The Game Changer

by Zannerson

Summary:

After the battle of steel with his brother in the tower of Temen-ni-gru, Vergil falls to a gateway that leads to a realm unknown. Expecting to be in hell, he instead awakened in a world where ice and fire clashed. With his presence, the rules will change and just as well will the game of thrones and its players.

Let us see how a little slice of motivation could change the course of history.

Chapter 1: Prologue

PROLOGUE

 

---XxxxxX---

“I NEED more power!”

“…Supposed to be twins…”

“…Even if it means killing you…”

“…The sons of SPARDA…”

“…ITS MINE!”

“…You seem to be in a bad mood…”

“…WHY ISNT THIS WORKING!?”

“…Preparations for the bash…”

“…This place was our father’s home…”

He awakened.

He blinked his eyes repeatedly; he tasted his tongue, dry as it may be, his visions blurred, yet becoming clearer with each second, he forces himself awake and conscious. He sees the color blue, with white blurs scattering around. He felt his hand move, and the sensation that follows with it. something is tickling the part of his body that is not covered with his armored leather suit and azure coat.

Grass…

He recognizes the feeling, the touch of nature and the smell that comes after. Often in his life he is surrounded by blood and bile of both demonic and human, but the taste of those that are serene is far from unfamiliar, even then he can recall the times when he lives with sincerity away from a repulsive amount of violence.

Where am I…

He questioned; his sight is clear as he sat on the green hue of grass. He wonders his eyes all around him, trees littered the lands but not numerous enough to be a forest and certainly not old and big enough for its leaves to cover the blue skies. There are hills, rugged and broad yet pleasing to see. There are rivers not far, gentle in its course and clear for consumption.

What was I…

He tries to recollect his memories, he feels no sense of urgency or dread, a decade worth of training and instinct moves his mind and body as he entered a moment of recall. Naturally so as there are no reasons to be so, all the distorted senses came back to his bearing and so come his remembrances. And he remembered ALL.

“Dante…” He whispered with disdain, as the feeling of anger arises so does his spirit and energy. And with due, so came his powers insurmountable, the blue vibrant glow dangerously, coiled on his figure. He summoned his trusted blade, a steel more friend and loyal than any living beings he encountered. Sleek and clean cut… YAMATO.

He recalled everything. He remembered the jutting tower where his father’s power was sealed, he remembered killing his dubious minion for failing to defeat his brother, he remembered felling his brother and taking his amulet from his mangled living body…

He remembered stabbing a human… so sure in his faulty path to become a demon…

He remembered a woman… blaming him for her father’s treachery…

And his brother… who acts the fool wearing red… yet frown in mourning as he cut him down…

His father… powerful and without equal…

His mother… sweet and compassionate everlasting… and-

DEAD

He raises to his full figure, imposing and filled with rage. He recalled his last moment before he awakened here. His sword, Yamato persist with him. The amulet, the last keepsake of his mother still gripped tightly on his hand. He looked around ones more, and found the state of where he is confounding, for he recalls where he expected himself supposed to be.

“This is not hell…” He said, no fires that burns eternally, no rivers of blood that runs without end and certainly no screams of the dead and suffering that should permeate everything. All he sees are beautiful plains, clear skies and horizon. This could not be the human world as he could not see even one stone belonging to the tower of Temen-ni-gru, the tower may be crumbling but there should be remains.

He felt a tint of soreness on his abdomen, the very same place where his brother sliced him. The wound is gone but fatigue persisted, uncertain in his condition he verifies to see If his capability still resides within him. With a gesture he summoned his full demonic power.

He felt all of it, even in his extreme exhaustion the outrageous strength of his father is still within him full bore. Slowly with certainty, the pain and wounds from his body washes away as any sign of struggle against his sibling can only be seen by his shredded coat and suit, though they are still serviceable to wear still.

He looked to himself, his scaly body, the warping reality around his figure and the might no demons can match still resides within him. He dispersed the power a short moment after, his human features returned. “So, this is no illusion then…” He spoke out loud. ‘Going full demon should’ve dispelled it.’ he thought.

For the time being however, he felt his dry tongue taking his attention, he is parched and the river runs loudly to beckon to his needs. ‘One thing first before the other.’ He thought, as he strides towards the coursing waters, clear and shining by the light of the sun. he drank softly and neatly, the etiquette of his house taught to him is still retained. He felt no hunger for the time being, so a quenching of his thirst is more than enough to help his thoughts cleared.

After the refreshment he looked to his reflection. A young man, silver of hair and eyes bluer than his coat. He is in his youth, no more than the age of eighteen, yet the sharp eyes that he equipped holds a more mature upbringing and shown just as much danger as the sword he carried. He gazes ones more towards every part of the horizon, other than villages and a sort of castle he saw no sign of the tall tower that he summoned.

“If this is not hell… then…”

He felt the rumble of the ground, his ears hear the neighing of a horse. He looks forward towards the crossing of the river, to the dirt road that leads to realm unknown to him. With a blink he vanishes and re-appeared just to its side. No long after a carriage came, two horse and one rider. Coolly he walked to the middle of the road, the sheathed edge of his sword touches the land as his hands rest on its pommel.

The carriage stopped and a call came. “Who goes there?” the rider spoke on his sit. “Can I help you ser?”. The silver-haired man approaches the rider, the horses whimpered softly as he approaches, bowing down the closer he came. The man stands on the side of the rider’s station and stare him with an unnecessary level of intensity.

“S-ser?”

“You will answer my questions…” The silver-haired man simply spoke, his eyes bore still, a look to strong the rider is close to fainting from sheer willpower from the stare alone. “I won’t tolerate hesitation… Thus, you will Answer quickly…” The man spew with a warning.

“Milord?” The rider said, bedraggled the silver-haired man maybe, his attire is more than deluxe for him to be inferred as such.

“Where am I?” The man asked.

“Wh-Where? As in… the land we are in?” The rider queried. “We are In the Westerlands, milord… on the gold road, I am heading to Casterly Rock.”. the silver-haired lord persists in his stare, his gaze is uncompromising, the level of judgement he cast is overwhelming. With a moment of silence came another question.

“Where exactly am I in the world?”

“Pardon, milord?”

“What continent is this?”

“Continent? You mean lands? We are in Westeros milord… the seven kingdoms.”

“Westeros?” The Silver-haired whispered. “I don’t know this place.” He tried to search in his mind, for any name that bears close to it, for any recollection of any knowledge that he can find. By nature, he is well-educated, he stacks as many books as his brother makes a mess, yet he could not recall such location. “Fortuna… does this name mean anything to you?”

“No, Milord…”

“Vie de Marli…”

“No.”

“Red Grave City?”

The rider shakes his head.

“Mallet Island? Enamel City?”

“No, Milord… these are strange names to me…”

The chirp of the bird is clear for all to hear, so close to the trees as they are. It is so silent as they stare at each other that even the water can be heeded so mellow as they are. The horse even dared to look back to see the silver-haired man concentrated glare to the anxious rider.

“Is this Casterly Rock near?”

“It is a day away, milord.” The rider answered. Eyes wondering from the sword to the man himself repeatedly with anxiety. “I am but a simple merchant, milord. Please I have nothing.” He pleaded, so sure that this is the day he might lose his life to a wandering lord’s hand. He looked down to the dirt road as a sign of penitent, hoping mercy would come from his prostration.

When he raises his head to see if there is anything more the wandering lord would need of him, he finds the man to disappear. The rider looked around to where he likely supposes to be to find he is nowhere to be seen. Until he hears the sound of a wooden squeak, and he turns to find the wandering lord sitting beside him on the carriage.

“Ride…” The Silver-haired lord simply said.

“Mi-milord?”

“Ride…” He turns his head towards the rider, slowly as to deliver dread. “I won’t tell you a third time…”

---XxxxxX---

The breeze of the wind is soothing to the skin, the dusk of the sun came to its twilight, bringing warmth and light in its swan song, no sensations of heat or humidity. The plain is clear for all to see even at dusk, as the trees are placed neatly around the green grasses of the lands. It is a blessed day and it would be a soothing one as well…

If not for the silver passenger beside him…

He treads lightly on the road, ensuring that the carriage and the horses would not step its wheels and hooves to the jagged part of the path, one often underestimates the damage and shake one could have if fallen victim to such hazards. Yet the rider felt there would be more danger in consideration to the circumstances he finds himself in.

The silver-haired lord is in a serene state of sleep, or at the very least it is what the rider thought he is in. The eyes are closed and his arms are coiled together in front of his chest as his right hand holds his sword. Even now the sharp features and the stoic look never escape his face even when in slumber.

Yet sometimes one could see that he seems to not breathe in occasion…

Still, for the rider, he only cared of reaching his destination. He knows the standards in which that is lordly could bring to him if it has not been met, at best a lashing and at worst death by hanging. The sooner he could appease the silver-haired lord the better.

Yet the passing of time did not come without its odd undertakings, in their journey on the road the silver lord would often query of many things of Westeros. It is bizarre for a man so well-dressed and armed to be so unfamiliar with the surroundings, especially so as by relativity they are quite on the middle of the region, you could not walk a mile without stepping on something Westerosi… how strange.

It was fortunately a barrage of questions of ones he could answer simply, though there are some queer ones, though to be sure to be thought of later, after he would be released from this worrying hold, as right now he has more urgent tasks to worry for.

Which lord you serve?

What year is it?

Does the name Sparda mean anything to you?

An odd set of enquiries, but it is of no use for a merchant, lordly business is often filled with treachery and death, the less he strays towards it the better. Still, it is of an oddity that one would know not of the lands of Westeros, even for folks from Essos, this one might be from farther still. Seeing that the coils of darkness have littered the path, the merchant decides to halt the carriage.

“Why did we stop…” The silver hair spoke, eyes still close, nonchalant in his bearing.

“Apologies, Milord… The night has come, it would be unwise to venture forth, it would only invite incidents…” He took his cap off and bowed. He knows not from which land the lord hailed from but it is better to not risk insolence. “Apologies, milord I surely am.”

the silver-haired man simply sits there, eyes still shut with the same position he held as before, still only a voice came. “Be awake at the first sight of dawn…” He spoke simply.

“Yes, milord.” The Rider-merchant said. “If you wish, milord. I have a spare tent with me. You can use the main tent if you wish… it may not be much, but I’m sure it will give you more comfort than none.”

No movement other than his lips. “No.”

The merchant holds a bewildered look. Sitting still as a statue the silver haired man make no motion, even the darkness seems to embrace him. “Right… Milord.” The merchant decides to use the main tent for himself, he dislikes the hazards and inconveniences of nature most times, more so at night, so he is gladdened to use a more quality comfort.

But he feared a noble’s ire more. He hoped the lord would not change his mind to punish him for impudence of negligence. They are often fickle at times. Still, to find a lord besides the road with a warrior’s figure is a rare thing indeed, perhaps this one denies comfort out of principle alone or perhaps he hides his kindness well enough, at least the merchant can find comfort of not being alone.

Though he thought back to the silver hair the lord has, it is a Valyrian trait and the man is as clean and comely as a prince, even a half-blind man can see that. would it be wise to let the man linger on the sit of a carriage only. Yet the man did deny his offer, who is he to question him, especially if he is really related to royalty. A scion in hiding perhaps? Thought that does not explain the queries…

After he sets his tent, the merchant looks back towards the silver lord… and he still sits unmoving. “How strange…” He thought. He took his comfort as it is and lay his head within the tent, closing his eyes as he thinks about his family.

He remembered the worried face of both his son and daughter, and the ever-supportive look of his wife. All of them expecting his return, with longing growing stronger with each time he left them. He recalled the wants of his family, a new toy, a new sword to train with and maybe a better food to come home to… yet his wife simply asked for his safe return.

He is but an elderly man, he held a sword once but merely for protection. Now his hand is fit only for riding, or perhaps only for farming. His wife often told him to have a hired blade as an escort, but to do so would take away his family’s privileges. The Westerlands are relatively safer than the vale and the north, there are no mountain clans roaming here, and seldom he hears a raid.

He drifts off to sleep with a visage of his family…

 ---XxxxxX---

There was a noise…

A noise to loud to come from one man…

And then come the sounds of rummaging, a sound of objects flung and treasuries thrown…

Frightened and full of anxiety, the merchant slowly opened his tent. The night is still dark, but the semblance of a light is clear, a source that came from a torch. He just awakened from his sleep, and the darkness did not help to discard the blur, yet still he hears a converse.

“There is nothing here…”

“Here it is… I found a ring and an amulet here!”

“Give it here!”

‘Bandits…’ The merchant thought, he knows not how many there are but what they are delving through are treasuries more in sentimental in value than gold. If it was any other case, he would’ve let it happen for the sake of his life, but not this time. The chest they take from are filled with family treasures, he took it away from the carriage and held it close to his tent as to not be stolen for, the irony of the circumstances is palpable.

“Halt there!” He shouted, as brave as he could summon, hopeless his endeavor seems to be. “Those are my possessions you’re taking! Unhand them!”. The bandits look to each other in wonderment and proceed to chuckle, all of them approach him, lingering and skittering to surround him as they walk with menace.

“Is that so?” One of the bandits spoke. “Where are the rest of them?”

“That is all I have!” The merchant replied, his hand holding a short sword. His stance weak and meek with his grip quivering with sweat. The battle is over before one even swing a sword, the apparent fear is an inevitable sign of death if a killing stroke would come to be had. The merchant realizes his futility. “Please… I can give you some silver and copper… just leave my chest alone, those are my son’s and daughter’s gifts!”

“Oh, worry not old man.” The other bandit spoke. “We will leave it be… if you tell us where the rest of your goods are.”

“I just told you-“

“Come now, goodman… you expect us to believe you carried this chest and that tent by your lonesome without a horse?”

They came closer, inch by inch they move slightly. Even their breathes are hearable, as dire wolves marching towards its prey. The merchant pleads. “Please…” He spoke. “Have mercy… I’ve worked so hard.” His eyes started to water, the wrinkle on his cheeks more apparent as despair inches closer. He quivered more as all five bandits started to unsheathe their blades.

The merchant closed his eyes, trying to summon as many courage as he can to make the choice to fight, to find the strength to return to his family. He could run, he could flee and his wife would give no blame to him, she would tell him his life is worth all the carriages in the world. But she deserves much better than a husband with an empty hand.

“Oi!” it seems there are more than five as a cavalcade of voice is heard from afar. “We found the carriage here! It loaded-” their words halted abruptly.

“What was that?”

“I think Alton says he found the carriage…”

“Oh, is that so?” Menacing eyes returned to the merchant. “Seems we have no need of you, lad… go on boys, rip him apart.”

He felt the knife caressing his cheek, and with fear consuming him he dropped his blade. Blood seeped through from the wound the bandit torment his face with. He prayed to the gods, the old and the new for salvation, he did not expect any to come, he needs only the strength to withstand the pain, to survive through the torment.

A scream came and heard… a jagged noise that stopped brusquely.

The bandit stood still and watch from afar. “Layton… Henson?! You alright up there?”

No answer came…

They called again by name but there is no reply to be had. Just so they forgot the merchant exist, and the man fell down to his knees caressing his sliced cheek. Some of them only unsheathes the knife when they met him, now on full vigilant they all held their sword with face full of irritation. One of them choke him as he asked. “Who do you have with you?” His face is to encased by the shade of darkness to be seen clearly.

“Just one man… please.”

“Just one?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not lying are you…”

“Yes, I swear. Please…”

He felt the pangs of guilt came in drove to heart, not only he despaired upon the lost of the needs of his family but he also by doomed a fellow man, tis not enough to have his life thrown away but yet to take another with him. Perhaps the savages would find the man sitting on his carriages inevitably, yet he could’ve kept his heart clean, he deserves death now as it is.

“La-Layton?” A bandit said, yet there was a tint of jitter in his tongue as he delivered the words.

