Westerosi Gods
Chapter 1: The Green
Coming to Westeros
12,000 BC
God of my fathers, hear my prayers.
Magal thus prayed to Garth the Green, the god of the land in spring and summer. He was kneeling painfully before his personal idol: a totem carved in the likeness of divine Garth, made from green rock for his naked green skin, and holding his bag of plenty, along with antlers on his head, fat limbs and a fat body, an oversized member in permanent arousal, and smiling with his teeth showing in laughter.
Today, he was only praying to Garth the god, not Garth the war chief of his tribe, whose hair kissed by fire showed his divine parentage. Although, sometimes, Garth the god and Garth the man, father and son, were one and the same, speaking as one. In those times, the man Garth was to be given worship and maidens were to be sent to his bed for his blessing.
Magal did not really understand, but he was not so arrogant as to pretend to know the ways of the gods, so he did not question it. But, if he were to be honest with himself, he vastly preferred for his prayers to be between him and his god.
He said three prayers, interspersed by softly sung hymns. He prayed for the battle ahead, he prayed for the crops and merciful season for them to grow, and lastly he prayed for Maris, his love, pregnant with his children. When he began, the old wound in his crippled leg was smarting, but by the time he finished the pain was gone, and his body felt light as air; he felt like he could float up off the ground.
Re-centering himself, Magal rose up, all clad in clanking byrnies of gleaming bronze scales, and left his tent. Outside, his charioteer Bran stood ready next to his two-wheeled chariot, yoked to his four horses. Magal climbed on, and when Bran gave the command, the chariot moved off, heading towards the elevated mound Garth had been using to address the army. They weaved through the camp buzzing with activity, navigating between the tents spread out sporadically in all directions in no particular pattern and the foot soldiers and civilians walking around here, moving through the camp themselves or gathering around small campfires to break their fast or get ready for the upcoming combat, adjusting whatever bronze armaments they owned and painting tattoos of blue woad onto their skins for divine protection.
Magal and Bran eventually reached the mound, where a sizable portion of the army was already gathered. At the top stood Garth, the lord of the hosts and god-man himself through his name. He wore wolf furs over his bronze mail, and his famous fiery red beard was tied into a single braid, his hair shining like a brazier in the golden light of the morning. Behind him was a narrow strip of land, flanked by waters on both sides, a bridge from the very earth. And beyond that, towards where the sun set, the promised land.
Their land.
Once all eyes were on him, Garth put a crown of wreathed flowers, leaves, and berries on his head. When he spoke, his voice boomed. "You are almost home, my children," said Garth the God in Garth the Man's voice. "Verily, verily, I say to you as I have said before: where the sun travels, you must follow. You must journey sunward. Where the sun sets, there you shall find new land, where you will be free to prosper and be fruitful. There will be abominations, non-men, and beasts, but I shall protect you and guide your arms, if you travel toward the sunset. I swear it to you by the land, the sea, and the sky. So speak your god."
As his words echoed across the gathering, a fire ignited in the hearts of the warriors. One by one, they began to stomp their feet in rhythm, a primal beat that pulsed through the air. And, one by one, they began to scream, their voices rising in a cacophony of raw emotion.
Their screams were not cries of fear, but shouts of defiance, of confidence in the divine providence. Each warrior's voice blended with the next, creating a chorus of bravery and unity that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet, a fever pitch of adoration more powerful than any hymn.
Magal was screaming, too, his throat raw and saliva drooling from his mouth. He did not care. He felt more connected to the people around him than he ever had in his life, his primal self joining men, women, children, and elderly in the collective scream, the beating heart of the first people of the world.
Beyond the horizon was their enemy, keeping them from
their land granted by
their god. He screamed at them too.
All the while Garth kept smiling, his face to the rising sun. The blinding white sunlight made his feverish face look like it was shining bright, like it emitted its own light.
***
289 AC
Gods, I need a drink, was the first thought, almost prayer even, Bronn had when he left the camp.
The fight against the ironmen had been a miserable affair. Miserable weather, miserable food, and a whole lot of time spent around doing nothing while the real fight happened at sea. Even the capture of Lordsport and Pyke had made for very underwhelming looting, both because of how fucking poor the islanders were, but also because the king had forbidden pillaging of the Greyjoy's seat.
