twas as though all the Seven had conspired to raise Robert up while casting down him and his; his friend as well, the Northern barbarian. If the king and his knights could fight the demons, that bastard could decimate them with Ice.

Forsaken by his love, forsaken by the Gods, he cast aside these thoughts of knights and valor and the king and friends. He slipped into a fitful slumber, feeling a weight upon him such as he hadn't known in many a year.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Jaime was running, chasing down a flash of gold in the distance. He had to save him - had to protect the fruit of his loins. The trees bent over him, malice casting the bark in shadow. A hundred miles, a thousand miles he ran through the eternal forest; always his goal lay just beyond his reach.

"Please," he prayed, "Please Warrior, please Father, please Smith! Please Maiden, Mother, and Crone, please Stranger! Let me save my son!" Suddenly, the forest gave way to a clearing lit by blood-red moon-light. In the center… "Joffrey!" He stood still as any statue Jaime'd ever seen, facing away from his father. Wasting no time, Jaime ran to him, reaching his hand out to grab his son by the shoulder.

"Joffrey! Oh, Joffrey!" The words did not exist to properly express his relief, so he settled for just repeating his boy's name. His relief was short-lived, for as he tugged the boy 'round Jaime could look his son in the eyes; his terrible, golden eyes.

"No," Jaime gasped. "No, No, No, NO!" Shaking the shade with each exclamation, he couldn't help the tears rolling down his face, warm as blood. The boy gave no indication he was aware of Jaime at all, save for his unblinking eyes locked onto his father's; accusing, reviling, condemning. Joffrey opened his mouth as if to speak; rather than words, a swell of dark liquid spilled forth. It pooled at the boy's feet, then - to Jaime's horror - it crept up his legs, engulfing him such that only his judgemental eyes remained.

Joffrey, his precious son, shifted and twisted before his eyes. He could hear each snap of bone, each writhing sinew as he grew to gargantuan proportions, looming over his father. No move did he make, nor sound release; he simply stood there, staring down at Jaime. Jaime fell to his knees, unable to tear his gaze away from the monster that had been his son; he closed his eyes, and awaited a well-deserved death.

Yet death was not what greeted him. Upon opening his eyes, he found the clearing transformed. What once was dark and gnarled trees were replaced by grand plains, and the blood-red rays of moonlight had shifted to warm sunshine. Sat before him, in a field of wildflowers was -

"Mother!?" It was impossible; She had passed years ago! Yet before him she sat, as radiant as ever. The shock of it nearly made him miss her companions: sat flanking her were a pair of griffins, of such majesty that would bring Jaime to his knees - had he not already fallen. Strange they were, for they bore the heads of spotted treecats, but were no less impressive for it.

His mother caught his gaze, before she smiled warmly and spread her arms wide in invitation, by chance revealing her natural beauty - unbound by cloth. Jaime swiftly ducked his head, face ablaze at the impropriety. Her laughter pealed like church bells; it called back to Jaime's most precious memories. He had only been four name-days when she passed, but he would never forget her voice, her face.

"Be not afraid, my son, and be not so shy!" Her smile grew coy. "Why. I can scarce believe you a man grown, the way you blush so! Come, come and take your place at my side!" He could never deny her, not then and not now. Jaime did as his mother bid. The strange griffins made no move to strike as he approached but purred like tamed housecats. When he sat, she reached out and gently grasped his chin, and turned his head to face her.

"You have grown into a fine young man, my son," she said, "and I am so proud of you!" He looked upon her with shocked joy; such kind words had he not heard in years. Not from his father, at any rate. Her eyes, so warm and green, gazed at him with unconditional love and acceptance. A mother's love.

It wrapped about his heart like a bramble, guilty pain pouring from a thousand tiny wounds. "Mother, I... I do not deserve such praise. I have sinned - gravely - and the Seven have abandoned me for it." The griffins grumbled at Jaime.

Her brow creased, and her smile slipped a fraction. "Oh?" She leaned closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Do not fret, my sweet Jaime, and tell your dear old mother what is wrong." The sudden contact made Jaime aware that he, too, had been disrobed some time ago. "Why would you think we'd abandoned you?"

Jaime looked to the sky, willing himself not to blush again. His head felt muddled, clouded. Still, his guilt sounded out mournfully within his chest. "I have broken every sacred vow I ever made, Mother. I swore to guard the king's back and cut him down. I swore never to take a lover, and took my own sister to bed." The weight of his failures pressed down on him, heavy as Casterly Rock. "... I failed to protect Joffrey from the monsters in the dark."

Joanna said nothing, silently guiding him to lay his head in her lap. Hesitantly, he complied. Her hands ran through his hair, soothing him with a gentleness he had only felt from Cersei, on the rare occasion she fell to sentiment while abed. "Shhhh, shhhh..." she murmured, "There, there, my sweet child. It is alright."

He couldn't hold back his tears, his mother's face growing blurrier. "N-No it isn't, Mother! I failed him!" He turned his head into his mother's warm midriff, choking back a sob. "My son is dead! Because of me!" The gentle caresses continued, his mother's hands running through his hair. He could feel her soft thighs, and heard her heart beating steadily.

"You could not save him," Joanna agreed, "but it was not your fault. We took him unto Our bosom, to be spared the horror to come. You faced not a demon, but a servant of Divine justice." He felt her lean down, and press her lips to the crown of his head. "Your child is beyond the reach of harm, in Our arms; and all will be well, if you would but give me your ear, Jaime."

Jaime pulled his face from his mother's warm embrace, and gazed up at her. "Of course, Mother. Always." He spoke the words as though they were an oath, and in a way they were; it had been so long since he had spoken to his mother, even if this was just a dream.

Her smile grew wide and bright, and she pressed her lips against his forehead. "Such a good boy! I knew you would not disappoint me, my sweet Jaime." She ran her hand through his golden locks, her fingers gently massaging his scalp. "You believe yourself sinful? Is it sinful to love? To save five hundred thousand people from a gruesome fate?"

"B-but-!"