Curious and fearful the merchant opened his eyes to wonder to where the bandits are still in staring towards. There a man Is seen walking forward, every bit as brigands in appearance as his compatriots. Yet, his figure is full of blood, the stride in his motion seems like a puppet sluggishly controlled.

A second came, then the one called Layton who stood jitterily before the bandit…

Suddenly sliced apart into dozen different pieces…

Each slice a clean cut with no room of a rugged edge…

All the different parts of his body fell down to the grass… blood spewing forth like a fountain.

“What the fuck…” One of the bandits said, they are all still with held breathe.

A form came from the shadows, a hue of blue slowly revealing itself with silver hair in tow. There is a blade on his hand, shaped so thin and shine with silver, and there is no blood to be seen on it. they could see his eyes glowing blue, a face no different and inflexible as before, stoic and stony as he spoke.

“Disperse… or be Mutilated.”

They watch him, the air seems to vibrate around him. They all look to each other for guidance, doubtful and uncertain as they merely fidget where they stood as the blade on their hands shivered as their eyes kept on the imposing azure figure. “What do we do?” One of them dared to asked.

They were all flabbergasted, but more so the merchant than the others. But even so he finds himself the sense to reach for what Is valued. He dives towards the chest, to put back all that belongs to his family, and tries to reach for the carriage. A bandit, seeing the effort of the merchant attempted to stab him in the back.

The shade of blue before them move only for a moment, some saw it, the rest missed it for they have blinked. And the very same bandit that intend to reach towards the merchant find himself missing an arm and a leg. He screamed in guttered horror and dread as he fell to the ground squirming as blood starts to pour.

“Scum…” The Silver-hair said. “I’ve warned you…”

Succumbing to terror and intrusive thoughts, a bandit spoke his turn. “His just one man!” With his declaration he charges, with all but one who cowards and quivered where he stood. He intends to swing his sword towards the shoulders, in which he would follow with a tackle. Using the numbers to overwhelm him on the ground.

But just as before… for a moment the silver hair turns into a haze for a blink…

And as before, corpses in pieces littered the grasses… So beautifully cut cleanly…

Now there is only one life left of the opposition, yet still the silver-haired lord unmoved from where he stood, standing imposingly with both hands on their respective sides with one holding a blade. He has his eyes closed looking down, seemingly disinterested on the despairing attempt.

“Prepared to escape?” He said in mocking, still with his eyes shut. “This is the wisest time for you to flee… So, Flee.”

It was unceremonious. With no words spoken the bandit leaves without the corpses of his compatriots, such is the life of a cutthroat. The merchant, coiling around on his chest, looked towards the fleeing coward, whimpering still heard even as his body disappeared onto the shadow. He looked towards his chest and find all the important treasures still in there as he gathered them all.

Relief washed over his body, to find none have gone missing as the bandits are preoccupied with his silver passenger, he manages to collect all of the valuables back to where it supposed to be. he closed the chest and he hugged it tightly, it is the worst of his nightmare if one day he found all the happiness his loved one deserve is to be cast away and gone simply because he is too weak to fight.

In awesome terror, he dared himself to turn towards the tiny field of death. The corpses are still there mangled neatly, even whatever left of their faces are only features of confusion and fear. Truly they did not even know the coming of their last moment, unknown to him if it is a blessing or otherwise… even so, for a man to so simply steal a man’s work like that, death is too good for them.

The confounding of it all however, is the detail that the silver-haired man is nowhere to be seen… So many questions came with fear of the answer that would come, should he dare to enquire of the man’s powers? Perhaps somethings are better kept in silence. All he should care about now is the notion that he is alive still.

He carried the chest back to the carriage, on his way as he struggles to stride towards it as he avoids the corpses. Perhaps carrying it downward to his camp was a mistake after all, mayhaps the chest should have stayed with the carriage in hindsight. The bonfire must’ve invited these cutthroats at night.

The darkness of the night is still embracing the lands, all he could see is the whiteness of the carriage’s roof. As he arrived and put the chest inward into it, he starts to notice the twining blood beneath, none of it fortunately spill to the carriage. Following it to the source, the merchant found another three corpses, massacred cleanly just so like their compatriots before.

The wheel is bloodied due to the pooling blood… but everything else is more than well…

He moves forward to inspect the horses, they are laying down sleeping with no care, regardless of the horrid scream from on of those bandits before. His wonders to the rider’s seat and thus came the dreaded figure of silver.

He still sits there… silently and unmoving, both hands on the pommel of his sword that is rested standing in front of him, his head looking down with eyes closed… And as before, it truly seems like he is not breathing. He struggled if he should leave him be or enquired if there is anything he could do for saving his life.

But the man seems to be in no state to be disturbed and risking to taunt powers beyond human comprehension is idiocy beyond common sense.  There was not even one speck of stain on him, not in his azure blue coat or his leather suit within it, there are a sign of a cut but other than so there is nothing else. From all that mess he made, not one bit of it blemished him.

Naturally so, as he manages to kill the raiders even from afar with those unnatural powers…

He left the man as he is, and returned to his tent to lay his head to slumber until the morning came. Perhaps a rest would shed away the aching anxiety and insolent questions he had winding within his spirit.

---XxxxxX---

The chirp of a bird is but a tint of noise, yet loud enough to wake the merchant…

Not much can escape his hearing, even now sitting on the carriage he deemed to be less than elegant he can hear the quick pace of rummaging from afar. The merchant is swift in his endeavor to continue the journey it seems, he opened his eyes slightly to find that dawn raised slightly on the horizon.

“Milord?” The merchant spoke. “If there is nothing else…, should we continue the journey?”

With no interest to meet his stare, he answered simply. “Yes.”

“V-very well milord…” He felt the carriage move on the other side of the seat, and with a voice and a gesture, he hears the merchant commanded his horses to depart. And so, with the morning breeze they move forward, with the dawn’s light comes shining on the path. With their venture persisting forth, he looked to himself in scrutiny of all that has occurred.

For he knows of the means on his arrival on this world, it is to be accepted from all the acts he had done from his mother’s and father’s teaching and from what he learned of his path to power that this is no deception. The world around him is a true as his will and he senses no sign of trickery in all senses he had use.

As he recalls to the fall of the tower of Temen-ni-gru, it would seem the construct itself is also a gate to many worlds. He studied many clever crafts and theories on the repository of knowledge the tower itself pertains. From what he has read, the tower is a door way that seals the gateway to the demon world, none of it states to hold another path to another realm entirely.

Though mayhaps he judges to quickly, it could be he resides now in continent far from the place that is familiar to him yet still in the same human world. perhaps he has fallen to a gateway that leads to another path instead of the one he knew Dante has escaped from…

Then again, he is not one to coil away from the worldly news. It is of public knowledge that the human world where he lives for most of his life has been in a state of globalization. It is impossible for a two huge continent to be unknown, if what the merchant state is to be true. The only answer came that this is a new place entirely.

It is all so primitive in his sight, that is one other sign of the unfamiliar. In his ride he passes many villages and small towns, and he found their accommodation to be wanting. There are rural areas in the human world where he came from, but even then, they manage to hold privileges much sophisticated than what he is seeing. None of them even have a speck of electricity.

“Merchant…” The silver-haired man calls, the man beside him fidgets as he is summoned. “Tell me of the lord of this Casterly Rock… what powers does he hold…”

And the merchant ensues to tell all, or at the very least spoke as many as he could possibly recall. The Lannister of Casterly Rock, the warden of the west and the overlord of the Westerlands that has ruled for more than a thousand years. The overbearing lands they ruled and the unending gold mines they held. From what he hears it would seem they rule through cunning prowess rather than cold steel.

The same is said to most of the houses of these lands, he learns of the storm call Baratheons and the fertile reach of the Tyrells and so on… it is fascinating to him that there exists a world where name came with such prominence, perhaps he could find a sign of his father still in this world.

The legend speaks that once the demon world and the human world is of the same one, until a demon God decided to pierce them apart. In inference this world could be a fragment of the human world that is not pieced together to the world he came from, if so, perhaps there is much he could learn here. What sort of demons could be conjured in such a place he wondered.

“What sort of demonic beings exists in this world…” He asked the merchant. Bewildered by the query, the man looked to his silver-haired passenger in a worried stare with jittered eye balls.

“Demons… Milord?” The merchant dared to affirm; the silver-haired man simply stared at him. “I…What?”

Fascinating, is what the silver head thought. Yet mayhaps the bewildered look came from the unexpected choice of questions, so he further enquires. “Have these lands made interactions in any way with any kind of demonic presence?”

“What?” There was no intent to hide the signs of blasphemy from the merchant’s face. “No, Milord! But- I do not understand the question…”

“It is simple.” The silver-haired man said, his tone careful. “Have there been any demonic presence in these lands?”

“I-I don’t…”

“Do not test me.”

“N-No! Milord!” The merchant quickly answered. “The closest thing to evil we have encountered came from the hearts of man… like the bandits you felled.”

They spent the rest of the journey in silent after that, he watches with the pace of a journeyman going from one plain to another. Untouched by the sensibilities of darkness, the nature here is elegant with no presence of devilry. The sun rises evermore to the painted blue skies, the hate and power he held within him seem so out of place against the fauna that lives in peace around him.

“Milord…” The merchant spoke, yet his silver passenger does not deign to interest him, still he persists. “I know not the power you have… but you’ve saved me from those brigands, I have owed you much for sparing my life from them.” Once more the man looks away to watch nature running its course, birds flying and flailing gentle trees.

“Forgive me if I am insolent to you, milord. But if there is anything that I could aid in repaying, I would. Humble my efforts maybe.”

Still, his eyes do not wonder from the scenic view. The merchant simply relents from his attempt to be cordial, in heart a modest man, perhaps a lowly peasant turned merchant like him would merit no attention to such higher powers, but at least he tried to be open, low his station maybe.

Perhaps this one hail from Old Valyria. Men that came from such dark places would often in behest to dark and heavenly power both, as the saying goes the Valyrian are closer to gods more than man, for what he has witnessed that has been done to those brigands is nothing less than divine intervention.

They say the overlords of each kingdom came from blood of legends and gods, but less have he heard of the outrageous act similar to the silver-haired man have done. What the merchant has seen is nothing less than inhuman, what godsend and curse for him to encounter a sorcerer in his journey that happens to save him from the perils of raiders.

“Do you have a book with you?” the silver-haired speak.

“A book, Milord?”

“Any kind that speaks about the lands, about anything that would talk about this place.”

“O-oh, milord! I do have some of those books for sale! I have Fire and blood, the history of Targaryen kings by Archmaester Gyldayn and a copy of True History. Though not entailed the lands foremost they do speak of it in lengths!”

“How much for both…”

“Oh, milord… for what you have done you don’t have to-“

“How much for both…”

“Milord, I couldn’t possibly-“

“I won’t ask you a third time…”

Fear came from the warning, and he bowed before speaking. “Each of those book cost two silver moons, milord...” No use speaking to a lordly ire, he expected aloofness but not with this severity. He found the books not long and gave it to him straight away. A lord is a station and blood that comes with traits unnerving and peculiar he supposed. Still, he felt owed to the man that would go unpaid.

The silver-haired man revealed a pouch that is bloodied of recent times, a bounty taken from the brigand’s corpses before. “Here… how much is this.”

“Mi-Milord, you gave me two golden dragons.”

“Is it sufficient?”

“Milord! This is more than the books worth…”

“…”

“Milord?”

“…”

He is ignored once more… the silver-haired man simply fell to his act of reading the book, eyes still as narrow and focus unrelenting as it is as usual. The merchant speechless with the frequent acts of the eccentric kind, relents and continued to ride the carriages in his overawed thoughts.

Valyrians are truly a being of their own. The merchant reasoned to himself. It is a safe and certain allegation; how could such mystic be possible if it does not come from the old lands of dragons. He believed such works to be a myth, but what does he know… living as a simple merchant in an ordinary land where dragons once soared. The world is stranger than he thought.

He decides to keep silent as they made their journey.

---XxxxxX---

Here it stands on the cliff that bars the distance…

The Castle of Casterly rock, red and gold with the ray of the skies shining splendor against the vista that it rivalled before it. its peak threatens to pierce the skies, undermining the city below it with its shadow. The merchant would say in some days it would look like a lion in repose against the sunset, in the blue eyes of the silver-haired demon, it’s just a giant rock easily sliced if need be.

They entered through the gates of Lannisport, a short mile south of the Casterly castle itself. Numerous ships abound and rested on the shores and the nearest waters of its harbors, the sun casted them a shadow worth a thousand parchment and paintings. A soothing sight, may ease a solemn heart at times.

Said to be largest settlement in the Westerlands, and one of the largest and the most profitable port in Westeros. One of the most common knowledge the silver-haired man learned by book and hearsay from the merchant both. He closed the book he acquired and look upon the apparent grandiose that is beckoned, and find it to be wanting.

The architecture of castle Fortuna and its settlement is of a higher calling than what he is seeing, though he admits that it has a nature of comfort to it, but none of the higher calling from the standards of sophistication he expects to see. Naturally so, he recognizes that this realm is much more primitive in both heart and mind from what he learned thus far and from where he came from.

The guards that gave them entry have given him the oddest of all looks, some of them even bowed in his presence and passing. “What was that about?” He asked to the merchant, stone voice and stern.

“Pardon, milord?”

“These people… seem to be more than hospitable to me…”

“Ahh… well truth be told sir…” The merchant gulped as the words stuck in his throat. “You look all the figure of a Valyrian being to you sir, with all the lush garments… I’ve mistaken you for a flock of a royal court… are you not, milord?” The merchant quivered as he delivered the last query, dreading that he made himself into an impudent being.

The silver-haired man turns his eyes towards all those who bowed in his passing. “I am.” He answered. “But I don’t belong to these Targaryen’s.”

“I see, milord… forgive me for prying.”

They arrive to where the carriage may be held, as it stopped the merchant pray his gratitude to the blessings of the seven. In truth, the journey could have resulted in more cost than the scar on his cheek, he hoped for the times to come that the sale he would have made here would gave enough to feed and gave joy to his family.

He appreciates the life that he still has and the wealth he could bring to his family. But for now, he must give thanks to the most deserving of all. Yet as he walks towards the front of his carriage after he inspect his cargo…

The Silver-haired man is gone…

---XxxxxX---

“…No foods… No drinks… and the only babe just left…”

“…Preparations for the bash…”

“We’re supposed to be twins…”

“…I see the devil inside you have awakened as well…”

“We have all that we need…”

RESENTMENT

That is all he felt as he recalls to the last showdown he had with his brother, much has he sacrificed for the sake of power, he has all that he needs to reach upon the power of his father, yet in the end he has found to be inadequate. In the journey into this supercilious port of a lion’s banner, he has given much to retrospect of his failings.

Was I exhausted? Did I push myself too far?

Did I use it wrongly? Is my father’s sword have a way of its own?

Why won’t it listen to me? Why did it not give my father’s power?

What does Dante have? How did he grow to rival me?

Did I overreach? Should I have stayed by using Yamato?

All useless endeavor for it would only lead to uncertain answers, there is not much he can do in his current state other than rest and find a way to return to the human world he knows. He left the merchant unceremoniously; he has no part in his journey to come and he has better things to look forward to than wasting time parting ways to him.

First, he must learn all he can on where he has arrived to, knowing that he is in Lannisport in Casterly rock on the continent of Westeros is not enough. He senses much energy around him, a power surrounds the land, yet it is so weak he could barely reach it. the book stated this realm is filled with history of magics and powers, but he could feel it waning.

A much more eloquent repository of knowledge Is needed, and he won’t acquire it through the jitters of the merchant alone. Thus, he strides towards the center of the port. His mind coiling on the idea of choking the life of his brother for the audacious acts he has done, he admits that the fool wearing red has grown in power, but their last testing of steel only ends in a fluke.