All in all, Bronn had bitterly regretted choosing to fight in the rebellion, instead of seeking his fortunes in the Stepstones or across the narrow sea. And so it was that he ended up nursing a drink in a corner of a tavern in Lannisport, grumbling and ruminating dark thoughts while the rest of the busy establishment celebrated the westermen being free of the Ironborn menace.
It is where he found him.
"Is this seat taken?" asked a man who did not wait for the answer and sat in front of him. Bronn was prepared to give him a piece of his mind (and perhaps a piece of his blade) and raised his eyes from his cup only to do a double take. Bronn was well-traveled and had met all kinds of people across the Seven Kingdoms, but even he had never seen any man like his interlocutor
He was an enormous man, close on to seven feet in height, his frame swollen with layers of excess weight. Bronn's gaze traveled upwards, taking in the sheer mass of the man before him. His cheeks were flushed as red as the red of his hair and beard, from exertion or drunkenness he could not tell. Aside from his clothes, which seemed of neither poor nor expansive make, he carried a woolen canvas bag, heavy with something he couldn't identify.
The man was smiling, one of those huge smiles that indicated someone with an easy laugh.
"I was told you are the man I should talk to," said the huge man. "I am in need of assistance and wish to employ your services." Bronn could not place his accent, it sounded as frosty as a northman's, as wet as an ironborn's, as warm as a Dornishman's. It was all over the place.
The words roused Bronn from his initial shock and he shook his head. It was not like him to be tongue-tied. "Piss off," he snarled.
"Do you not want to know why I want to hire you?"
"I already have a job," Bronn lied. "I serve as a guard in Casterly Rock and work directly for the Old Lion. So piss off before he learns someone is trying to poach his houseguard."
The man's smile did not change, outwardly, but he seemed somehow even more amused. "No you don't. You are a sellsword. And there's hardly anything for a sellsword in the lands bordering the narrow sea nowadays, there's not been much conflict on either side for the last few years. Unless you want to go further east, I am offering you a good job on Westerosi soil that pays handsomely."
Bronn hated people who mocked him and the fat man seemed to be having a joke at his expense for a while now. "If you know I'm a sellsword, then you better fucking go before I kill you. Who the fuck are you even."
The man shrugged and raised his hands in peaceful surrender. "I did not mean to offend, my goodman Bronn. Simply laying out the facts. As I said, I offer good coin."
"I said, who the fuck are you."
"If you don't believe me, here."
At these words, the fat man pulled a small pouch heavy with coins out of his canvas bag and dropped it on the table, where it made a weighty clank. Bronn's next words died on his tongue, seeing the amount of golden dragons in the purse, more than he had ever seen in his life.
The other man chuckled at his bafflement. "Are you eating this?" the jovial man said, pointing at his largely untouched leek soup. Without waiting, the man took his bowl and his spoon and began to scarf down the soup, sometimes dipping bread before engulfing it.
"It is a simple job. I merely need a guard to accompany me while I visit old friends across the realm."
Bronn tore his eyes away from the fortune. "And you will pay me this much?"
"Verily. Truly. I swear to you by land, and sea, and sky: by the end of our arrangement, you will be rich enough to buy yourself a manse in the Old Town." The fat man finished the soup slurping it loudly, but no one heard him over the noisy celebration. In fact, for a moment it seemed to Bronn as if the man was insubstantial, as if the tavern around them had become more real, while his interlocutor had become less so.
"So, what do you say?" he asked.
"...aye, I can do that," Bronn said after a moment.
And besides, I can always kill him and take his money for myself.
The man said nothing at first, and his grin got bigger. Bronn thought it reminded him of the animals who bare their teeth in aggression. When a wolf grins, it's a threat. This grin felt like one of those.
"Our pact is concluded then!"
"Just one question: tell me your name. I would want to know who my generous patron is"
The fat man smiled, his full teeth showing, tainted a dark green from the vegetables of the soup. Bronn for some reason was reminded of a fox eating rotten corpses, its fangs stained black with dark dry blood.
"Call me Goodman Garth."