"Shush, now." One arm trailed down his chest, drawing a gasp from Jaime. "You promised your ear, didn't you?" Her voice took on a commanding tone; There was a reason Tywin loved her true. "I am your mother, but also your mother's mother, and her mother as well. I am Mother to all who call for my succor, do you understand?" He nodded, unseeing but not wanting to disappoint her. The scent of wildflowers drifted about them.

Her smile returned, and she kissed him on the lips, sending lightning down his spine. Yet, he did not pull away. She tasted like her daughter, like wine and lemon and love. "Good. Now, you worry that your love for Cersei is a sin; but why? Do you feel ashamed to love your sister? Do you feel guilty for laying with her, for siring your children?" She pressed him for answers, and he gave them freely; His heart raced too fast for hesitation.

"Well... no. I love Cersei more than anything else in the world, more than father, even more than Casterly Rock itself." His mind was clouded, as though he had overindulged in his spirits. "And I love my children more than life itself. To see them be raised by that drunken bastard..." He grit his teeth as an old fury manifested sevenfold. "I wanted to gut him every time he dared to discipline my boy!"

"Then why do you think you've sinned, sweet Jaime?"

The question, so simple yet so vexing, robbed him of his voice. He searched for the answer, yet none would come. He felt his guilt begin to lift, if only a little, swept away to the bottom of his fume-drunk head.

"Because... because of the Faith?" The words felt right as they left his lips, even as he felt the warmth of his mother's embrace pull away. "They say it's sinful to bed your kin, that their products are... abominations." The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Abominations; their children were no such thing!

Joanna sighed, and gently moved her son from her lap. The loss of her touch was as cold hellfire on his skin. "The Faith is misguided, sweetling! I sit before you now, do I not? Have you lost the eyes to see?" She rose to her feet, and then stood taller as she seemed to grow larger than life, her peaks growing to the size of the Rock and her valley wide enough to live in. The beautiful view sent blood rushing to his face and elsewhere besides. What dregs of shame he had left were lost; he could not look away. To either side, the griffins were as mountains of spotted fur and tawny feathers; they roared with the power of the thundering waterfall.

Mother - The Mother, he belatedly realized- cast a majestic figure as she held down her hand to him. "Come to me, my sweet Jaime. Let me prove to you that your love is not sinful, but Divine! For I am the Mother, and all you have done was done by My will." Behind her head blazed a crown of seven colours, illuminating the sky above with a brilliant curtain of infinite hues. She gazed down at him, an ant before a titan. "I would give you your just reward, my son. Give unto me your body, and I will take you unto my bosom."

Jaime could scarcely think, could scarcely move; all he wanted in that moment was to be in her embrace once more, to hear her reassurance, to drown in her scent. He wanted to be loved; he took her hand, and in the blazing radiance of her smile was the world undone. He was lifted to the highest seat and drowned in its softness. Color and thought and sensation melted together. There were no griffins, no meadow, no sky, and no flowers. There was only Jaime and the Mother, hopelessly intertwined in a tumultuous rainbow of pleasure.

Jaime would have cried out had he been able to muster any voice. The pleasure was unlike anything he had ever felt before, lightning and fire and tension and release all at once. It only grew more intense the longer he was enveloped in the goddess's embrace. There was no air to breathe, no room for thought or fear or regret. Only bliss, and the Mother's tenderness.

"Would that I could hold you like this for all eternity." She moaned. "But I yet have need of you on earth, if you would take of my power and do my will further." Jaime did not wish to leave, and as the Mother began to withdraw from him, he cried out for her to stay. "Oh, my son. I could be with you always… if you would give me one, final thing."

Anything. He would give anything to keep this feeling. She purred in contentment.

"Won't you give me… your Heart?"

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Sandor Clegane was not a happy man on the best of days. This had not been the best of days: he'd failed his charge of nearly a decade, they'd lost half their men to surprise attack, and to top it all off their enemy hadn't even the courtesy to be human. When his fitful rest was interrupted but some bloody bastard screaming bloody murder, he knew it was only going to get worse. He didn't know whether to thank the Seven for sending a squirrel instead of demons or to cut down the blind cur who'd woken the entire camp over nothing.

He settled for berating the dumbarse 'til he pissed himself - the greenhorn being one of the few who could fight their new enemy - as the rest of the shoddy camp made to pack up and move on; with luck they might make Winterfell by the hour of the wolf. Without, Sandor gave even odds on whether they would survive the night. He was about halfway through his upbraiding when a curious sight caught his eye and sent his tirade back down his throat: Jaime Lannister, fully starkers, stumbling drunkenly out of his scrap of a tent and grinning like a loon.

Curiosity turned to alarm as he spied the menacing design laid upon his chest: a black heart, wrapped in vines like chains. The darkness of it rippled with an oily rainbow sheen, and the whole of it seemed rimmed in blood. Sandor had not believed in the shit the Faith had to say on good and evil in a long time - but he had never believed in monsters either, save men like his brother. That mark, however - that mark felt evil to him; merely looking upon the wretched design brought memories of fire and pain to the fore; his scars itched.

Against his better judgment, he kept one hand on his sword and followed charily after the naked knight as he lumbered over to the King's tent - kingly only in comparison to the rest to the scraps they had. Sandor himself had rested in the shade of the northernmost tree, though true sleep had eluded him.

The King was guarded by a fresh-faced knight, a lad who'd only taken his vows a year past after some valiant deed or other against bandits in the Vale. He held the honor by dint of being the eldest knight still living with the power to fight a demon. Naive and watery eyed, in other words - or perhaps he was simply bitter he could not say the same of himself.

It was a lot harder to deny the Seven when they played favorites before your very eyes. His only solace was the certainty that, if he'd been abandoned by the divine, his brother must have been smote on the spot. If justice was determined to prove it existed, naught else would suffice for him.

He shook off those thoughts as Jaime approached the guard. The spectacle was attracting attention from the weary survivors, wary of any new strangeness. Understandable - Sandor had a terrible feeling about the scene himself. The young knight fair trembled before the bared swordsman, but held his ground admirably, denying entry to the Kingslayer.