He senses something in his hands, and he forgot that he is gripping the perfect amulet without end, only now he reminded that he has it. he may have felt the calling to war for his sibling, but the call for vengeance against his mother’s killer is a notion that he will never relent. He looks to himself as he recalls the true reason of that tower.

That’s right… Mundus… it’s your death I am after…

The spirit of motivation is summoned to him now… He needs more POWER

Learn all that needs to know of this world and then find a way to reach the demon world once more, and just perhaps along the way… he could find the means to grow stronger in kind. His father has defeated Mundus before, with his powers honed it should not be too difficult to surpass such achievement in due time.

He hears the laughter and a pack of words bantering within a construct, further inspections prove the place to be a tavern of sort, mayhaps a loud exchange of information could prove useful to move forward in this world, who knows… maybe this is a realm his father once walked upon as well.

Motivated… he strides onward.

---XxxxxX---

He ordered for a novel delicacy, though he has no need for an edible substance to stay his life, he still found nourishments still an enjoyable pursuit. He looked downward towards his food, a well-cooked steak the size of a thigh and a sweet mead to warm his belly. It is a pleasing pastime, though he rarely smiles the act still comfort him, regardless of how human it may be.

He learned much from his few hours of his stay within the tavern…

A few months before, there was a burning of a castle in the Dornish Marches. The residential castle of Summerhall, where the old line of Targaryen royalties would reside there for a time of respite for family. A tragedy has befallen it further in a speck of irony, as the fires also take most of the dragon’s blood to the afterlife.

The reaction of the news is a disparity of its own, some welcomed the grip of death to their monarch with a toast, though these flocks celebrate as subtle as to not show to the open eyes, though in the eyes and ears of a certain half-demon, none can escape his vigilance. The rest flake their heads down in mourning and chant the long lives of those that survived, praying that the royal court endure till the end of time.

Clearly the public opinion is quite dissenting, but one is more in disadvantage than the other… Such is the life of a monarchy.

In other news, the declaration of an invasion came from the east. An offshoot blood of the royal family that came from a bastard cause intending to take the throne. Same reception as the tragic news before, some rejoice the others prostrate to the trueborns in silence. They say the levy is in its preparation to be gathered, whilst in other places they already departing towards the fields of war.

For the silver-haired man, violence is a means with no notion of enjoyment to him, there was only some battles he fought in the past where a clash would have been a pleasurable activity, but it was a unique circumstance he doubts could be recreated here, especially as he is certain this unfledged world could match up even to the lowest of all demons.

Still… perhaps in time, the war would have some use to him. For the time being however, it is just a passing hearsay.

Though the most prominent news from the locals is of the cause of a celebration, for this day is the very first day to enter the year of 260 After Aegon Conquest. It would seem the delicate and festive decoration he saw scattering around the city is not a standard occasion after all. Must be a work of providence for him to arrive right on such times.

In celebration, the lord Tytos Lannister would begin the tourney of Lannisport. Where thousands have clamored to enter for the sake of fame and glory, a droll and predictable thing to chase after, but such is the mindset of a pleb, they have no heart of the higher grounds of power. Yet, still….

Twenty-thousand gold dragons as a reward would make for a suffice finance to aid his journey. From what he found of the cost of necessity from his search in this port, one gold dragon to a goodman seems too worth more than a years’ worth of pay. The host of this land must be a man worth the rumors of the Lannister saying to be true.

Though there are further reasons for the occasion, it is said that today would be the day the only daughter of the Casterly Lannister to be consummated in marriage by another house of the Riverlands. Genna Lannister Is her name, said to be shapely and as comely as the sunrise that always come.

Most laugh on the event, even by his own man and woman under him. Even now as he ate, more than many men is openly insulting his fat belly and the mockery of his daughter’s betrothal. Only some kept their tongues in, revealing pity instead for the fate that awaits the daughter of the toothless lion.

The house of Frey seems to be a rather repellant and loathsome family. He thought, not one word from the people here says any goodwill of them.

Yet a revolting sensation came from his belly as he ate, he is not one unfamiliar with ghastly undertakings. In the past he often travelled to places where privileges such as pleasant foods and water or even a place to rest that are seldom exist, power waits for no one as he journeys from one despicable place to another to attain it, even if he must eat a scab of rats and cold carcasses in order to heal his wounds through such nourishments.  

But to openly celebrate the bedding of your own daughter? That is the one of the most despicable acts of all, utterly unthinkable even by savage standards. He almost lost his appetite just so from that.

Acquiring enough from hearsay and finishing his food, he stands to depart from such profane place. It would seem the tavern is also a place where open debauchery is not only allowed but also applauded, even in Red Grave City such happenings would be undermined if done in public. The unhinged nature of the locale disgusts him.

He has to threaten and avoid more than few fairer sexes that plans to seduce him into a private room on his way out, every bit of his discipline is tested as his sword hand ache for bloody murder for daring to demand depravity from him. He recalled choking one man away for daring to stand in his way. He won’t wake up anytime soon.

He learns that the only sources of knowledge here is from the motherhouse and the septry on the center of the port, and the last and most complete collection lies within the library within the Castle of Casterly Rock where the lord of this land sleeps.

He moves to the nearest one first…

---XxxxxX---

She cannot sleep…

She has been taught many things in life, as a Lannister even the deepest of all education from etiquette to logistic has been bestowed upon her relentlessly the second she is capable to read a sentence. By the time she reaches the age of ten, she has been handling many tasks of both lord and ladyship to make the best of her potential.

Her mother, lady Jeyne of Marbrand. The seven bless her soul, even in the edge of her death, the only thing she thought about is her future. With aching body and eyes closed she would ask the questions on what she has done, what she hasn’t done and how she should’ve or would’ve done it. nothing less but the best for her daughter, the greatest of her image.

Even now with an aching heart, she handles the arrangements of the festivities. As the new year comes when her father exhaust himself to his whores as they delve and toyed with her mothers’ jewelries, she sweats to ensure the Lannister name is kept in high as the castle peak. Even now she can still hear their laughter on the lord’s chamber. To say she is seething is a gross underestimation.

Without the help of Maester Creylen, she would’ve fainted over the outrageous load in itself, for this is a job for ten men yet there are only two of them. Her face so blessed with fairness is marred with a detestable frown, in times where a maiden would be jolly to find herself honored and favored by their knights, she instead would be paraded like a whore.

She walked towards the window where the people scatter like ants beneath the shadows of her father’s castle, The scented candles she had in her room kept her from going insane and daze for the utmost disrespect the coming days would bring her. No one could save her now, so deplorable her situation is.

To find herself managing a tourney where everyone would celebrate the notion of her bedding someone who she holds no love towards. Emmon Frey is a kind man yet also a meek one, she dreamt of a gallant soul but acquired a mud instead. She cast no blame to him, in honesty he also held no interest on the marriage if not for the encouragement of his father and brothers.

She met him once in a while, sometimes when she finds respite, she would find him helping her chores and duties, his face faltered and full of guilt, truly a kind man but not the one she wanted. Yet in other cases she would find his brothers scattered as well, staring with craving lust towards her. They think she did not know their plan on this tourney, they are mistaken.

And yet his father so loving yet also so full of idiocy, to be so easily convince that the gala of the bedding is to be an act of honor by the Frey’s. Sometimes she would pray that the man would choke on his food and die, but with this disgrace she wishes him death by burning. It is a cursed thought, she truly does love him, but she had hoped at least he would grow claws where he lacks in fangs.

She could still hear it… the laughter of the people. She swore that more than half of those came to mock her family. Yet what else can she do now, she could have ordered the guards to seize them, to rip their tongue away. But in the days where it is expected to be joy, it would only bring more stain to the family name as it is…

Tywin is not here to protect her now… Tall and full of pride, just as a lion should. One often spoke that perhaps a real lion has mated with their mother to have him. A blasphemous declaration, but she finds the humor in it, it adds to his name. Ever so stoic and powerful Tywin… the eldest. Who everyone feared, and the brother she truly cares and love.

Kevan, Gentle with honor and duty, always taking the fall for any mistake she has made. The lion is only as strong as their loyalty… perhaps he manifested that aspect the most. Everyone knows his name come with discipline, perhaps even more so than Tywin. Truth to her, their both are as self-assured and meticulous as the other, one more daring than most.

Tygett, the fighter of the family. Smiled calmly and strike boldly for every word of mockery that came to her way. A real warrior, and playful mostly to her. justly kind but with a touch of courage, very unlike their father’s. With a sword hand that dares to slice for every direct insult he hears.

All those claws and fangs are lost to her…

All of them depart to attend the war against the Blackfyres…

And here she is alone against the tide of her father’s waning influence…

She will not sleep this day… she will instead overwatch the waning sunlight of the Lannisport, as the sun slowly sets on the edge of the sea. And slowly the lamp and candles that decorated every line of rope from each house to the next lit up, like stars they came to light. It is such a beautiful vista, yellow rays and shades that colored the port like blooming flowers.

Yet for every sight of splendor she sees, she can still hear the laughter. It is truly a cursed existence, to find such a deed of joy to be stained with mistrust because of her father’s act. When she hears it so, she can only remember the mockery as she recalled her lord-father agreed to the betrothal with the Frey’s. her eyes watered but no tears escape, she needs to find strength where no hope remains.

But often came Gerion’s voice from afar, chuckling and so often light in heart. Most likely he is in bed right now, playing with his knight toys and swords as she handles all the lordly works. A small boy, a merry boy, she’ll make sure he is as far away from the ridicule as she can.

Perhaps, a book to read would take away the pain ever-so-slightly…

She departs to the castle’s library…

Only to find herself in a greater predicament then she was before…

---XxxxxX---

“What in the seven hells is this!?” Genna yelled in demand. Though she rarely partakes in the arts of war, the very sounds battle could make is unfamiliar to her. She jogs towards the clamoring sound; the noises of scream and grunted pain littered the air of the castle. She did not even realize that the source came from the destination she seeks to be at.

The door of the library is wide open, before it are ailing arms-man of the house. Dozens of guards littered the floor and stairs, with blood pooling in some of them. Barely have the strength to stand, some of them are missing a limb, yet in fortunate ways all of them are still alive. She approaches the nearest one whose body is battered and bruised, most afar from death as he is.

“Awake, goodman.” Genna said. “Who did this to you?”

“Milady…” The guard spoke, voice strained as his bruising chest made him struggled to breathe. “A man went in… inside the library… A trespasser… he did not speak… we move to apprehend him but… he is... not human.”

Genna in her bafflement, wondered what kind of creature would do so much damage. No man could do such a thing alone, he assumed the guard is in a state of stupor. Her mind wandered to all the likelihoods on this incidence, to find the answer on what could’ve caused such hellbent actions.

Perhaps the Reyne sent a message for their discourse of the betrothal…

The Tarbeck sending a drunk to lay waste to a castle… but no man can do this much damage, much less a drunk one…

Collecting her bravado, she intends to enter the library.

“NO!” The guard spoke, a cough of blood spewed from his mouth. “Milady… you must flee…”

Even in the depths of twilight of her family honor, she is heartened on the notion that there are more than some who notices her presence and actions. The whole Westeros may be blind to her attempts to restore the family name, but those close to her banner’s knows her effort. “Stay and rest…” Genna said. “The Maester is suppose to be in the library… I will make sure he’ll return to aid all of you.”

“Milady… Don’t! don’t…” A word goes unheeded, as the lady gracefully entered the conflicted chamber of books.

She found the view no less depressing than before, remains of an arm or a leg scattered the floors. Still there are no corpses, only pained and disgruntled men. She might not have an eye of a warlord, but she is far from squeamish. She notices the way all the guards have been wounded.

None of them are jagged… none of them are bleeding profusely…

They are in pain, but none of them are in danger to be taken to the sevens grace. It was an impeccable sight, to say that the cut is clean is a lesser renown than it deserved. A lost of a limb would usually ends with a pool of blood followed by death, but whoever has done the sword work gave them the greatest pain that strays away from death.

She would think it is impossible to maim a man’s body like that without ending it with an embrace of death… here she stands corrected.

She moves forward moving from one line of books to the other, the library being bigger than the granary of Lannisport often is a humorous fact to her. On her journey to find the trespasser she saw even more fainted guards and even terrified servants that are coiling in one corner or the other, hiding from the terror.

“Flee and take your leave… hurry.” Genna whispered, assuring her subordinates. “Go!”

As their steps fade away from her, she found a light source not far from where she stands. She recognized where it came from, the section of all arcane and magic. Tywin often shakes his head over the presence of such a segment in such an illustrious house. He is not one to delve in the realm of the mystic and illogicalities.

As she arrives, the color of blue is the first sight she engrossed, next is the silver color of his hair. There she found her intruder’s back turned to her. Beside him is Maester Creylen, noticing her with eyes wide with fear shivering where he stood. The man silver of hair, seems to become aware of another presence in the room.

He turns towards her, and Genna is captivated by every feature of his face. Blue eyes and white hair that shines by the moon’s light, his azure coat cut in some ways but still retains it regal with a strong leather blackened suit within it. he recognized that look well. Stoic, calm, collected and full of judgement.

She thought only Tywin has that face…

Yet her anger of the impudence remains, regardless of the other otherworldly presence. “Who are you!?” She demanded. “I am the lady of this house! and you have maimed my man!”

The silver-haired man tilted his head slightly, unknown is it in mocking or interest. “You are Jeyne Marbrand?” he enquired.

The insolence of his words did not escape her. “I am Genna Lannister, you will speak with respect! … and you are intruding on my father’s castle!” she roared, no hint of fear on her voice. “Tell me who you are!?”

His face inflexible, staring at her with crushing force, she felt stupefied… like a giant hammer bashing her mind. The man decides to answer after a brief moment of silence.

“Vergil… of house Sparda…” He spoke. “Does any of those words mean anything to you?”

Chapter 2: A Sword Hand with a Book

Summary:

The Tourney at Lannisport are in sight, as the lady of house Lannister and her faithful are in turmoil in the proceeding caused by the presence of the silver-haired stranger.

---XxxxxX---

She rests her face on her hands, exhausted and filled with dread spiced with anxiety. There are many aspects of clever knowledges she procures even before she begins in her pursuit of being the acting lady of the family. Though frail and in the edge of her life, her mother was so clean and impeccable in ensuring the foundation of the house is without rust.

Father always loves and relied on her, where he acquired the gold, she would spend it wisely. She has her jewels and accommodation, yet she wore them only in the few days of each moon when she does not flail from one room to the other in her duties as a lady. It was quite odd and puzzling how a lion without fangs could acquire a tree blossomed with roses. Still, she struggles to see how her mother could find love with her meek willed father.

But for all the practice and education she has obtained from her, none of them prepared her for the circumstances of one man simply reading in her library. It was a situation with premises beyond on what she could’ve thought would occur, like a folklore with a peculiar lesson. She wringed her mind of all the ideas of what could she done… other than the apparent acts that should’ve succeeded by face value.

More than twenty man was wounded when she arrived at the library… So, she sent fifty in their stead. One would think a platoon of arms-man would be considered to be an act of exaggeration in order to eliminate one man, but prior event have suggested otherwise. Though in the end it was for nothing, they fell and are defeated just as hard and crushing as the first wave.

Fortunately, none of them died… twelve men lost their limbs, the rest are bruised and battered. It was an odd incident, clearly the silver-haired man is capable in delivering death. Yet none has been given here, perhaps he thinks a nuisance is not worth the effort, or mayhaps a code exists for him to follow by principle. All speculations… he is still unknown to her.

Her dutiful Maester Creylen, uncertain and full of doubts in reality of what has just occurred a week ago, have spent the night sleeplessly. In his waking hour, Genna attempted to soothe him, middle-age but often lack of health, the prospect of battle is only excelled in theory to him. She enquired on what the silver-haired man wanted, as she recalls him standing beside the man, untouched and unhurt.

“He intended to use to find a book, my lady…” Creylen answered as Genna remembered, with a voice soft and feeble that comes with his quivering figure. “He felled many men with means unknown to me… He moved with a swipe and the guards are flailed and cut down swiftly, it was unreal.” He said, she was not present during the first and the second attempt in apprehending the intruder.

But all of them have spoken the same length of prowess… how could one man have done this…

“He confirmed that I am the Maester of the Lannisters… and demand me to find a collection of books for him…” He continued, eyes down on the stony floor as Genna recalled. “I relented, my lady… for he has threaten to commit more atrocities if I have done otherwise…”

“And what was it he is looking for?”

“Scrolls and tomes of the arcane… and history of Westeros… he is reading all of it now and more… I am at your mercy lady Genna, I have aided the trespasser.”

It pains her that the old learned-man would think he has done a treacherous cause, perhaps if he did not relent there would be deaths when there are none now. She told him of his good deed and will, and command him to take a few days’ worth of rest. Though he is an ever devoted one even in an aggrieved state, instead he would partake in the arrangements of the festivities and the tourneys when it should have been her.

He urges for her to remain away from the silver brigand, but how could she when he is so close to where she slept. Tytos, her father, still in his slumber unbeknownst to the dreaded event happening in the floor beneath. It is the better way in this case, knowing his agreeable tendencies, he would reward the man away rather than punishing him. This case deserves a harder hand.

She commanded all the guards present and away to keep the ridiculous event stuck in their tongue, a disastrous affair in this level of severity would harm the name as much as any current managements. An overlord where his land and house are so easily assaulted by one sword hand is not an inspiring lore for future historians. Especially over the accumulated disrespect the Lannister name has, as it is.

After she bathed, she would depart to the library once more, someone must fill the daring shoes where Tygett and Tywin brought their bare feet to the war on the stepstones. As like the Maester, many guards’ men and the Master-at-Arms himself urges her otherwise. Yet they did not relay their solutions proper, other than the usual brutish approach.

She simply commands them to guard the young Gerion from this conflict…

Over this one week she has tried to speak and demanded many things from the silver-haired man, no avail other than the occasional glance and a numerous number of warnings in which have not been done regardless of how much she has sternly spoken. The questions on his purpose here and the demands of repayment for the damages he caused has gone unanswered.

She recalled to his capabilities in dispatching any obstacles that obstruct him, Tygett and the captain of her house have shown martial skill she thought only a lord could reach, true there are other names that may grasp even the most elite of such pursuit, but even her brother is a battle master of his own… yet never she has seen him defeat more than three or four foes at once alone, even with that number they struggled to achieve victory.

Her foot stepped a few feet from the entrance of her destination. Inhaling the air, as she prepared her heart to approach the beastly entity. Dawn is still on the edge of the sea, but its orange ray persists to course through the windows of the chamber. A room well-constructed in its place, as she arrived at the arcane section, she found him sitting on a round table with stacks of books beside him.

She made no effort to hide her footsteps, regardless of how nearer she gets towards him, he would not deign his attention towards her. Such a focused eyes being given to the tome he is holding with a hand, with the other resting upward of his elbow. He carries himself on his sitting position in a very haughty way deserving only to a prince of the world.

Genna simply stared at him, studying his face and adornments he equipped with lazy half opened eyes, his presence is starting to exhaust her due to the one-sided interaction she had with him. Now in front of the table facing him, she glared on his nonchalant eyes, whirling her mind to find how to discard him from her library.

He glanced upward towards her with a conceited reaction for no more than a second before returning to the book he borrowed from her…

She approaches him from the side, now right beside him the man still gave her no quarter of his interest, even with the unending stare she gave him. Only the sound of a page being flipped and the dust of decades of unopened folios permeates the area. She looked upon every each of all tomes and books that has been stack beside him, a set that exist on both his left and right. She knows not which stack is the one where he finished reading or otherwise.

The Reckoning of time by Archmaester Walgram…

Against the Unnatural by Maester Vanyon…

The Jade Compendium by Colloquo Votar…

Lies of the ancients… Children of Summer… Winter’s kings… Engines of War… The Fires of the Freehold... Watchers on the wall… Sea demons: History of the drowned gods… Blood and Fire… The Book of Holy Prayer…

The pattern is apparent to her, even without the testimony of the Maester. All works of magics and of the mystic. Of all the daring dangers Casterly Rock has invited, of course a man that delves in the heart of the arcane would be the one to present itself, how remarkably bizarre. Even to go towards the teachings of the seven-pointed star, does he expect the same lessons of sorcery from the religion?

Still, there is an imperial look to him, and naturally he carries himself the same way as well. At first of course everyone would mistake him for a flock of Valyria, unsurprising if some would even mistake him for a part of the royal family as well, silver hair and striking coat as one. But she met the house of the iron throne, and not one speaks of this one’s trait.

Silver hair but blue eyes… perhaps this one comes from farther still…

His sword rested on the edge of the table, a thin sheath with the blade just the same. Such works are unknown to her. She felt hopeless these last few moons, even years as she is haunted in many nights on the regards of her virtue being taken by a vulgar house notwithstanding Emmon, that man is well but not his family.

Having her life taken by a powerful man of a higher flock would’ve been a higher honor. And so, she dared to pull a chair, as noisy and annoying as she could. Scrapping the stony floor and banging the legs to every part of the table’s foundations. She dropped the seat unceremoniously, making as loud a sound as possible.

She takes her place and began to keep staring at him, rageful and full of resentment. Still, he merely kept on reading as he goes to another page occasionally. “You’ve entered my domain… harmed my guards… and make yourself at home in this library as you terrify my servants…” Genna spoke, Disgruntled voice presenting fury. “Why won’t you just tell me what you want and be done with it and leave!”

Again… there comes no reaction, frustration building as much as the light slowly entered the chamber as the sun rises. “To what end do you suppose this will lead!? Have you not looked around you!? You are mangling everything!” She said, with a clench of her fist. “What even are you… A sorcerer from Essos coming to take my families bounty!?”

He finished reading the book and gently placed it down on the left part of the stack beside him, he inhaled a breath as he put his arm crossed and closing his eyes as he bowed his head slightly. Genna is now in the edge of fainting, she did not expect in her life for a lady that she would be ignored just as like a nuisance.

With heart of bold, she stormed towards him, the pillars of books so neatly stacked is now swiped away with anger by her hand. Parchments and papers of many kinds float and fly like feathers all around, yet still he stood unmoving. In her scoff she dared to raise her hand to slap him right on the cheek, but slowly disperse the notion as she found another one within her.

The edge of the table becomes lighter, as the thin sheathed sword of the silver stranger is taken from it wielded sluggishly by the lion’s daughter. Genna finds the object absurd, unnaturally heavy on places she did not expect. A throng of vibration on her grip and a warmth that is far from soothing on her palms, she feared that she has lay her hands on another artifact of the mystic. Though sheathed it may be, she does not feel far from danger.

Uncertain of the situation, blessed or cursed. She finally manages to acquire his attention. Eyes opened with no passion that exist, inflexible face more supernatural than humane, in other circumstances he looks no different than the dragon kings of old, valiant and tempting in epitome. But the indignant spirit conquered her other desires.

Standing taller than her, he approaches her gently. One step of the foot after another, he walks as if he is treading on a rope. For the first time since their first encounter, she hears upon his voice once more. “You don’t know what you’re holding…” Vergil said. “Return it…”

“Not unless… you tell me what I want to know…” Genna replied, a vibration on contempt barely kept. “Do we have an accord?”

He gazes at her, her head looking upward to match his eyes. They fared on their pride for more than a moment, it is a shocking turn of events to find the maddening silver being to be the one to relent first. He walks towards his borrowed chair and takes his sit. He looked away from her, simply in a state of contemplation.

“See reason…” Genna said. “You have found no rest and peace from this endeavor to be infuriatingly obstinate… I will endure to annoy you until I found my answer in the acts that you have done… make no mistake ser… you are the interloper and I am the reasonable one here.”

She swore she found a flick of a quirk on the man’s lips.

“Fine…” He answered. “Go on then…”

---XxxxxX---

There was a gargantuan amount of anger within him, from the time of his stay on this castle above the rocks, the fury on the events that has happened in the tower of Temen-ni-gru has seldom escapes his psyche. There are many prospects he expected to be smoothly becoming reality as he once walked on those jutting construct. For him to end in the state as he is now, on a backwoods realm which know no concept of true power irritate him so.

He finds the accommodation acceptable, in consideration to the disposition the surrounding lifeform have on him. In his mind he has a goal to accomplish, who owns which object and residence interest him not. It’s just so happen that the measly guards have to be so obstructive in his path. All he needs is the repository of books for him to find a proper answer. But even then, after he has quelled the lesson to the weakling impeding him, still there exist another stubborn hindrance.

It was a quiet entertaining endeavor for Vergil, he has met intellectuals and their collectives of knowledge in his home world. Dare he say he even manage to read more than some tomes and papers that many consider to be adequately worth. But by the time he reaches the cusp of his teen, he has already consumed most of it, the ones that are not… are mostly hidden by the public eye…

And back then he has no time for frivolities in his mindset… he has his father’s power to acquire…

But now he made an impasse, and the ways to return to his objective are still in the scopes of a theory. There are points he recalled from his past education by his father, demonic presence often coiled and mar the lands they have marked permanently until direct approach has been made to disband the taint.

He could still feel it now… The gateway that has been made as he arrives here… and according from what he learned thus far, if the map is proven correctly, it is a way of east of the gold road, following the short river until he arrived to the devilish mar that stain the green seas of grass. Back to where he found that merchant, in between the rugged hills that guards the path and plains.

But this realm might play with a different set of rules, no information here that he learned have any connection to the worlds he known. This is place is with a certainty, a ground he never treads nor anyone else from any figure he known. Even now he senses the dismal spirit of that same gate struggling to acquire any dark air to strengthen itself, far away from it as he is now.

When the time comes… more demons will arrive in this world… he will be ready by then. At the time being, the very same gate where he arrived here is the only one that he could perceive, if there are others here, he could not feel it. Either they are too far away or there are none at all except for the one he knows.

For now, he has to humor the lady of the house…

Still her emerald stare bore onto him like a vice, every bit the curious eyes with a spice of fear and confusion. The couple of seconds she just sat down right beside him felt no different than a decade pass. He held no love for useless interactions so he hoped that she would make it quick.

“Vergil… of house Sparda…” Genna spoke. “I have never heard of this name and place… as you know. Where exactly do you hail…”

Quite a simple question, one he could reply to clearly, but no concept that lies within him came with comprehensive and logical place in her mind, he knows that well. The idea of a demonic entity arriving through a hell made gate would not bode well for this conversation. He tells the truth… but one that came like a background painting.

“I am not from Westeros…” He answered. “Nor am I from Essos and the place after it.”

“Truly…” Genna voiced herself. “You would’ve made a name for yourself for the prowess you shown… where did you learn to fight like that.”

“Where?” Vergil scoffs. “My father taught me and my…”

“…?” Genna looked at him expectantly.

He stopped himself, the straight line of his lips quirk back to a frown he equipped as last few days has shown. “I was taught since I am capable to hold a blade by my father…” He continued, a glint of resentful taint on his voice. “My father was the greatest of his time, and I see myself not far from him.”

“Yes… but…” Genna spoke. “But what you did to my man, the things they have told me… its not something a human should be capable of…”

“No, it is not…” He affirmed.

“Your father…” Genna said, leaning forward slightly in wonderment. “He fights like you as well?”

Vergil raised a brow, scoffing on her claim. “My father taught me many things I know… he is better than me by far…”

Genna withheld her breathe for longer that one would think she is closer to death than she is. “Your father is stronger than you?”

“From what I’ve known… perhaps” Vergil simply said. “Though not for long… I intend to surpass him…”

The implication of the words delivered is a notion for another time. For now, Genna holds a different query. “But your strength… if you are not human… what are you?”

“Not human…”

“Yes, but what!?”

“Something more…”

“And that would be?”

“Not human…”

The insolence is palpably maddening, he kept reminding her that she is not even control the conversation and the state of her house both. From previous interaction, she believed that the man is in a perpetual state of anger. But the amused slight quirk of a smile on his face speaks otherwise as much as it has mockery towards her.

“It is not very decent to keep a woman guessing…” She spoke. Narrow eyes that bring the fierceness apparent with an emerald glow. Vergil deigned himself a glance to meet her boldness, he is amused if not irritated that she made such question a competition than accept the answer as it is.

“It is not an answer you can simply accept…”

“Indulge me…”

He boldly turns his head fully towards her, their eyes lock with Genna slowly being dazed by his presence alone. He spoke simply. “No…” and turns his head back to its calm torpor, eyes closed resting downwards. For her at first, she would think he fell to slumber, but prior incidents have educated her otherwise.

“Why is this?” Genna spoke. “Is your very being a shame to you?”

Disinterested, Vergil speaks his ground. “Bring another question… this one is starting to bore me.”

Genna exhaled, she often picks her words carefully against other lords and ladies. Wrongfully spoken voices often leads to impairments of the unnecessary kind, notwithstanding the mar it would bring to the family image. She doesn’t know where to put this Vergil on the caste, upbringing and capabilities alone should put him on the lordly kind at least…

“Then I suppose I have to move on…” Genna spoke. “Does this place from where you came from have a name?”

“It does…” Vergil replied. “Red Grave City…”

“I’ve never heard of such a place.”

“…” Vergil did not speak a word. To be so blatant in revealing every point of his being only begs for more queries, as entertaining as her curiosity may be, he is not one to beckon stale activities.

“If not Westeros or Essos… than Sothoryos or Asshai then?”

“No…” Vergil said. “I’ve never heard of such places until recently…”

“Recently?” Genna spoke, bewildered. “So how did you come by to the Westerlands then…”

“An incident…” Vergil answered. “One that I have no interest to elaborate…”

Genna scoffed, this interaction has been nothing short of an impasse one after the other. It truly seems like more one sided than she expected it to be. She breathed softly as to get her bearings; a simple banter of words is not expected to be this exhausting. At least with Gerion it could be an amusing circumstance.

“And you arrive here at Casterly Rock…”

“This is the closest location nearest to have what I need…”

“And that would be?”

Vergil simply lifts the book that rested on his lap up, no words needed to be spoken.

“I see…” Genna said. Even by the unorthodox circumstances her house finds itself in, no one would have expected a raid out of the very reason of knowledge gathering. At the very least, not one she expects to find her family in. All the gold unending beneath the stones and one came with interest only to dusty books and tomes.

She absorbs every feature she could perceived on the man, slicked back hair that compliments his sharp features. Clean and cut outfit that goes well with the color of his eyes. A fair one, an elegant one. This is not a man that would simply be hidden in the annals, the air would litter with hearsay of a man as capable as he is… especially one that deals with sorcery and sword. Tis not a combination you would find altogether in one body.

“You have made quite a disorder you know…” Genna said, leaning back to rest. “Many of those you wound and mar are good man. They have children to feed and aspiration no matter how little it is to you and I.” She breathes harshly. “More than some of them will never take up a sword again… nor would they be capable to do many task that would be demanded of them to live…”

“They were in my way…” Vergil spoke, uncompromising and uncaring. “I’ve gave them ample warning… they chose poorly.”

“They are doing as they are ordered…”

“All the same…”

She stands to her full pride; her hands still remain in grip of his sword. With barely a calm feature she delivered her words. “How did you get here then?”

“That is what I intend to find out… and would’ve found sooner if you did not disturb me.”

She sneered, before she speaks her turn. “So let us make this clear… You hail from a place so far that this whole land is unknown to you, with means unknown. Departed to my lands, maimed my guards, intrude yourself to my library for the purpose of finding the cause of it!?”