He responded with a swift blow to the young guard's midsection, crashing his fist into the solid plate with a resounding shriek. In a sensible world, things would have ended there with a broken hand and much embarrassment from the golden prick; unfortunately the knight was instead lifted clean off his feet and through the back wall of the tent. He landed some fifteen paces back from where he stood, rolling, groaning, and clutching at his crumpled chestplate.

Sandor was struck dumb by the sight, but not for long; this wasn't the first impossible thing he'd seen that day. He ran towards the boy, hand falling away from his blade as Jaime sauntered into the King's tent. The fallen knight was struggling to breathe beneath his collapsed armor. Sandor saw the strike had weakened the steel, and he was able to open the plate enough to ensure the greenhorn wouldn't suffocate. Seeing the mess made of his chest, it would be a miracle if he survived the next few hours; miracles were, fortunately, a possibility now and even Sandor could not deny it. He gave the lad a chance, and hoped the Gods would be kind.

With the kindnesses out of the way, Sandor unstrapped the boy's unadorned shield; he wouldn't be using it anytime soon, and the Hound had not the time to retrieve his own ere some tragedy befell the royal family. It was a simple heater, but it would serve well enough. A shriek echoed through the camp - what villainy the Kingslayer intended for his kin was beyond Sandor's ken - and he quickened his efforts. Once the shield was securely strapped to his off-arm, Sandor ran for the tent.

He wasn't sure what he expected to see upon entering the tent, but the scene unfolding before him was not it. Jaime stood with his back to the entrance - and thus to Sandor - and one arm wrapped around his sister. Although groping might be the more appropriate term, by how the lady squirmed and cried in his embrace. The King and Lord Stark had their blades drawn, their confusion and disgust writ plain on their faces. The children of both lords were cowering behind them, the fear in their eyes stirring even Sandor's cold heart. The scarred knight drew his blade in turn, the sound drawing the attention of the lords.

"Hound!" King Robert cried. "What is the meaning of this!?" Sandor shot the King with a look that could have gotten him killed in better times.

"Hells if I know!" He growled. "World went mad, and this bastard followed faster!"

Jaime laughed. "Mad? I am blessed, you fools!" His voice took on a reverential tone, as he gripped his sister closer. "The Mother herself came to me in my dreams! Absolved me - no, not absolved! Absolution requires sin, and the Mother has freed me of it!" Jaime did something Sandor could not see, eliciting another harsh cry from Lady Cersei and further disgust from everyone else.

"Say that again without fondling your own sister," rumbled Lord Stark, "and perhaps we'd believe you merely mad instead of utterly deranged!" This prompted more derisive laughter from the madman.

"Oh, how quaint it is, to be so ignorant!" He sighed wistfully. "But then, a heathen like you could never understand the purity of our love!" He was what!? Now that he thought to look, Sandor saw Jaime's arm was at the right height for...

This disgusting fucker! "That's enough!" He was hardly aware of the words ripping out of his throat, nor of his sword now raised in direct challenge to the incestuous bastard.

Crack! His head twisted unnaturally around to stare Sandor in the face."Oh?" He grinned. "And here I thought you to be a clever hound. But, if you're so keen to die…" He snapped his fingers, and-!

A surge of darkness swept them all off their feet, tearing the tent to ribbons and revealing the scene to all and sundry. Cries of alarm went up as the tide receded, coalescing into the same giant shadow that had chased them off the previous night! Sandor's heart dropped at the sight; if the bastard could call on those creatures… Nevertheless, he picked himself back up and made ready to fight.

Cersei shrieked as her brother pushed her off into the arms of the creature. "I'd be happy to oblige!" A spindly shadow-man carried Jaime's sword to him, in perverse imitation of squire and knight. The golden hilt tarnished like bronze in his grip, the blade itself darkened - elongated - until it matched the size of Ice, as Jaime turned his body around to match his head with another sickening crack. Despite the unwieldy size of it, Jaime seemed to have little trouble holding it one-handed.

Sandor didn't know if there was aught left of man in him, or if he'd lost it all in whatever devilish bargain he struck for this power - all he knew was that in the short while he'd been forced to acknowledge the truth of demons, they'd done him no good. He didn't fancy his chances against the Lannister twit on most days, but he knew this fight couldn't be won.

And he was going to fight anyway; damnit all!

He looked into the terrified faces of the children hiding behind their fathers, and no matter how he tried to justify it to himself… he couldn't live with himself if he allowed them to suffer a fate like his. Whatever he was before, Jaime Lannister was a monster now; whatever he might intend for them, it wouldn't be good. He'd failed to protect the Prince, but he'd be damned if he stood by and let demons take the rest of them.

Sandor took a defensive stance, shield raised and sword high; Jaime stood naked and loose, sword down by his side - to all observers completely unconcerned with the fight to come. He probably wasn't, the arrogant prick. To say Sandor had a plan would be generous; he had the concept of a plan at best. It would have to be enough. To hedge his bets further, he did something he hadn't done since that fateful day, when all notions of knighthood and nobility were torn from him: he prayed.

"Father in heaven, grant me strength to see this through," he began, voice even and clear. "Warrior, guide my blade justly and grant me courage to face down evil." Jaime laughed, hearing this.

"Praying? You, you're praying!?" He laughed harder. "The gods are on my side here, dog! It amuses me, actually." He hummed. "I think I'll allow it, as a gift to you who are about to die." Sandor ignored his taunting, hoping against hope that this time the Seven would deign to answer him.

"Mother above, Maiden, protect those present who cannot protect themselves. Crone, grant me eyes to see through lies." Jaime scoffed, offended but unwilling to strike first.

"Smith, I beg you - set this broken world aright. Stranger…" He sighed, fixing his gaze on the wretched form of his opponent.

"Keep my soul." With that proclamation, Sandor rushed forward. Jaime raised his sword high, grinning madly at the chance to lock blades only to be rebuffed by Sandor's shield and knocked to the ground. He had bashed his way towards - and then past the demon in man's skin, turning on a dime and planting himself directly between the King and the madman. "Run, now! All of you!"