He did not answer, but the silence is enough indication as it is. Genna had enough of the impudence for one day. She decided in both heart and mind to find some rest in this incomprehensible day. She looks to her hand to remind her that his sword still lies within her grip. Macabre curiosity prevails over her senses…

She unsheathes it… and the sounds that came is a shrill of steel so clean to the ears that it might as well cut her eardrums. She inspects the blade closely, thin and without dent. The flat steel of it is silver with a black line on the blunted edge, no marks of use… not even a stain of its last victim. The oval guard is made out of gold and the hilt is as black as night as both are adorned with intricate ornaments of various luxury.

In some angle, the thinnest of the blade is shown as if the blade part does not exist at all… merely the hilt…

How could this blade have felled and pierce so many of her guard’s steel work… still she admits it is a beautiful work. This is no sword made for ordinary hands, and she swore she felt something on her hand as she holds it.

She felt a presence behind her, she turns to find Vergil stands imposing before her. She wondered if the man could possibly make another emotion other than scowling and a straight one. “I think the both of us grew tire of this conversation…” He spoke. “Give me my sword…”

Genna held no argument against the claim, she returns it as she felt her eyes daring to close fully in tiresome. “How long are you planning to stay here…” she asked. Not bothering to meet his gaze again. Too much knowledge she acquired that needs further contemplation.

“Uncertain…” He answered. “As long as you and your men do not bother me… I will make no move against you. Make no mistake, your struggle and the games you play with the other up jumped aristocrats interest me not one bit. Leave me to my work and you may not notice me at all.”

Genna felt unsure of that, with all the damages he has done, all the outrageous abilities he has shown… it has only been a week of his stay, but there are already marks of what he has done, terribly so with stain of blood still persisting in some parts of the room.

“How can I be sure you won’t just massacre this castle…” Genna said, her voice vibrates in anger and fear. “How can I know I would not wake up one day with only corpses that surrounds my family home.”

No answer…

“I will not say I know many things about war or battles of any kind. And I’m not so naïve to believe with the power you hold you would simply leave without any further… implications.” She took a glance to find the man on the chair, eyes closed as before. “If you would in your bastard heart to make the choice to murder everyone here… bless me to be the first that you take. I know not if you know the love of a family… But understand that seeing my father or my brother’s corpse would give me more pain than your sword could ever done.”

She took her leave without closing the door behind her… her heart ache to much in such a short time. The Frey’s, the Tarbecks, The Reyne’s who are insulted to not take her as their broodmare. Perhaps death would ease her more than she realized. To be so surrounded with evils and noble cutthroats in so little time…

Vergil glance upwards to see her golden hair fading away…

“Vergil, that chocolate belongs to your brother…”

“…Remember what we fight for…”

“Sweetheart… I know your father is harsh but he did it to protect you…”

“…It would hurt me more to found you or your brother dying before me… it is not right…”

“Lay of dude… come on, let’s just play some video games… Dad’s gonna look after us like usual. I don’t know what you’re so worried about, man…”

He stood up with all the fury impending to explode, Vergil thought perhaps practicing his kata would ease his mind evermore…

---XxxxxX---

The grunts and moans are relentless…

In all honesty, in master Creylen’s mind, the damages and the long pain that came with it is not as horrendous as he assumes it would be. Ironborn, bandits or just the usual pursuit of war would invite plenty of mangled bodies and corpses. The stinging smell of blood is no stranger to him, not one bit. He is well-learned in such aspect of clever craft, his aptitudes are well sought in a realm strive with war, regardless of the peacetime it has.

In such pursuits, the procedures usually entail ingenuity in order to properly disperse any chance of death or infection. Symmetricity is so rare in war that most man with even a bit of knowledge in medicine or the human body outright discard its existence at all. Many soldiers most likely would come home with wounds, scars or mutilation that are jagged, rugged and horrifyingly not sanitized.

So peculiar is the event of this moon, that every bit of experience of prior events would be scattered to the wind in a place he has called home in a decade. The work of one man, immaculate and precise, not one injury he attends to this whole week has shown anything less than a perfect and clean cut with no room for flaws.

Men are terrible in the realm of war, all the grace they learned in the field of the training yard are more often discarded with brutish method replacing it. the techniques might still be there, but delivered in a much more beastly sense than it should be. shredded and ugly… that is what kind of injury men can give on such strive.

Yet here… none of such faults persist. It is outrageous and very much irregular. An occurrence repeated with no rhythm missed. To have one or three guards have such injuries would be a sign of disciplined blade, but all of them has it. the very first time for maester Creylen to encounter a simple process of healing where the injuries itself is the complexity in the procedure.

The slice is so impeccable, that the remains of the mangled limb seem like the flat surface of a Valyrian steel. Even more peculiar, that the blood vessels that accompanied them did not relent more blood than it should. Even without his medicinal acts, these men would not die of the wound… but perhaps of the infection.

Still, even then the wounds do not look stained at all…

But it is not just the flesh, the blade must first break through the layer of armor first before even reaching the skin. True, that not all of the colors of the Lannister are wearing true steel, merely affirmed leather and brigandines of the such. But for those that does, the slice make it seem like their armor and body are one. A well butchered act.

It makes the process of healing itself simpler, if not for the sake to ease their pain…

The ones that are bruised and battered may be brought to their full strength in a week or mayhaps in a couple of days. For those that have lost their parts however, quite unfortunate that their lives would be in their inevitable downpour. In this world, where the strength of arms is relied on in soldiering and farming… the choices they have are paltry.

Still, he assured them of their continuous life, as her lady commands of him. How could one expect a dark warrior would come bearing strength unheard of to be coming to their way unwelcomed such as it is.

Creylen went back to his solar where he would continue in his effort to arrange the festive. Lady Genna, solemn and kind as she is, is exhausted on the dreadful days that has comes and will be. surely by a lady’s standard or even by any, the peculiarity of the days has not boded well. A lord would have dispersed all jolly events considering the dastard events that has come.

But Lady Genna did not think well of her family name these days… further offence of such kind would tarnish it more, especially so when nobles of many flocks have gathered already beneath the Casterly Guest houses that retains them.

He arrived at his office, to find the lady sitting despondent with tired eyes. “My lady… you have not slept well.”

Genna look upon the maester, eyes lazy and halfly opened. “Sit down Creylen, there is so much we need to speak about.”

A grunt of a chair as he lay his bottom to rest. “My lady…”

“We are in the deepest reign of a curse Creylen…” Genna spoke, her head rested on her hand, quivering. “How could things have fallen this far… have we all been cursed by the gods to be given such a miserable fate…”

Creylen said nothing, softly grunting as he slumps helplessly as he does. “I’ve checked to the guards my lady… they are all save from the threat of death; you need not worry of that.”

“No… that is very good to hear…” Genna said, her voice welled with her tears. “It was supposed to be only the celebration Creylen… to appease to those lords deserving and to cool the rest of the ire. I thought the ugly fate that I would to be strutted as a price in this festive would be the worst of my turmoil… how in the seven hells could we expect for us to be visited by a sorcerer!”

Creylen sighed. “At the time being Lady Genna, perhaps avoiding the man would be a wise choice until your brothers came back.” He suggested. “Truly this is not a work for less than three dozen man. We are outmatched against him.”

Genna grasp her own arm for comfort. “How long until such time? the war is at its dawn, and they have just departed with the royal escort! It would be a very long time until we have even a notion to enquire help…”

“Ahh! There is a solution! We could send for help to the royal family…”

“We could…” Genna replied. “But to what end? What would we tell them? One man slaughtered an entire household of an overlord? Right under its bannerman!? I would never doom us onward towards the obscurity of our house. they would think us madmen.”

“Not if they know what we are facing”

“And what are we facing, Creylen!” Genna whispered sternly. “You were there where I am not… and I have heard of what this Vergil is capable of! has the gods sent its agent to relieve us of our pathetic wills and lives!? What is he Creylen…” She spoke, she neared to her maester, speaking softly as she urges.

“What do you know of him…” She asked. “Have you learned much on what just happened? Your time spent on the citadel must’ve given you a notion on what we are facing…”

“I have tried, My lady.” Creylen said. “The work of sorcery is seldom learned on the institution… even as they are, none I would think would compare to what this man has done. I’ve studied what I can limited as it may be… and found nothing to recall to help this case.”

“House Sparda…”

“None, lady Genna… I have never heard of such house…”

“Red grave city?”

“No… not a place I know of… i-uh where did you hear of this!?”

“he said so… I’ve spoken to him…”

“What!?” Creylen exclaimed. “You approached him!?”

“Please Creylen… I don’t.”

“My lady, this is a decision most unwise.” He said, vibrating with worry. “This man, he is without sense and with apparent also without humanity! His works are those of the dark ilk’s. He could have captured your mind without us knowing of it!”

“I do not think so Creylen…” Genna spoke gently. “Why didn’t he kill those guards we should wonder…”

“My lady?”

“Why didn’t he kill our guards…” She repeated. “I hold no mastery over sword works… but it is so clear to me he is perfectly capable to do so…”

“I don’t know…” Creylen replied. “There are many implications, my lady. We cannot think them good.”

She walked to the window of the solar, sun is tilted on the afternoon, shadows shaded the walls of the Lannisport thickly like a painting. For a moment she forgot the azure coat in the library and the Frey’s that awaits her. All thoughts ran to escape, an act of treason that comes with reason. No one will fault her if they stood on her station, much more the guards that have been felled by Vergil.

“I intend to question him further…”

“This is outrageous! Your brother-”

“Is gone!” Genna spoke sternly yet delicate. “Gone to fight a war as all houses are obligated too, our house is fell enough as it is, if I intend to call him here during this, it would only desecrate what power we have left… that is if he would return anyway…”

“You don’t have to send for him… we merely just wait.”

“For how long? We don’t know how far the Blackfyres would go! It could be two moons it could be a decade! The tourney is a week away, Creylen. And the guards would not in miracle healed themselves for us. His existence and acts could be exposed to the open air much to my family dismay…”

“And to what end does this knowledge would be used against us?...” Creylen spoke, hands moving in a gesture of comfort to both presence in the room. “Let them know or not at all, the differences are paltry, what one more trivial word would they use in comparison to the danger your further action could ire him so…”

Genna scowled, her features much older in her irritation. “I do wonder if you hold the same opinion of me as all do to my father…”

“Do not be unreasonable my lady… I hold you more merit in fairness than your elders, the gods bless their souls.” Creylen said. “But this is not a case one could approach with senses, that man existence is far from logic, much less humane!”

They hold their tongues in silence. Both thought of any concepts, any ideas to falter the hindrance that blocks them from their peace. Genna relent to disperse the stillness. “My father… does he know.”

“He knows the bare truth, an incident happened in the library that caused much pain. He thinks there have been a brawl then went to far, gullible as he is…” Creylen answered. It truly does not bode well for an advisor to be so openly in mocking towards his master, but even the daughter did shared the same opinion, closes that it is to the objectional. Tytos leans more on petulant child than an overlord of his house, a position with irony his eldest seems to fit.

“And he must be still in his chambers… wailing with his whores.”

Creylen did not deign a reply, shame came to him in second hand to know he serve a questionable entity. “I’ll be going to the library…” Genna said. “Perhaps a further discussion could serve more purpose…”

“My lady…”

“I’ve heard enough…” She spoke. “Unless you could provide me with a hard solution, I see no other way…”

“There is another way! Many of them…” Creylen said. “You are just not fond of them…”

Genna deign to not reply, feet steps one after the other as she approaches the exit…

“MY LADY!” Creylen shouted. She stopped where she stood, the shadow of the wide door hidden her feet. “If you are lost to us… the family will fall with you, your brothers will return with the Westerlands fighting against them. There will be no one to protect us from others influence, your father made sure of that…”

Genna walked away, a thousand shadows looming all over her. All the spirit, honor and pride of his family of old kept her from a faint. As she walks swiftly towards her destination, a soft prayer came from her old Maester, Loyal and still with hope.

---XxxxxX---

In the field below the Casterly Rock, there is a courtyard well-guarded and well used for many prospects. A feast or to instruct the next wave of Lannister Arms-man come what may, the yard would beckon the moon and sunlight both for all things. For now, however, it is in preparation of a banquet with a reprehensible purpose.

All bodies in guard of the place jittered with the presence of one man, the moon gives shine to all enough for anyone within a dozen feet to notice the sweat and fear of the present Arms-man. Though still they are steadfast in being sentinel. Some servant cleaning and preparing are familiar and just as fearful of what plagues them, the rest however continued on in their task in confusion.

Far below the yard, in an open terrace very much close to the wavy sounds of the sea, large enough to accommodate a hundred men, are two forms of a different kind. Captain Dylarr, the captain of the Lannister household kept watch with both dismay and worry. Looking on the center of the terrace, a form of a silver-haired man in practice.

Vergil disregard any sound or shape that entered his senses, distraction is an enemy for those with a strong will to live, much more for those seeking strength. The captain’s presence is of no concern to him, just as much as the crashing waves that struck the rocks beneath. Though in a sense, the latter actually gave him more ease than none.

He has learned much in the library of the lion’s ground. Useful notions and entertainment both, poems and history, folklore and the hierarchy. The very game the houses play in an effort for power amuse him greatly. In the wake of his father and the blood that came with him, the only idea of power came within one self. To see that many has contribute to further themselves through unreliable source such as the status quo and the totem pole of names and titles are laughable.

In the dastard world where he came from, strength is apparent and if you prove to be wanting then you shall be dead the next second. There are no courts, no historical bloods, no gatherings of a thousand man to fight in wars beckoned by one lord or lady with a questionable power in their names.

Entities such as those are the first ones to die in the realm where Vergil came from, how could they not when they face demons and man with powers that can level a whole concrete building, even with firepower considered, their chances are inadequate. As he waits until the demons come spilling, he would find himself in overwatch of these ignorant houses in motion if he is not in his own path for power. They prove to be entertaining enough, even though he did not show his amusement.

What he learned could be considered great enough to entertain and perhaps slightly inspire his path for his many processes… especially the existence of the occult and any fields of magics that exist on this domain, from what he read…

But nothing compared to what Captain Dylarr have seen. So short his paradigm of reality as it is…

The captain has trained many men and even some woman in his lifetime as a loyal household guard and its acting leader. Life spent in felling crooked ilk’s and bandits gives less room for a thought of fantasy if there are at all. Small are the numbers of the group, if they are compared to the levies that has been taken by the overlord of this land. But each man is well trained in compensation to their smaller numbers, a sword hand worth of five men… The Lannisters made sure of that.

So, to hear that dozens of them have been overcome by the whims of a single wayward stranger is not a notion to be so easily considered, much less so when he sees the damages that has been delivered. A growing squire at best is the only soul that would’ve believe in the pathways of a man that can fell an army, an idea fast to be quenched as the reality often follows in due.

But then Vergil made his move to the yard, and Dylarr in his wariness and anger followed suit in his path. Thus, he sees the movement of the stranger in practice, so sure of himself carried with passion concentrated with every strike. At times he didn’t even see the slashes and the attacks, burning blue with every swing as the air dispersed in panic from his being.

For Dylarr, no men should have that power, men are slow, men are faulty. The existence of the silver-haired stranger is an anathema of what is logical, of what is to be true and the broken reality of being a warrior.

Dylarr stood there… watching for more than an hour. He wished to understand that this is an illusion, that the unnatural is merely a figment carried by his stupor, but he has been sober for more than a week and he has not seen a bottle since the preparation of the feast and tourney.

So, he stood there as sentinel, as every learned knowledge of being a warrior is put into question. As Vergil leaps and bound and swing as the air kneel with Yamato’s edge. The wave that clashes the water upwards towards the edge of the balcony turns into an elegant mist carried by the wind. And with all those movement, with all those sword work, the man sheathes and unsheathed and continued his fighting against the open field with no sweat in sight.

Dylarr hope is lost for the honor of his men that fight for him and the house he served, no justice for the wounds they had and the limbs they lost. No fairness to be found as a hundred man he could bring could only bring more woe as hearsay words are proven true. He was skeptical when he hears of the notorious act the silver haired man has done, and it is the most disdained affirmation he has ever had. 

So he only stood watch hopelessly, if the man prove to act against them once more, at least he would be the first in the vanguard… age has catch up to him anyway.

His focused overwatch Is disturbed however, when he hears a footstep going downward of the stairs behind him. As he head turns to attention, the first he notice is a golden hair that shines clashing against the moonlight, lady Genna is ever rebellious in the most eloquent of ways, Dylarr bowed before he spoke.

“Lady Genna, I am glad to see you safe…” He spoke. “But this is not a safe place for either of us, the man is on the move here…”

“Thank you, Dylarr.” Genna replied, solemn smile and genuine. “But that is exactly why I am here… I tried to find him on the library, much to my worry he was not there. I was concerned that he would be debase somewhere else…”

“Looking for him?” Dylarr spoke in confusion. “For what reason…”

“Just so…” Genna said. “To reason with him…”

“My lady…” Dylarr exhaled a breathe, fearing the coming acts and the terms that would come after. “I sincerely believe this is not a man that could be reasoned with simplicity, he moves with purpose uncertain… for all we know he could be in the process of bewitching us as we speak…” He ended with a whisper, exhausted and ire hidden underneath.

“I have heard it all before, ser.” Genna replied, calmly and carried with regal. “It has been discussed. You need not worry on that regard.”

“What purpose does this bring.” He urges. “He felled many of our men… there is much he needs to answer for.”

“I know, I am on the work on that.” Genna said. “Before the moon is over, I’ll ensure the guards are taken care of, you do not need to have my word to make sure that would be in outcome.”

“Then…” Dylarr eyes are half open, this would be such times he would be tested. “Then I’ll make sure he does not make any uncalled acts against you, my lady… I am ready when you are.”

“Dylarr…” Genna swallowed a lump. “Your son is waiting for you… I think I found him on the yard above fighting with the other squires…”

“…” Dylarr look upon her, a betrayed look and a worried one. “I can protect you, even if its to buy time. there is no one that can fought the man and live I know, let me have-“

“Dylarr… I don’t intend to raise a conflict.”

“I know that, my lady!” Dylarr replied sternly. “But this… sorcerer vagabond may not have the same thought as you. It is better this way.”

“I need to speak with him alone, Captain. Please.”

“What!? This is most unwise-”

“I have spoken with Creylen about it” Genna interjected. “I have a plan; you must trust me. It needs to be spoken by my lips and heard by his ears only.”

Genna move forward as Dylarr stare at her with attention unrelenting, each step increases his worry. She stopped her feet from the fear that the captain would follow suit in silence. “Dylarr… it won’t end horrendously. If it does, there is nothing any of us here could do to stop it.”

“This is truly beyond any of us… even your father… even your brother” He spoke. “This is a work that must be done with the royal family behest! This one look more Valyrian than an ordinary vagabond should be!”

“I need you to go to your family…” Genna said this time, voice intone with sharpness. “That is an order.”

The body did not show the distress, but the eyes did. Within in spirit, Dylarr slump in pang. Genna glared at him, all fierce and no bitterness. All the lion’s strength of her forefather, where her father has none. A fortitude shared by her brothers departed for war. He moved upward towards the upper yard, where he hears the gentle squeal and glee of children on play. In the edge he spoke the words before he proceeds in true.

“The Arms-man that are ill called for justice for his head, Lady Genna.” He spoke. “I don’t know if there could be a time when we have the capability to restrain him. But please do not relent against him no matter what he asks, for the sake of your family and the crime he has done. The men guarding your house deserved better after what they have been through.”

---XxxxxX---

Vergil stopped his sword work, for more than minutes, his senses are all sharp beyond human logic. At most time he found it an annoyance, more often he’ll hear words far better to be unheeded and voices much worth to be silenced. Though it does assist in awareness, almost always all of the ambush he is given are disseminated due to such sharp receiving.

Though he is unsure in what way he could categories the converse the curious man has done with the Lion’s daughter. In-between the talks they notice of his stance, like a statue unmoving on the wind save his coat and hair, but unknown of the eavesdropping, not that it was one compromising confirmation in anyway.

Their concerns are heard, but it truly doesn’t mean much to him. He tried to reason with them, to see sense in the logic of survivability, but still, they advance in force against him. There are better ways in losing lives other than for a library, from what he learned within, many are not worth protecting though entertaining most of them are.

He gave them a slack, a wound or two at worst and a loss of limb and other critical state at best. It was supposed to be expected that the second they saw him being capable of… unnatural abilities, they would instead keep to a more sensible choice. How such a cowing lord could have such loyal followings are much more beyond than the inhuman prowess he showed. Perhaps there is much more to learn.

In a second he heard a step of a foot one after the other moving closer to him, his eyes are closed as his hands rest on the pommel of his sword as he stands in the middle of the large balcony. The sounds stopped a few distance of him, close enough to strike a conversation despite the waves crashing onto the rocks beneath them.

“Do you always close your eyes, when I approach you?”

“Are there other reasons why you are disturbing me again?” Vergil said, not a hint of heavy breath after his bout against the winds. In all honesty, he knows of the dispute due to his commotion has created, but her approach is rather unknown. “If this is regarding your guardians I felled some time ago… know that I have no intention in reparations.”

“Is all you seek is merely a hive of knowledge of the arcane?” Genna said. “Nothing else? Anything that matters to you on my domain?”

He raised a brow, as he took a glance towards her. “A reductive statement, but yes… that was my aim here…” He replied. “I don’t know to rate your collection, but it is enough to sate me for the time being.”

“For whatever reason?” Genna asked. “Judging from the pace that you have read, I assume it would be a task well already done.”

“You are correct.” He sighed, affirming the past is exhausting work to him, there are better notions in mind. "Enough to adequately satisfy."

“Then what else are you looking for?”

“I told you this is not of your concern.” He replied coolly. “I made no point in disturbing the locals, save those who stood to close than they should. If you have followed my words, you would have forgotten my existence.”

“This is not that simple!” She exclaimed. “By principle, you being here and what you have done is truly uncouth and uncalled! The very fact that it would be unanswered is a horrible notion enough as it is! With you staying here, your presence will be all the more known and thus bringing ill words to my family… do you not realize that!?”

“This truly sounds nothing of my concern.”

“Bastard, you truly are!” She replied, spewed with a viper’s tongue. “They’ll not live to fight anymore! You took that from them, how would they live now to feed themselves much less their family.”

“I’ve shown what I can do and they still charged like a fool… what has happened is consequences beckoned from a wrong choice, if they want to see who is at fault then they can simply look at a clear water’s surface or a mirror.”

Genna scoffed. “They are doing their duty!”

“And now they suffered for it.” Vergil simply answered. “Duties comes with its own risk.”

“And what would you tell their loved ones.”

“You are reaching.” Vergil spoke. “If you think you could acquire sentiment from me, then you are not paying attention.”

She glared at him, all the vile works within her mind subdued by etiquettes and learned discipline that has been granted by her mother. Vergil turns his back towards her, disinterested to its implications to the local nobles. Even the crashing course of waters beneath them does not decrease this obdurate affair.

“The Hightowers…” Genna said, all the bile seems to begone as she spoke. “Oldtown have the most extensive collection of knowledge known throughout Westeros… Perhaps even Essos.” She sighed at the end, as the words leaves her mouth, a hope came that another departure of the man before her would ease her much better.

“I’ve known of them.” Vergil replied. “One of the first thing I learned about before I even step on your repository.”

“Then…” Genna’s eyes narrowed, with a shake of her head. “Then why are you still here!?”

“I TOLD you! Because I have other reasons… ones that I have no interest in telling anyone.”

“Is that how this is all would end!” Genna exclaimed. “Me asking and you swatting all notions of elaboration away!? This would not end well for the both of us! Do you not think it would be better for us to know so we could disperse our annoyance of each other?”

“Then I have a request…” Vergil said, stone faced. “A trivial one…”

Genna is silenced, features of her face still alert. “Out with it then…”

---XxxxxX---

It is a week after the conversation have ended…

The grounds of the tourney, is rowdy and crowded. Many commons and noble gathered on their respective daises. Just so take place in between Lannisport and Casterly rock, where the fields are large worth tens of thousands of people, capable to even overseeing the horizon’s edge as the sun rises and set.

It is entirely lavish and accommodating to all, even the lowborn are given ample comfort in their part of the stands. Laughter and jolly conversation are quite common all around, the spring climate provided means of ease for the best of men to show their piece. A pack of archers coordinated in shooting an apple, each arrow reaches different parts of the fruit. A travelling bravosi dancing with his sword underneath a stand and even a preacher of the seven praying to a child safety as behest by his mother.

No notion of ill will is shown, though it does not mean that it does not endure. Delinquencies of all ends are frequently prevailing in these times, emotions running high as the vices of men came forth in droves. The guardsmen of the Lannisters are always vigilant, especially so after the acting young lion takes charge that is now in the position of war somewhere in the bidding of the royal family.

Even then they stand their ground, inspired even by the fire shown by young lioness of the family. But they are much more watchful than usual, their body tense and their hands and arms are vibrating with anticipation of danger. Their spears are shaken even if their faces are stoic. One would think and many have so that they are fearful of the prospect of rising rates of misconducts that would persist. But it was proven false immediately…

Many have tried to take the chance to commit atrocities in their confidence against the guards, but many have been felled and worst of killed. Though all are enjoying the festivities, some or even most are questioning what could beckon such attributes to these men.

“Did the old lion grow some fangs at last?”

“Perhaps it was the daughter…”

“They know who their true lord is, and he is now fighting in a war.”

“Very in character with Tytos to show mastery only during festivities…”

All rumors and hearsay gained from grounds well-promulgated, so confident they are in their ignorance. But only those closes to the lion’s den know the truth, and it is one that is quite difficult to accept. even now they speak in terror of the gargantuan rock that shadowed the tourney.

“You there…” A guardsman spoke towards his compatriot. “It is your turn on the Casterly rock post, you’ll be taking my position and I yours.”

“W-what!?” The other guard exclaimed. “No… NO! I was only here for half a day! It was supposed to be a one-day task!”

“A moon ago you were complaining of your station being here and now you dare to change your tone now!” The one guardsman replied, he pulled the other harshly as he takes his place. On the entryway of the tourney where some are watching their dispute with odd interest. “Go report to the captain! It was his orders…”

“Is… is he there?”

“The captain is near the Casterly gates, you’ll see him on the way.”

‘No! not him… the man… the Valyrian…”

“…”

They stare at each other, until one dared to speak the words, his face worry for his comrade. “I don’t know… I didn’t see him but.”

“You’re not lying are you! What If he-“

Only commoners are present to hear the conversation, bewildered on its escalation. Though most just pass through to find their seat on the tourney. The converse became a rumor of its own, a Valyrian staying within an overlord’s wall is not one hearsay easily discarded.

Unbeknownst to the truth is that all arms-man present on the land is doubly motivated in their task in order to avoid the silver-haired man. Hoping in their good will and work would keep them away from station so near to the Valyrian so inhuman and otherworldly. The saying that Valyrians are closer to gods than they are to man now has more merit than usual.

As the morning sun came with the breeze of soothing wind, so to the first event of the tourney is in preparation. A melee designed in the most outrageous of rules and situation. As Thousands upon Thousands of contenders’ march through to take their place in the glory that is to come. Know that the enormous choosing of the festivities is not one chosen simply by its magnificence and space.

In his wealth, lord Tytos have created a WAR GAME.

As oppose to the ordinary melee, where they exist a controllable number of warriors in a battle royale to show their skills and capability as one. This one will come with a more grandiose aspect…

Instead, they will pit an army against the other. A hundred man against a hundred more, a rain of swords instead of one steel. Led by leader by prowess and strategy, where the battle would test both leadership and individual strength. Colors move all around, green, red and golden.

All noble houses of the Westerlands are participating, and so does some houses of the reach and the Vale. Marches of arms-man following their noble masters to their place at the tourney, as they ready for the mock war. Some find insult to this notion, to be absent from the war only to attend a festive of joy while others suffer in their duty.

Some cared, shame in their features. Others are nonchalant spitting on the land for such statement. Though much of the houses are left overs not brought to the war, noble scions of second sons and cousins and old uncles. Just as many are gatherings of hedge knights and their peons, arranging an agreement to make their own companies in the coming battle.  

One end comes house Frey, weasel and rats gathering as most houses call them, but they care little of their plights. The one that present are the firstborn and the second, Stevron and Emmon Frey. It was a disdainful show, where the first and second should be the one taking the call, instead Aenys Frey the thirdborn takes the responsibility for the participation of the house against the Blackfyre.

All see that their hearts are as unruly as they look…

“Be brave Emmon.” Stevron said, grinning excitedly as he watches the open plains filled in one corner after the other with crowds of brigandines and half plates. “We have more than two hundred men behind us and still you slump.”

“This is not one play I wish to be part of.” Emmon replied. “Our house is look down upon as it is, and now we looked like rats scraping after an untouched meal we do not deserve…”

House Reyne, the most powerful vassal of the Westerlands, glowing red and white like blood and bone stood with pride on another corner. Led by Reynard Reyne, charming and shine in the sun, sleek and clean. With resplendent armor that glows as much as the sentinel beside him. Ser Alastor the second of house Reyne, broad and mountainous. Some say much fiercer than their overlord.

“Look at them…” Reynard said, the disdain on his features does not mar the sharpness. Glaring at the Frey’s. “They took what is my brother’s and they dared to celebrate it so openly like the vulgar and crude mud worms they are…”

“Tytos is the one that made this happen…” Alastor replied.

“The man is weak but not disrespectful… he wouldn’t make this event on a usual moon; someone is pulling pieces.” Reynard replied. “No, this is the work of another blood… Walder Frey is truly a dastard work isn’t he…”

House Tarbeck, House Crakehalls, House Farman, Stackspear, Lannett, Brax, Algood, Corbray, Royce, Belmore, Fossoway, Ambrose, Hightower and many more crowded the area. Some dared to make a faction of their own against the odds, most coexist and cooperate to stack their probabilities with them. A hundred became a quarter thousand as they made alliances. Even the houses of the west came in coalition with the Reach and Vale.

Even the Tyrells… led by Garth the gross himself.

“Who’s that?” Said a hedge knight, standing in front as warriors of common and lesser names behind him which are in preparation. Commoners and arms man with no name seeking wealth for the coming times and glory for their names.

“Alastor… who’s that lonesome Valyrian?”

“Stevron… What do you make of that?”

All of them are facing the same way, onto another corner where the melee would be in action. There stands one figure, silver of hair, blue eyes and coat of azure. A sheathed blade on his hand, where the golden shine still reflected by the sun. there are no army behind him, no allies to be seen. Yet still he stands on tourney grounds.

“You think he is the arbitrator of this game?” Garth Tyrell asks his captain. A sea of green below him as he brought over three hundred men. “He looks to… stately to be one though.”

Unbeknownst to the them, in the coming moments… they would be in the line against a Very Motivated presence…

Notes:

Just trying to set up the themes and premise for the tourney on this chapter, the next one is when the chaos begins. it is midnight when i published this, i was exhausted, so i dont know if my grammar check is immaculate, feel free to let me know since english is not my first language.

Chapter 3: The First Piece has been Moved.

Summary:

The tourney has started. many things break during events of great violence... what many did not expect is the breaking of their believes and reality. Vergil declares his prowess through the melee, now many will realize another giant piece is in the game...

---XxxxxX---

Blue skies painted with the gray clouds…

Voices of the people muttered on how such a grand scale of a tourney, where a small battalion of man with different colors would clash becomes the first event on the dawn of the festival. Serving appetizers are the norm in the etiquettes of the highborn. Departing immediately towards the main meal is a less than elegant endeavor.