He did not dare turn to see his impertinent order followed, his every instinct screaming that taking his eyes off Jaime would be a death sentence. The thing that was once a knight growled in anger, deeper than any man should. He rose to his feet, and further still - looking like nothing so much as a puppet, dancing on invisible strings.

"Not so fast, my friends!" He jerked his arm upwards, and a legion of shadows erupted around the campsite. For a moment, Sandor despaired - and then the sound of combat rang out from behind him. The others had not been idle, it seemed, and from what he could hear the knights were acquitting themselves well. "No! No! My servants!"

Sandor resisted the urge to rush in and strike; he would wait until he could hear the horses galloping away before he even considered it. His final duty would be to protect the innocent, it would be for another to punish the wicked. Jaime tried to fly past him, but whatever power held him aloft could not keep him out of range of Sandor's blade.

He cut a bloody gash through Jaime's thigh, the demon's distraction leaving him vulnerable to a swift strike. He screamed in agony and flew back out of range; Sandor could see it in his eyes - that wound was the last straw for his sanity. For better or worse, Sandor was the subject of the Lannister's full attention.

"Blasphemer!" He seethed. "You dare!?" His expression was caught in a savage snarl while black blood poured down his leg - before it twisted back into his earlier grin, a touch too wide for a man's face. The flow stemmed and stopped before Sandor's eyes, dismaying but not surprising him. "I have been chosen, and you dare strike out at me!?" He began laughing hysterically, a golden light shining from his eyes. "The Seven favor me, wretch! You cannot stop me!"

"No," Sandor agreed. "But I can slow you down. I won't let you touch them." Sandor was surprised at his own serenity. He expected to feel angrier, more hateful when his time came. He always knew he would face his end at sword-point, but he figured he'd fall to a mortal man, for petty mortal reasons. This…

This would be a good death, he thought. 'Til now, he hadn't thought such was possible, but even this old Hound could learn something new. Here he stood, hopelessly outmatched and against every odd… and he was smiling. Not the deranged grin of his enemy, but the subtle expression of a man who'd learned, at the very end, what peace truly was.

"I do not fear you, Kingslayer."

The Lannister only growled in response; another twitch of his arm and a great column of dark power flowed upwards and covered him. It raged for only a few moments, leaving behind the blackened silhouette of a knight in full plate. It was the finest plate Sandor had ever seen, which gleamed like cold dragonglass and bore Jaime's wretched symbol on the chestplate. From beneath the visor an ominous golden glow shone out.

"Very well then!" The distorted voice of the Lannister heir called out, deeper and more bestial than any man could ever manage. "Have at you!"

Sandor gripped his sword and shield tight and made ready to meet the Stranger - on his terms.

Spoiler: Author's Note

Christ, is anyone in character here? This was a hard one, folks; Sorry if it's shit.

This chapter was inspired by the Ars Magica book Realms of Power: Infernal, wherein I learned of a particular class of demon - one specialised in creating false-divine visions to inspire those who think themselves righteous to sin. These Deluder Demons are the instigators of crusades and inquisitions, and are responsible for most crimes committed in the name of the Lord.

I knew some people were speculating on whether the angel's protections extended to other faiths - and I hope this answers some questions. Slavery, say it with me, is bad. Besides, the Lord of Light, cursed be his name, is hardly a stand in for the other major fire-themed monotheistic faith from reality, Zoroastrianism. They place so much emphasis on the fire-y bits that they look more like an offshoot of a pagan god, and they don't get God's protection generally. Remember, Northern pagans are being protected because they serve a divinely-appointed figure (kinda) in the form of Robert Baratheon, Protector of the Faith. If they broke off from the Throne, the Lord's protection would fail them.

As far as I know, there doesn't exist any other canon faith that is monotheistic-creator god focused like the Faith of the Seven is. If there were, then yes, assuming their edicts aren't abhorrent (slavery is bad) then they probably have God's favour. Incidentally, this includes more modern offshoots of the Faith, eg. the Sparrows. The High Sparrow has some unpleasant beliefs, but nothing truly radical when compared to medieval Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. What's more, he's probably the first person in all Westeros to hold True Faith, an Ars Magica mechanic that makes life fairly interesting for those that hold it.

We'll see how that all plays out a while later, however. I'm not fully sure where I want that to go.

One more interlude today, this one not featuring any Christian devils for a change.

 

[Deathstorm50]

I do not know what windings in the waste

Of those strange sea-lanes brought me home once more,

But on my porch I trembled, white with haste

To get inside and bolt the heavy door.

I had the book that told the hidden way

Across the void and through the space-hung screens

That hold the undimensioned worlds at bay,

And keep lost aeons to their own demesnes.

- The Key from Fungi of Yuggoth,

Howard Phillips Lovecraft​

Interlude: The Key


Balon Greyjoy was not an easy man to frighten. He had scaled the Flint Cliffs as a lad, fought and reaved and pillaged in nearly every land of Westeros, hells he was Lord of the Iron Islands - a land and people that would brook no coward to lead them. And yet…

He sighed, looking out upon the unnaturally still waters visible from the Sea Tower. Ever since… the event… no waves had stirred, no sea breeze blew. He took in a big whiff of sea air, hoping the smell of salt and brine could trick him into feeling the breeze once more. Like all other times he had tried, it failed. There was only the stagnant stench of seawater broiling in the midday sun.

Even the brazier in his solar remained unlit; there were no cold sea sprays for it to chase off. He had never realised just how grim his chambers looked with only the sun for light. Like so many things these past few days, it was wrong.

He had grown from boy to man on this island, was nursed by its crashing waves and counted its cold sea winds among his favoured nursery rhymes. It galled him, shook him deeply, to see his island so… lifeless. Dead.

Were he a godlier man, he might suspect the Storm God of some treachery or other; feigning weakness to bait their patron into action. The silence of the Drowned God put paid to that, in the end. Even so, he suspected there must be some black magic at work; no earthly force Balon knew could cause such devastation.