Shock and awe are the perfect ingredients to sate the heart and soul on a merry event, for unbeknownst to the public mind, the melee tourney is in actuality, the foretaste of the day. It Is known to the ears and grasses of the lands, Tytos Lannister is a meek one but not a fool. Or at the very least not foolhardy.

After the giant melee comes, the archery with implications beyond the norm. after which comes the jousting, and to show that is a sweeter prospect than telling what is planned for that. rumors and hearsay flew around naturally. The eyes of the observers linger on the contraptions on arrangement just on the edge of the eyes, as the participants and their hundred man each group is in a state preparation for the first bout.

The groundworks of war are more often vile even to those not in the steel edge of the conflict. Force of levy and demands of resources push many into the prospect of beggary and much even worse banditry. Most lords would find the time to quell such arising vileness with a pierce of a sword. Tytos in his timid delight, decides to share in festivities instead. Entertainment disperses blistering thoughts after all.

The sits and podiums come in a hierarchy of privileges; such is the nature of the land. On the very most front, the space is wide and they are covered with silk cloth that covers against the sun on the roof with fragrant of roses. The food came onto the table not far beyond where the lord sits, enjoyment in as many palatable ways as they can have.

Anything below in a more mundane circumstances would be a merely a simple sit and a view, but not in this day. Though not as lavish as the highborn, the common man and the peasants are cushioned with sits of red black of color. For the places bought by merchants and hedge knights on their rest, they are permitted for some pleasant edibles. Less so for the ones below.

It is a most welcoming ground, Tytos made sure of it, as he came smiling onto his part of the seat, the throne crimson and shining just as much as the regal attire the man himself wore. Genna walks beside him, to find her seat no less as grandiose as her father’s. her lips quirk for every pleasant greeting she and her lord father have received, but the eyes and brow tell a different tale, and the fading bags underneath them even more so.

Fickle is the hearts of man in all stature, is what she thought as she gritted her teeth on the faces that have been passed. She recognizes some of them, lowborn and high, man and woman of the Westerlands that arises their issues and became issues themselves to her father, and by extent the great lion’s family itself.

She recalled the derogatory, the spit on the floor and the various other ways they have insulted the family, Twisting the lion’s tail as they call it. the smile she sees are genuine, and none of them are of goodwill to her father. She dreamed the day the Tywin would return, bloodied sword and all after the war, with Tygett and Kevan stern and proud as a lion should. With her Uncle Jason beside them, ready to twist the disrespectful low-lords, just as they plan, they would.

For now, however, she endures the torment and awaits her own piece of influence. For as both Genna and her father took their seat below the sunny day, a silver shine stands in waiting on the grassy plain. There is expectancy in her heart today, all actions and events can always be turned against and with you through cunning and great clever craft.

She made sure to put such teachings from her eldest brother and mother in use today…

“Is that the very man who is visiting our home?” Tytos spoke to his daughter, modest smile and harmless lean. “My what a striking blue coat he wears, you are not wrong little sweetling, his hair is more Valyrian than even the Targaryens.”

“Hush now father…” Genna replied sweetly. “You’ll not know who is dropping eaves on our talks. Better not appeal to lapses.”

“Oh rot…” Tytos said with a chuckle. “Tis all in goodwill, no harm at all… even so, unless they throw their ears underneath our chairs, I doubt they could hear through all these commotions.” As he spoke loud discussions and guffawed laughter’s bolstered the air. “My word, the tourney has not even started yet!”

“Good omen then, don’t you think?” Genna spoke, genuinely smiling to him. “Me and Creylen and even the man has put our work on every crevice of this festivities, they all better appreciate the commodities that has been given. I will not accept anything less”

“My, you have some growl in you, my little sweet.” Tytos replied, pinching her cheek lightly and a peck on the forehead. Where others would see weakness, she saw the nature of her sire as he truly is, a content man with a family. Truly belongs in a better world. “I see your mother’s spirit in you, there is no doubt she saw only pride before she closed her eyes…”

“Father…”

“I will not accept any words you’ll have in undermining yourself.” He spoke swiftly, honied and stern like a father’s playful scold. “I’ll ensure you have your proper rest during and after these moments. Your mother taught you to be strong to see you safe, but a life without care is a wretched thing indeed.”

If only you see the same for yourself as well, she whispered within her mind. All the whoring and the festive. It came with half a reason for his mourning, and it is without end. Her mother Marbrand is often sweet with her father, just as much as she is severe. He always is enamored for such duality in a woman. He’ll never move past such lost, in that she is doubly sure of her father.

Any semblance of the mother only exist within her children, where her lordly teachings has been nothing less than paramount. Genna and the rest of her brothers, the fangs of the family. but now only one tooth remains beneath Casterly Rock, as the rest bared themselves against the pretenders that is now coiling in the islands of the triarchs.

They continued their conversation in good merit, just as jolly if not more than the beams and mirth beneath and behind their podium. In such times Genna recalled her guilty conscience, the weakness of her father is seldom forgotten as she recollects the times she mocks her father behind curtains. Frustration setting in, even more so on these months. Genna never truly meant it, she always appreciates his kindness. If only he kept it for the actual people that deserve it, rather than rain it to all.

“I am greatly worried, Genna…” Tytos said. Another topic that came in mind. “I know not what tomfoolery this Vergil of yours is planning, much of the lords here does not appreciate to be the aim of a jest.”

“It is no foolishness father.” Genna replied. “I have the greatest of my confidence given to his stead…”

“As you say…” Tytos said. “But he must hurry in gathering his man, the tourney is almost in its beginning. And now he does nothing but standing there on his lonesome?”

“I…” Genna grows a lump on her throat, unsure how to deliver the subject matter. “The truth is, that part won’t be necessary for him…"

---XxxxxX---

Meditating on the framework of one’s skill is a very satisfying method of training, there are many instances when the times and moments are left with nothing but freedom for more than a while. If not for books and poetry or even the works of steel with Yamato. Vergil would just close his eyes and contemplate aspects of him that can be improved.

Images of techniques, eloquent words beautifully put and mistakes he has made that would be harshly mused regardless of how painful recalling the latter would naturally make him feel. His life is a path where dangers are an edge away in taking his blood, a mistake would mean a loss. Having such things are disastrous, even more to learn from it, but most are usually are.

The heat from the sun sweats the other participants on each corner, he notices it even so far away as they are. Regardless of how weak his opposition is, he always made sure to watch for any means of exploitations, he’ll made no reservation for clemency, the last it happened it results in a loss he cannot reclaim.

For him however, the heat means nothing. His feet have stepped onto hellish fires more than once, and he has been in many other events that are even worse in circumstances that is much better to describe through paintings than words. He can only imagine how droll the bout would be, if the lay of the land and the skies is enough to put a slight shudder in their figure.

One however dared to approach; a grassy sound slightly quivered his ears as one step after the other became closer with each second. That is of course, excluding the rugged sound of steel plate and brigandine wobbling in motion. There are enough indications for Vergil to know that this one does not come with harm, so he persists in his silent musings.

“Pardon me, sir.” A voice spoke, a strong voice and a knightly one. “The bout is about to begin, where is the rest of your flock?” He finished, gracefully delivered. The accent is not one from the lower corner of the totem pole, or at least that is how Vergil judges so. Insofar, the manner of aristocracy seems to be no different than the ones from his human home world.

He opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly to find the one who have spoken. Besides his right is where Vergil saw the hedge knight. The man’s face is still and without any animosity, he looks confused and intrigued, the eyes wonder in a very examining way. Vergil replied simply “There is no flock…”

“What?” The other one said. “What do you mean? Are you not a participant?”

“I am…”

“The guard I asked said as much… so where are your fellows.”

“I stand alone…”

“That seems-“

“Enough…” Vergil interjected, gruffly and short. “If the reason you are here is to pest me with redundant questions, then I have no interest in humoring you.” He opened his eyes; the momentum of his meditation is long gone replaced with irritation barely controlled, if not for his self-control. Time wasted that is not in accordance to his plan is a suffering he have no interest in experiencing.

The Hedge knight stood there as still as a willful sentry, wayward thoughts come and go as he treat in care to find the right words and the right mind to understand the azure man’s implications. He looked back towards his compatriots, a company worth a two hundred man gathered by strong-willed sons and veterans of the common folk.

“You have no flock?” The Hedge Knight queried, then a daring thought came, one he would step forward carefully. “Are you a lord? Does that mean you came here all by-“

“Did you not hear me!?”

“I was asking if you want to join me and my man…” The Hedge Knight quick to his quip. “You’ve been standing here unmoving with no hint of jitters whatsoever… not to mention you seem to not sweat on this heat…” Vergil sighed, cursing the blood that is talking to him to have no ill intentions to give him an excuse to ravage his corpse.

“By that I thought you are quite an experienced fellow… we could use you on this tourney, we can share the glory than you awaiting absolute defeat.”

“Already you presumed too much.”

“Come now, do not tell me my lowly bearing is an audacious presence to your lordly-“

“I warned you the first time…” Vergil’s hand tread dangerously on Yamato’s sheathe.

The hedge knight lifts his hands in renunciation. He exhaled a breath for this unwanted task, he walks backwards as he replied to the azure coat’s violent gesture. “I don’t know why you would appeal to death this greatly… feel free to be trampled on this melee I suppose.” He turns and stride towards his compatriots, arriving there with an immediate discussion that left his allies to give their attention to the son of Sparda with features of bafflement.

Vergil sighed at the event; he is known to be notoriously easy to be irritated on superfluous dialogues, especially so if it called him back from his musings. Out of the moment, instead he would watch his surroundings, light sapphire eyes wander to one small army to the other. The colors that clash with each other is such a perplexing thought to him, in that he can find an amusing distraction.

Within himself, he lightly chuckled. “This is utterly ridiculous…” Vergil thought out loud. Though most times these people are audacious, there are entertainments to be had. Until the demon gate finds enough energy to open itself again, he believes he could find the time for other amusements.

---XxxxxX---

For Emmon Frey, the familiar figure is one intriguing scenic view of the melee. Dashing azure coat and all, many eyes cant seem to sway their eyes of him, august demeanor and all. Here they all stand in armament of iron and hardened skins, but there the Valyrian stand with ceremonial outfit fit for all manner of gala. All see how he stands, so sure of himself.

“I asked the hedge outfit on their opinion of the Valyrian.” Said a Frey, cousin of both Stevron and Emmon. “The Knight requested to conjoined him in this tourney… he refused of course, seeing him standing there. They claim he is as aloof as a royal party should…”

“I see…” Stevron replied, nodding as he listened. “In other case, this does not seem to be an issue of ours… if the man wishes to lay claim in lonesome than it is his peril to take…”

Bewildered, Emmon focused his sight even more. The Valyrian still stood there, though unlike before, his eyes are open and they wander from one collective to the other. As he does so, Emmon attempted to recall any familiar trait of the Red Keep, a silver hair adjoined with a regal look is no common view. “If he is part of the Royal family, then we will doubly curse in our name if we strike him down…”

“If he is, then Tytos would’ve speak of it afore, a visit from the crown is an honorable news. And he has no army behind his back. I do not think it so, brother.”

“The Targaryens are always a peculiar lot… who is to say this one is not brash enough to make such choices.”

“Either way Emmon, we need to win this battle.” Stevron replied with haste and a scold. “Regardless of who the man is, he already made his choice when he put his sword on the table. Remember Emmon, you need this… The Tarbecks and the Riverlands are laughing at this betrothal, if we wish to quench them, this is the time.”

Emmon cringed as unwanted memories recalled. “This is a dastard event, brother… proclaiming our coitus through this festivity is disrespectful to her virtue… this is all father’s fault, by the gods he is haughty undeservingly… Genna will dislike me even more after this…”

Stevron sighed, a mind of an equal sentiment. They were silent for a moment after Emmon’s grievances. After re-fitting their plates and preparing their horses, the elders of the both of them claimed a word. “After this is all over, we will speak with him… these dejected actions would serve only to destruct our name… whatever honor is left after all the bastards he brought…” Stevron ended the last statement with a whisper. Emmon merely exhaled a breath from the declaration.

They awaited together as all the man they bring come forth in formation slowly but surely as the clouds dispersed the heating ray. Steps of a hundred feet in line with a dozen of party, shook the ground lightly as both lords of the twins looked on to their rivals of the occasions. Emmon knows that his men is not as disciplined as the Westerlands, nor as numerous as the greens and as boisterous as the Stormlands.

He has put into practice his bladework for months before this tourney occurred, a hopeless endeavor but one he learned much. It would not bring him a victory if he had thought in reality, but to find enough glory to impress at the very least is more than a satisfactory outcome. There has been enough stain to the Frey’s name as it is, after this melee is over no one would say that the Twins brings a mediocre attempt of fervor.

Emmon looked upon his elder brother to find him focused towards the Reyne’s and the Tyrell’s. both parties held their banners high, armors clean and dandy as the clean plains they stand. the shine from the sun only serve to add a bit of glamour to their retinue. They have come prepared and more, just as their haughty behavior seems to expressed as they are high as their horses can make them.

On the other end came the houses of the Stormlands as well, led by a banner of the Griffin Red and white of house Connington. Behind them rest many names, Caron, Estermont, Swann, Rogers and Bolling and others more. Their laughter is high and numerous, cheering for the occasion. They see only honor and joy in this event, no care for defeat or the glory that came after.

Ronnel Arryn lay his hands on his hips, silver plate standing just beside his pale horse as oppose to above it. the helmet he wore is winged, like the old fabled beast that carried the Arryns towards their fated new home. It is a closed armet, no face can be seen. But from body language alone, it is with surety that he is excited for the moment.

“As is the plan correct?” Emmon interjected Stevron from his stupor. “We let those pompous prick-lings fight each other off, and then we finished the rest of the meal.”

“Be silent…” Stevron replied with a soft whisper. “You not know whoever is listening.”

“The nearest person is more than half a dozen feet from us, and with this wind we have to shout for them to hear a gibber.”

“You never know with these lands, Emmon.” Stevron said, still softly, still looking intently. “Sometimes I think even the grass moves differently, perhaps they can hear and spread the word as well…”

“Fear of the coming bloodwork, brother?” Emmon spoke in jest.

“Always, Emmon… I would be stupid not to. Our name is in the line.”

---XxxxxX---

Genna seldom carried her eyes elsewhere from the silver figure of her day, her hands twirled with worry and anxiety of the coming end. In mind she felt as if she has made a deal with the devil, so sweet and so close that it would not be wise to refuse. Perhaps that is what the seven has done, to sent a sinful work as a test to undermine the Lion’s spirit when her peers of the realm are undermining the body.

She found a way to escape these rogued arrangements, a trait of virtue is a sought-out claim for many lords of the lands. Tywin would be of the same mind as her, in that she is certain. The difference in them both is that her elder would not show nor feel a tad of remorse for such demands, he would be still as a stone as if he has the right given by a divine.

Genna held no such characteristics, aggressive she might be in times, but to curse an innocent for a sake of oneself and family is not an easy choice to make, but somethings are needed to be taken just as far. she’ll sleep for it on a couple of nights and hope that it would be discarded with time. for now, she’ll steel herself on the awaited onslaught.

He looked small, Emmon. Afar from here, they all looked like ants awaiting their call. Only the colors on their plates and flags surround them to create an elegant mirage, no different than a rainbow dispersed into several pieces. Such a beautiful painting, above such a rotten purpose behind the occasions. Even now she can still feel the glare of the Reyne’s and Tarbeck’s in this distance.

In a few moments, the colors would mix with the color of blood, after that many would realize the gruesome specters of wars. Many should not have brought their children here, but even then… many of such younglings already more than known on the unjust rules of life and land in Westeros. Even worse, the only ones alive are the one that know such knowledge over necessity.

The Lion’s daughter is not unfamiliar with the harshness of peasantry… thin bodies not eaten for weeks…

Her wary heart however, though despondent and deep within a slump, would be further downtrodden, after she hears another voice of contempt not far beside her. “Ahh… Tytos… Genna… both of you look well together!”