And it was devastating; without wind, their ships could not sail for any length of time. If the sea did not stir, the fish would not come. Their stocks of salted fish and meagre crops would not sustain them forever; it was up to him to divine some solution, as Lord Greyjoy, and he could not deny that the prospect… It scared him. He held no great stock in magic, and had not bothered to study such mysteries - that he would gladly leave to Euron.

Euron. Another matter that frightened him, recently, though he'd never voice that aloud. The day after the great hole opened up in the Storm God's domain, shortly after he had 'instructed' Aeron to appease the Drowned God however he could, the second impossible thing to plague Balon apparently occurred. Scant hours after that beachside meeting, Aeron came barging into his keep bearing the drowned form of Euron.

Euron, to Balon's knowledge, had last been seen reaving in the Summer Isles; no matter the speed, no matter the grace of the Drowned God, there should not have been any way for him to be carried home so swiftly. Yet that was the tale his damp-haired brother would have him believe; old Crow-Eye had just washed up ashore on the one wave that deigned to crash onto Pyke that day, armor, axe, and all.

He hadn't left their brother's side since then, even as his kiss of life failed to revive Euron. Aeron, the roustabout turned evangelical - the man who feared Euron nearly as much as Victarion hated him - he stayed by his side as he lay there, cold and lifeless. Balon knew not what insanity had taken his kin, but it seemed to have passed over both him and the wrathful Victarion. For all he appeared dead, Euron refused to rot; that alone was cause to keep him under observation.

"I mislike this," his brother growled, drawing a sigh from Balon. "Situation's far too queer - ain't no coincidence that bastard's corpse came upon us the moment the seas died." A day hadn't yet gone by during this crisis without his remaining sane sibling inviting himself into Balon's solar. He was terrified of whatever curse had fallen upon their islands, that much was clear, but he would rather dress it in his familiar hatred of Euron. Dull as a stone and set in his ways, was Victarion.

"Euron was a ruthless man," he agreed, leadingly. "But I have trouble imagining him strong enough to kill our god. Nor, I think, would Aeron grow so fond of the man who did such."

"Bah! Ensorcellment, I reckon." Balon had to turn away from the seas, tired of this argument. Three days of the same points fired back and forth was exhausting enough without everything else going on.

"I've seen my fair share of magicians in my travels, brother - mummers, all!" He denied. "Yet even the most convincing never claimed to do magic whilst unconscious, let alone dead."

Victarion tried to continue, but Balon cut him off with a sharp look. Even so distressed, he knew better than to test his eldest brother.

"Before raising your tone with me, remember just who it was that exiled Euron in the first place. Know that if kinslaying were not forbidden, I might have had his head back then myself." The one-eyed scoundrel had brought him no end of trouble, and Balon would have been glad to be rid of him that day. "Still, Aeron would have us believe our brother's return a divine providence, or somesuch guff." He snorted. "I am more sceptical. Yet, for his sake, I will withhold judgement - until such time as either the corpse wakes, or our brother comes to his senses." At this moment, both seemed equally unlikely.

Conversation halted as a deep rumbling shook the castle. Balon did not need to guess at the culprit; he'd seen the hole in the sky shaking enough times to recognise the feeling. It was a rough one, at that, lasting several minutes before finally receding.

"Cast 'em both to the sea, I say," his brother mumbled, without much heat. "Might bring the waves back."

"Perhaps," he allowed. Anything was possible, if real magic was involved. "If blood is what it takes to return our god's favour, then I shall personally spill all that he requires. But not until I hear what Aeron will say." If he did not report before day's end, Balon would confront him in his quarters - and would be much less disposed to him for it. Three days had that corpse lain in Euron's bed, never rotting nor stinking; for all he was slow to jump to murder, it would be a lie to say he was not wary, nor curious. "We all have our duties, Lord Captain, and if the pleasantries are over I would hear of yours. How fares the fleet?"

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Hours passed after he dismissed his brother, going over what little information he and his bannermen had gathered in his solar; In the end, Victarion had little of value to add he hadn't already made Balon aware of days ago. Even without the wind, Iron Island oarsmen were strong enough for island-hopping. The closest Lords of the Isles had begun to trickle in, Lord Waldon Wynch two days past, followed by Lord Saware Botley the day after. All the Island's leadership would be gathered in Pyke by week's end, and Balon was unsure he could conjure a plan in that time.

The last thing he needed was an impromptu kingsmoot to spring up during this crisis. He knew he could lead men well in peace and far better in war, but the death of the sea and sky was unprecedented. By all gathered accounts, the same scene played out most everywhere. A great tear opened in the sky, filling all who saw it with an instinctive revulsion; soon after, the wind died and the sea went still.

He wasn't surprised, but he had been hoping for more. Some sign, some omen that went overlooked, anything that might point to a cause. Finding the cause, he reasoned, would be the best place to begin. From there they might see a solution that escaped them at present. Yet as far as anyone could tell, there was no cause, no reason. The world just… stopped. Unnerving, to say the least.

A frantic knocking without his solar door shook him from his private worries. His thoughts had been circling for an hour anyway, and no one came to the Sea Tower when it wasn't important; he bid his petitioner to enter. An extraordinarily agitated guard entered.

"Beggin' your pardon, milord," he said. "But, ah, your brother's asking after ye." Balon had a sinking feeling he knew which one, but still - he needed to confirm it.

"I just saw Victarion earlier."

"N-not him, milord."

Balon grimaced. "Aeron then?" The guard mutely shook his head. "God's blood!" He cursed. "Then…?" The young man gulped, the sound echoing louder than it deserved in the still evening air.

"Aye," he said, voice quivering. "E-Euron Crow-Eye… yet rides the seas."

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

He hated this feeling, this apprehension. In his own castle, no less!

Balon had raced across the bridges of rope and stone to the Great Keep at a pace his father would've disapproved of. He'd seen Euron's lifeless body, felt the chill of death on his skin; the man had been as dead as dead could be! What is dead may never die, they say, but this… he had to see it for himself, and judge it blessing or bane as needed.

A thousand questions whirled in his mind, not least of which was how best to turn this all to House Greyjoy's advantage. He took the stairs leading up to Euron's room three at a time, each footfall echoing loud as bells in the sea's silence. Standing before the innocuous door, he allowed himself a moment of wariness.

That moment was all he allowed himself, however, and despite his concerns he barged in. What greeted him was near precisely what he expected, and even still it floored him. Damphaired Aeron was kneeling at the foot of the bed mumbling nonsense to himself. His eyes, closed in veneration, had the darkened, hooded look of a man too long without sleep. Balon could trace the fear amongst his servants by the still-full trays of food he'd sent for Aeron, each one left a little closer to the door than the last.

Disconcerting, but naught that hadn't been reported to him. Far more unsettling was the corpse-blue form of Euron sitting upright on his bed, grinning the same smarmy grin that won over so many maidens and infuriated nearly as many husbands. Though he'd been abed for days, his skin still glistened with seawater, and the room was permeated with a foul odour akin to sun-baked whale carcass. He was dressed in ragged sealskin and leathers, sodden and rotten; his once-pristine black eyepatch had been stained a mottled sea-grey.

"Euron, are you…?" His revivified kin chuckled, sounding like nothing so much as the slosh of water through a drain; Balon repressed the shudder that threatened to roll down his spine.

"Alive?" He croaked, voice almost but not quite the one Balon remembered. "After a fashion, I suppose."

"After a fashion?" Balon ventured, receiving another hideous laugh for his trouble.

"Well, look at me, dear brother!" He smiled, showing off a mouth of too-long teeth. "Can't really charm the womenfolk while brimming over with corpse-bloat, can I?" Looking his brother over, Balon had to agree; for all his activity, he seemed undeniably dead to his eyes. And he had seen enough corpses to think he'd know when one sits up and starts talking at him. There was no use denying it:

Euron was dead. But then how-?

"They say 'dead men tell no tales'," he interrupted Balon's thoughts, "But I have quite the yarn to spin, if you've a mind to hear it, Lord Reaper." He didn't know that he did, yet knew he likely had no choice in the matter.

"Not yet," he deflected, gesturing to the dishevelled form of Aeron. "Should we not do something about… that, beforehand?" Euron's once-familiar derisive laughter now sounded like the burbling of an ancient geyser.

"Ah, worry not for old Damphair! He'll be dead soon enough anyway." He crowed, voice raising the lord's hackles. "And no, it weren't me that did for him. He just… couldn't handle the pressure."

Balon was growing more and more certain that Victarion was in the right; they should have let the sea have this lot the instant Euron washed up and Aeron went mad. No matter what the corpse said, he held little doubt it was involved in whatever had afflicted his brother. He had no doubt he would kill any of his kin if it brought him profit; Euron had always been the most callous of them. Balon used to admire him for it, 'til he learned just how deep his self-interest ran - deeper than any care he had for the health of their house, to be sure.

He pressed onwards, "The pressure of what?" Euron's good eye glinted with something unfathomable; like he knew something no one else could fathom.

"The work, Balon. The Great Work!" He was almost… reverential, speaking thus. Lord Greyjoy did not find it very becoming of his coldest brother. "Work began a thousand thousand years ago, which might not have been completed for a thousand thousand more!"

"... And now?" He grinned his skeletal grin.

"The gate needs no key when the walls come down." Balon knew not what that meant, but it sounded like trouble to his ears.

"Riddles never became you, Euron." His grin faded to something softer, more foreign by far on his dead brother's face.

"Things have changed, brother, and not just with me." He leaned back in bed, gaze shifting out the window and to the clear evening sky. By chance, the great rent in the sky was visible from this side of the keep. "It would take an eternity of waiting for the stars to be right, for the sake of a future no man would see. None we would call men, at any rate. An instant, for those who dream but do not die." Euron flicked his eye back to his brother for only a brief second, long enough to speak. "But now, things have changed. The time will come when we can seize those stars ourselves, and open the way to glory!"

Balon was growing frustrated. "You speak of stars and glory, of gates and great works! Yet, I have not heard why you have entangled Aeron in this business!" The gurgling corpse's demented cackling caught the Lord Reaper off guard.

"Hah! Oh, brother, you speak as if any of us could ever escape it!" Even as he spoke, this time his eye would not leave the bashful stars that had begun to reveal themselves. "We were, none of us, aught more than rabble in the greatest game of cyvasse ever played." He stretched his hand out to the window, as if trying to pluck one of those stars from the heavens. "Our God has need of us, and so we answer his call."

Ugh! Even dead and bloated, the idea of a pious Euron was somehow far more unsettling. "Our God? The Drowned God?" A wistful sigh like the sea over a rocky outcropping escaped Euron's throat.

"Aye. Though our understanding has been, let's say, inaccurate, to date. A thousand thousand years have we followed Him, and that is no lie; yet much has been lost to man's fickle memory." Letting his arm fall, he turned back to Balon. "Before man had tamed the grasses, before he harnessed fire and left his caves, we heard the whispers of God, in our deepest dreams. His influence would wax and wane with those powers the weaker races of men called magic, but always would his words take root.

"In our time," he gestured to Aeron's rocking form. "Our brother served as Prophet and guide, and I admit to being unkind in my youth for it." Balon had heard greater understatements, but not many. "I cannot apologise, however, for all was His design. He was most sensitive to His words, and so he was taken unto His bosom and revived, to spread and keep the faith. His sensitivity is now his undoing, for none can look on the face of God and live." The lord scoffed, to hide his mounting anxiety.

"Oh?" He said, derision dripping from his tone. "Is the Drowned God so shy he must slay all who gaze upon him?" Euron gave a short, harsh laugh ending in a sigh.

"Every word from you speaks to your ignorance, my lord. But I do not blame you; I, too, struggled to comprehend the immensity of what I'd been caught up in. Mark you well, then, the first and greatest of man's follies: the idea that we are - in any way - important to a being such as our God. The second, the idea that we were ever made in His image. He is far too grand, too real for any mortal mind to handle. He does not drive men to madness by choice; it is a matter of course."

"Your words, they border on blasphemy, you realise?"

"I cared naught for the opinions of lesser men in life, and even less in death," he mused. "I have seen only the faintest glimpses of the glory, and already it is too much for a living frame. You, too, have known His visage - in the design of the throne you claim, in the blood-frenzy of battle, in the space between dreams." Before Balon could respond, he held up one sea-sodden hand. "Nay, the time for talk has passed. Behold," he said, pointing out the window. "For the message you have been called to hear has arrived."

"Wha- message?" He stuttered. "Why would I-?" Balon was cut off by a familiar rumbling sounding through the castle. Far softer than earlier, the sky's trembling lasted scant moments before fading. Before he could react to that, he heard a wet thud from the base of the bed, followed by hoarse and maddened laughter.

Aeron's hair was damp with more than seawater as he slammed his head onto the cold stone floor over and over again, cackling all the while. The lord ran over to pull him back to his feet; he was not cruel enough to watch his brother kill himself in a fit of madness. Crazed fool he was, Aeron hardly even noticed, cackling dying down to mere mad tittering.

"Bloody lackwit, get a hold of yourself!"

"I hear it," he giggled. "He slips in through the gaps in the signal; tattered scraps of dreams caught in the undertow, unnoticeably overt! New tricks for an Old God, He has learned and will learn and is learning ever more!"

"The message, Prophet! Give us the message!" Euron's voice was even harsher, more guttural than before. Balon spared him a quick glance, only to double take; the lifeless form that Euron possessed, relatively pristine until now, had spontaneously begun to rot away. "The name, the palace! Speak the words and make it real! " Great gobs of flesh were peeling away, ugly red holes opening in his brother's flesh as he decayed faster than anything natural ought to. Choking cries from the one in his arms drew his attention away from the spectacle even as the whale-carcass scent grew to unmentionable heights.

Aeron's eyes were rolling in his head, and he was weeping tears of blood. "Iä! Iä!" The words tore themselves out of his brother's mouth, and tore their way into Balon's ears as he clutched at his head and doubled over with the pain they caused him. Aeron fell to the ground, unsupported, yet still spake his inhuman message. "C̴͍̼̀͠t̶͕͋̂h̴̲̏u̵͚͜͝l̶̫̿h̸͚̦͗ǘ̸͈͓̂ ̴̟̈͠f̴̦̳̄̀ḣ̴̞̰͘t̵͓̽̋a̴̞͋g̶͇͝ͅn̵͙͛̋!̴͍̞̿̾" Blood dripped from the Prophet's mouth as he spoke a language no man was ever meant to; it pooled in the lord's ears as he was subjected to a language no man should never hear.

"P̶̩͝h̵̄͜'̶̱̚n̶̢̮̔̀g̸̮̽̚l̵͈̺̓ű̴̙̄i̶̭̦͠ ̸̗̒͊m̸̩̄̓g̶̙͝l̸̲̊͝w̴̪̎'̸͕͗͆ṉ̸͋a̶͎̾̈́f̶̝̊h̷̟̬̅ ̸̛̳͕C̷̫͗t̴̪̆͌h̶̡̫͆̀u̴̖͠l̷̜̄̆h̵͓͛̀u̵̞̇ ̵̱̎̏R̵̢͕̂'̸͍̌l̶̡̟͋y̵̨̽̑͜e̴͖͝h̶̲͔̏͘ ̵̬̲̃w̶͕͔̔g̸̯̳̃a̷̭̋̌h̴͉͎͋̚'̶͚͎́́n̷͉̉ȧ̸͕͘g̶̮̀l̷̼̈ ̵̣̞̓̓f̸̠̄h̴̜͊͑t̷͇̝́́a̸̢͈̎g̵͖͂n̸̫̯̕͠!" Aeron threw his head back, and laughed. He laughed and laughed until his lungs gave out. He fell to his side, never again to draw a breath. Euron on the bed let out a blissful sigh, life's purpose nearly fulfilled. Balon, still clutching his head- aching and pounding with words older than mankind - knelt, stupefied, as the harsh words meaning clarified themselves in the depths of his mind:

'In His house at R'lyeh dead C̵̖̒t̸͙͊ḣ̴̡̹u̷͙̺͂̾l̷͓̑̀h̶̛̿ͅū̶̳̦ waits dreaming.' He knew the words; something inside him told him he always knew them, they had simply been awaiting a chance to reveal themselves.

"Why!?" He cried to the uncaring heavens. "Why!?"

"This is our destiny," rasped the weakening voice of Euron, like the brush of wind over Saltcliffe. Much of his flesh was gone, there was naught but skin and bones on the bed. "Now come, and pay heed to my final words! The work goes on!"

"No!" He sobbed. "No, I don't want this!"

"Great C̵̖̒t̸͙͊ḣ̴̡̹u̷͙̺͂̾l̷͓̑̀h̶̛̿ͅū̶̳̦ cares for your wants less than you care for those of greenlanders; pay attention!" Euron instructed. "Soon will come the Deep Ones, first and greatest of our Lord's servants; they gave us the Seastone Chair, and taught us the Old Ways. We will learn them again."

"Shut up! I refuse!" Balon threw a child's tantrum, soul straining under the weight of his task. His mind had been opened, however slightly - and what was done could not be undone. The terrible rightness of it all settles like a yoke about his neck; C̵̖̒t̸͙͊ḣ̴̡̹u̷͙̺͂̾l̷͓̑̀h̶̛̿ͅū̶̳̦ would have his service, no matter his will.

"You cannot refuse the tide, nor the turning of the heavens! Listen! They will teach us their magic, and by blood and iron will we turn the sky's wound to our end." The skin was gone from Euron now; he could not help his skeletal grin. Sickly greenish light emanated from his once-covered eye. "No longer shall man wait for the stars to be right; we shall make them right, and live forever in C̵̖̒t̸͙͊ḣ̴̡̹u̷͙̺͂̾l̷͓̑̀h̶̛̿ͅū̶̳̦'s grace!"

"You do it!" He kept his futile protests going. "He gave you life once already, He may do it again!"

"I will not be here to see it; I am away in the Summer Isles, don't you recall?" Even his bones were crumbling now to dust; What time Euron had left his brother was spending boggled.

"No you aren't, you're right here!"

"Here, there; Time, space; What are such things, to the masters of all?" Whispered the breeze above the bed. "We've been wrong all this time; above all, remember this: 'What is dead can eternal lie, and in strange aeons, even death may die'." And then he was gone.

Balon was alone, now; only a corpse and memories remained beside. He did not know how long he stayed there, kneeling in unwilling supplication to a God far greater than anything he could imagine. The disquieted lord was nearly too numb to notice when Victarion found him. Morning light streaming in from the window contrasted the grim scene with ill-fitting pleasantness.

"Bloody hells, man!" the younger Greyjoy exclaimed, pulling his brother to his feet. "You look as if you've seen a ghost!" He looked down at Aeron's lifeless form, disquieted. "What… what happened?"

"He went mad." Balon replied. "Bashed his own head in, he did." The lord deeply wished he could say that was the worst thing to happen that night.

"Shame. Damned shame, that is. I know what I said earlier, but…" Victarion shook his head in remorse. "He was a bit odd, our Damphair, but I never thought…" He sighed. "We'll give him to the sea on the morrow. The Drowned God will welcome his most devoted, I'm sure." Balon fought off the urge to gag, but he could not repress the shiver that shot down his back.

He alone knew God's name, and he dared not speak it. He dared not think it, for all he knew the impression would never, could never leave his soul. Morosely, his gaze turned to the emptied bed. "Shame we can't do the same for Euron." A sudden snort of laughter from his side caught the lord off guard.

"Hah! Too true, too true." He clapped Balon on the back, almost knocking him over. "Still, as long as that cunt stays in exile, I'll settle with praying for his death at sea." The lord turned to look at his witless brother, concerned.

"Do… do you not remember?"

"Hmm?" he replied, still looking over their brother's body. "Remember what?" Balon stood there, mouth agape.

"I… you…" he shook his head, placing the horrors of the eve as far from his mind as he could. It would never be far enough. "Nothing. It's nothing, I suppose." Clearing his throat, he turned to leave. "Come, brother. There's much to do. We'll set about honouring Aeron soon."

"Aye. Best to be about it before more guests arrive." The Lord Reaper paused mid-stride, a fog of mind-numbing terror falling again over his soul. He turned to face Victarion, muscles taut as a bowstring. His mind turned over itself, brewing into a frantic storm - until a memory clicked back into place.

"Right. Right, the other lords." He nodded, assured his kin was as ignorant of these horrid matters as he thought.

"...Who else could I have meant?" If only he was as thick as Euron used to say.

"No one, of course." Balon reassured. "My… apologies, this night, it has… worn on me."

Victarion nodded, uncommonly sympathetic. "I understand, brother." Hr nodded to Aeron's lifeless form. "Leave 'im to me; you go and rest a while. I'll tell anyone what tries to bother you to sod off."

Balon was damned, this much he knew. Damned if he did as C̵̖̒- as the Great One desired, and terribly damned if he didn't. The haunting words of the shade of Euron rang in his ears as he trudged back to his own room in the Keep; the maddened laughter that spelled the end of his brother haunted the halls, seeming to sound again with every footfall.

He did not dream easy, that day. Mayhap he never would again.

Spoiler: Author's Note

And that's that for now! A fun one to write, though the ending did fight me a lot.

The rest of today shall be dedicated to FFXIV, and then tomorrow back on the writing grind.

'Til next time, everyone!

 

[Acolyte]

Dude this world is soooooooooooo fucked its crazy.

Like genuinely this story inspired me to write my own grimoire story and its set in a grim world of darkness but even that is much less fucked in the short term than this. Like its so dire.

He better roll some really really good perks tbh or this is a lost world.

 

[Deathstorm50]

Dude this world is soooooooooooo fucked its crazy.



Like genuinely this story inspired me to write my own grimoire story and its set in a grim world of darkness but even that is much less fucked in the short term than this. Like its so dire.



He better roll some really really good perks tbh or this is a lost world.

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The highest compliment one can receive is hearing that your work inspired another to write. Thank you, sincerely.

As for the world, don't count it lost just yet. God himself has a vested interest in keeping people alive, or as vested as one so alien can be. That's far from nothing! While we probably will not be seeing a fight scene where we discover who would win in a street brawl between the Lord Almighty and Cthulhu, there are forces on the side of good that would be unwise to forget.

In many ways, the worst is already over: most people who were going to die to the Heartless have died already, and the next couple of perks, while not game breaking, will let Bran get his head back in straight enough to start fighting back against the end.

I'll be sure to check out your story before I head to bed tonight!

 

[Acolyte]

As for the world, don't count it lost just yet. God himself has a vested interest in keeping people alive, or as vested as one so alien can be. That's far from nothing! While we probably will not be seeing a fight scene where we discover who would win in a street brawl between the Lord Almighty and Cthulhu, there are forces on the side of good that would be unwise to forget.

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I have never in my life read a story where god has saved the world, helped save it sure. Buts its always comparatively minor for obvious reasons, ala lotr.

This probably requires mass recruitment of dnd style paladins and actual crusades. Some angels helping isn't going to cut it.

What this world needs now is good old JC, whipping demons with braided whips. Maybe a doom inspired reimagning of him. I mean if our world requires such "incarnation" then that world should get some too.

This is a joke to be clear.

 

[Arimai]

Sandor gripped his sword and shield tight and made ready to meet the Stranger - on his terms.

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In death Sandor for the first time in his life has earned Grace. He dies well

 

[Whenyouseeyou]

Well looks like Jamie has gone insane and join the dark ones

 

[Deathstorm50]

Well looks like Jamie has gone insane and join the dark ones

Click to shrink...

Closer to the following equation: Jaime + The Exorcist^Darkness = bad times

 

[Whenyouseeyou]

Oh shit he's an even worse prepare for when he eventually falls and see what he's become a failure