Came the voice of Ellyn Tarbeck, Golden head and dim eyes. A queer smile appeared on her face, showing every bit of her sharp grin. She carries herself well with Red, the foremost color of the Westerlands. Trotting with pride no different than when she proclaimed herself as lady of the rock all the while ago.

Beside her is her male scion, Tion Tarbeck the Red. Appears to be relatively of the same age with Genna. No different in demeanor than his older counterparts, handsome conventionally with a fair eyes and hair and skin. Shaped strongly on the jaw and shoulders lean. There was no animosity in his presence, in the same subject however, it would truly seem like he is anxious of his mother’s behavior.

“My such lovely times and spectacle we are about to have, isn’t it.” Ellyn spoke. “A war is on the horizon, and here we are having feasts and joy whilst our men die and fight for our sake.” She took the time to give a smug glare to the head of the Lannister household. “Your heart must be very weary to leave such rotten task to your brother and son… but we must all accept our stations in life, don’t we? You being half a man under even your lesser.”

She gave a smug chuckle that is almost a guffaw after that. And Tytos, the timorous one he always is, took the derision in a passive gait. He also gave a shy smile and an exhale, shamed and embarrassed both, he made no move other than a collection of useless words. “I suppose you have a point…” He said, chuckling lightly “I am not one of attrition after all…”

“Oh, you need not remind me, my lord.” Ellyn replied, feigning sympathy as her brow raised in pretend. Genna shivered on her seat, hands and palm pushed by her nails as she tries to breathe away the contempt that is reddening her skin. Tion just as well fared no better from his mother’s remark. Closing his eyes in recoil and discomfiture. Both scions have no wish to play the petty game.

“Oh, Genna!” Ellyn lifts her voice in a shaded joy, eyes wander towards the lion’s daughter as she noticed her blushing skin. “My how your house color becomes you… I do become envious in your complexion capabilities. You know, your mother just as well-“

“Mother, can we for the seven sakes find our seat…” Tion interjected, his eyes in mortify looked towards the fields of the melee rather than the hosts. His hands in fist to recall the etiquettes seems to be missing by one other of his blood. “The heat is truly coming in to me… if we must partake in such converse. It can wait until the feast can it not…”

Ellyn looked toward her scion with a glare very much like the beast of her banner. Just as much Tion replied with a scorching stare of his own, for a moment he looked much more older than he is. “Apologize Tytos, it seems young spirits are often impatient. Especially this one to easily abandon the due formalities in giving respect to the host of this festivity. I’m sure you understand.”

Just so, she looked to Genna as the latter wishes to falter on her self-control. She looked to her father, pleading for every of such event for him to finally show his pride. She oh so wishes for it to be one that is inevitable, many has surrendered, Tywin especially so. But her father always gave a most apt attention towards her three-fold than any other. She watches on in hope.

“Of course, Lady Ellyn. The feast would be a joyful event, we can speak at ease in such a time.” Tytos replied, and Genna sighed in disappointment. A notion of resentment has come to her and from her for all the hours of this tourney and before. It is horrid enough to be spoken of from behind flowing curtains with mockery, but to be so openly dismissed… is a punishment over her father’s weakness most true.

Tion scoffed with a roll of his eyes; a mocking smile came as well after which he walked away. Before he turns to leave however, Genna’s and his eyes met in solemn. He gave a nod, an apologetic one quick enough for no one around that is not paying in a rapt attention to see, slow enough for Genna to notice. Not all share the same sentiment for their overlord.

“As you are, Lord Tytos… Genna.” She said coyly, an audacity that is unwise for one to have. Genna exhaled in relief, looking down on the floor of the podium, covered by the shadows given by the elegantly clothed roof. She cannot give no excuse for the state of her body, nothing except for the heat, but even that is doubtful.

She felt a warm hand on top of her wrist. Her father looks upon her in worry. “Are you alright…” He dared to asked. Frowning subtly, no less looking as innocent as a babe and an elder both. Such things are of bewilderment to her. They all look alike, her brothers and her. But even at birth, most have said of the dire ferocity from all safe of their father. Could the mother’s blood be stronger.

“She was mocking us…” Genna said. “Did you not notice that!?” She finished, looking away with shame. Green eyes glowing with slight a tear, though she did not rip her hand away from her father. “She was supposed to be our servant… no one should spoke like so, even a king measured their words for the paramount below them…”

“Know much about kings, are you?” Tytos replied playfully, a slight smile to separate the sad air. Genna glared at him, her hand finally fleet away from her lord father as she stood up to look towards the melee better before she speaking the words at heart.

“I remembered the times the king has visit us to disperse of our troubles…” She spoke. “In glamour and all his glory he spoke with you in respect as you are to him as befitting both your stations… can you imagine yourself to be so openly to him, as that despicable woman have writhe her tongue just before, in our own house!”

“Genna…” Tytos replied, hands move to calm his daughter lightly. “Lady Ellyn is simply being playful with us, there is no need for redundant contempt. In the end she and the others will serve our whims just as they gave their oath to do so. Look upon around you, sweetling. Everyone is of joy today.”

Genna sighed strongly, as she shakes her head as if she would to faint. “What servitude? What loyalty!? It has been a decade since many of the Westerlands look to us with respect, much less even to serve!” She looked down to the armies below, a group of mock wars that shows their might in many numbers. “To what end father? You’ve given me to a weasel’s house I have no notion to be wedded with…”

“Genna… House Frey is one of the wealthiest houses of the Riverlands. They are noble almost as much as the Tully’s”

By all the gods father do you truly persist in confidence with that? in Genna’s thought no one could be so credulous. The same man that has tucked her bed instead of the servants, who read her stories almost every night before she reach the age of two and ten, who dared himself to sleep in her closet for many nights just to see her sleep well and to convince her that there are no monsters on the premises.

A lovable man that has no place in battle and lordship, the death of her uncles is quite a tragedy unbefitting of the future this house suppose to have. in that, Tytos decides to continue on his parade of reasoning. “When the time comes for them to serve of my call they will answer, Genna.” He answered sweetly, a notion of lordship spoken out as if they speak of toys and folklores.

“At peace time like this, where the nearest war came through the narrow sea instead of our lands. Why do we bother to brought conflict unheeded.” He continued. “Their words mean nothing, sweetling. A spoken statement delivered in less than a second, after which is a time, we could spend in life with joy.”

“But it does…” Genna retorted. “They have been using us, taking our golden coffers with no prospect of relinquishing their debts to us. Openly mocked us as to decrease our standing. Bandits roamed without care over the plains, painting blood red over our grasses. The lords have not sent their man to guard the realm as they should.” Her eyes narrowed as she examined the voice of laughter from afar and from the other podiums as she makes her last point. “Who is to say these savages are not ordered to do so.”

“Genna, please sit down.”

“You sent my brothers to die…” Genna said, and the laughter from afar seem so silent in as their eyes met. “It should’ve been you in that war… as a father should in protecting their children. What would mother say if she had known your decisions.”

“I’ve sent your uncle… My brother, Genna. You know me… sweetling I am no man of war, you know that, your mother knows that. Your brothers requested to take my position; I did not ask nor demand them for it.”

“You should have refused…” Genna said, vibrating in sadness with her voice. “You’ve sent all of them… as if you have more than a spare awaiting. Now Gerion and I are alone… with vipers with many heads biting our tail. Even in this tourney.” She watches her seat now, mind contemplating to find more comfort away from her father.

“Why did you give me away to the Frey’s?” Genna finally queried. “I’ve never wanted this, there are no reason to do this… everyone sees no common sense in the decision you’ve just made. I have… repeatedly over all these years, just as Tywin did.”

“It is our duty, Genna!” He spoke more sternly now, even then it still sounds soft and without power. A baritone fit for a nurse more than a lord. “Emmon is a nice boy. He has been nothing but cordial to us from our many feasts before. More so than the other lords of this realm. The Riverlands still held honor for us and the Frey’s are one of their most powerful vassals. It is an honor.”

“So, you do recognize our vassal’s falseness …” Genna whispered, still heeded by her father. “Yet… you did nothing…”

“Genna. What is there to be done? As I said we are living in a realm of peace… let them all find quarry as they like, it meant nothing… we hold the gold, we hold the power. And with the king’s aid and support we will be so forever.”

“They will petition, father!” She answered softly but still as stern. “They will find more weakness than they already have, and will try to usurp us! When all our houses turn against us, who will the king listen to?”

“It will never go that far…”

“And I… to be discarded to a house filled with bastards…”

“Genna, the tourney is about to start.” Her father spoke, hands reaching towards her in beckon. “Please… let us speak of this later, in a more acceptable milieu.” Genna looked towards his palm, unscarred and soft, not ever hold a sword if not rarely. Her face feels numb, as the sweat on her forehead dripped down with a stain of frustration.

“You let Walder Frey cowed you to create a tourney for the takings of my virtue.” Her voice is stronger with a tearful vibration. “An act most sacred… And you defiled it b sacrificing me… your daughter…” He was silent right after, even manage a stammer as he tried to find a leeway from beneath.

“You are right father…” Genna continued in her reply. “We will speak of this later…” She walked away down from the podium, striding with great pride and tall as she moves. All servants and attendance nod and bows as she passes. None dared to disturb her as they saw her still face, those that are close enough know when she is in her fury.

As Tytos watched her walk away, the face of Ellyn manages to reach his peripherals. She smiled so smugly as one undeserving can be. Tytos smiled back, with less enthusiast. He looks forward towards the field where small armies gathered to find their call for battle. Still, he finds the Valyrian standing there motionless with the exception of his coat bellowing with the wind, all azure and gold.

---XxxxxX---

The winds are pleasant. The way it enters the crevice of his outfit, coat and leather suit within and all is soothing, like an itch being scratch by your mother. He closed his eyes as he awaits, but once in a while he would open them to see how the grass sway. It was peaceful and it was familiar, it reminds him of his mansion, where the color black and purple swathe around the walls and drapes.

In the fields he recalls the swings of his father’s sword and his brother’s as well, it was a destructive endeavor then. Even when they were young, the swings of their hands whether they are holding a sword or stick would disperse the wind to make a way. He always loves that feeling, to know that when you are born that you are above many notions.

The grass reminded him of all those things, it is not as high as the grass of his home, almost as tall to reach the knees as oppose to the ankle these ones have. it is not until he reaches almost eight years of age that he realizes that he is very much unlike other humans. Before his father went missing, he thought that his capabilities to swat away the wind and to crush a boulder with a swing of a wooden sword is one common occurrences.

As his father went missing, he and his brother dared to venture. Dante would go to an amusement park or to the nearest music or gun store to watch along the windows in awe of such crude and simple weapons. Even now Vergil’s eyes are rolling, in that mindset he would never change. For him however, the nearest library or martial arts construct would be his calling.

He remembered the movement, how slow the children move, how sluggish the grown ones would swing and strike. Even in his youngling age, many visitors would often spoke of his father’s prowess unrelenting. But he did not realize that the gap is comparable to an unending canyon to a pebble rather than a throne to a chair he used to believe.

He felt safe then, all the uncertainty of that he would not be ready to take on the world as his father had are easily discarded. All the training became smoother, all the scolding turn to praise. Even Dante in his carefree turns to envy as he pouts, but he can still recall when his brother in red would turn to relive when he saw his blue twin right behind him… or in front of him… it was a long time ago.

He thought he have what it takes, he thought that he is appropriately humbled by his father and strengthen by the worlds experience.

And then the fire came… then the mansion crumbled with it…

And then he thought he could reach his mother calling…

And then-

“HAIL!” A spokesperson bellowed. “Hail! To all of you! To all man, woman, lords and ladies of the realm! In here we gather in a festive beyond any other!” He shouted with candor and spirit. He should’ve known such droll revelries would have its own obnoxious utterers. It makes no difference to him at the time being, he handled much worse devilry before.

“In here we come! To WITNESS an event! Unprecedented-“ It was truly utter insufferable to his ears. How could someone say so many words and repeat the same meaning just as many times and still find himself to be of the common sense. The prospect to just slice all the podium in a swipe to get on to the showdown is very much appealing.

“In honor of the purity of the lady Genna-“ The air that came out of his breathe is smoky, evermore full of heat than the rays of light around him. He was here for a trivial yet productive reason, but to be reminded of the occasion of this tourney have been for a cause mostly uncouth is a terrible reminder.

He looked around and hear just as much laughter as he sees and just so on the rest there are clapping. Some are silent though, mostly those who wore the color red. Some even shown the face of anger, more so on the podium of the Marbrand and the sept collectives. Civil bloodletting may be imminent if such insult is in continuation. When the time comes, he hoped they would be silent enough to leave him to his rest and reading.

His eyes finally wonder on the entrance of the field. Where warriors, lords and leaders of any kind would enter to participate in the tourney. There he saw her, The Lannister girl, standing wearing a red dress and black scarf. All are ornated with patters of gold resembling a hallow line of a lion’s mane. Their standing is precarious, but at least the Lannister’s are not sub-par in grandiosity.

It did not take much time until both Green and pale blue eyes met. She gave him a nod, a sad one. Vergil wonders what is the occasion now for her to find more excuse to pour more tears, but that is none of his business.  I have better things to do, he thinks to himself. Acknowledging her with a look alone and he stared back towards his measly opponents.

Her terms on his participation are a simple one, nothing even a simple mind couldn’t have done. The only dreary moment of this melee is the waiting, even now the speaker still drools on his speech. One would say that he loves his own voice, Vergil inhaled a breathe and closed his eyes until the time came until the calling came.

“At the southwest of the corner, there stands the fertile greens. Full of live and endurance. Led by Garth of the Tyrell’s, came three hundred men under his banner, bountiful as the land that they came.” A cheer followed suit. A light one, yet far from mediocre. Vergil exhaled an exhaustion as he hears so, it seems introduction is necessary, especially for the culture here. He can find humor on the matter.

“On the east, there are the man of the vale. Resplendent on their steel! High as honor as they stand TALL!” Cadence rise and fall like a geyser as the speaker delivered. “Ronnel Arryn in the head! Silver wing boisterous and flapping with pride! As his winds is followed by two hundred men!” The cheer came slightly harder, a sight of shining honor that whipped to reality from a folk tale. Human are the man of the Vale, but their chivalry is well known.

“There on the southeast, lies a house of the Riverlands! House of the twins!” The speaker not yet spoke the name, but the groans and displeasure is high for all to hear from all stands of the podium. Some even laugh, thought the participation of the bridge troll is a repulsive jest than the truth of reality. “Sentinel between two lands! They guard the bridge that divide the two realms! Now here they march forward with two-a-hundred man behind them! Will they be as steadfast as a wall as they did to protect their home!”

“THEY WOULD IF WE PAYED THEM HIGH ENOUGH!” An audience shouted. And the laughter followed after, much greater and lively than before. Even the guards, who are unmovable from their station guarding the peace, looked down and chuckled from the declaration. Vergil manage a glace to the primary suspect, and saw some Freys looked to shame and some tall in anger. He sighed on the occasion; mockery usually came after the battle not before. He critically disapproves of the event.

“There came the children of the storm!” The speaker moved on to the next contender. “There is no sun that shines to them! But the clouds that wields the thunder shall give them their strength. Far from home, they stand here fierce and full of strength!” The words are not yet finished, but the stormlanders already hailed themselves with a thunderous shout. Enthusiastic to the game.

“Led by the house of Connington, see the griffin came!”

“A GRIFFIN! A GRIFFIN!” the red and white of Connington man shouted as their battle cry. The rest of their Stormlands compatriot laughed and shout on in their hail in good sport. The speaker continued to speak. “A lion’s pride… and the wings to carry their honor into the clouds! He will lead the storm onto their ENEMIES!”

“BARATHEON! BARATHEON!” The stormlanders cheered, they came here without their overlord, but they did not forget where they are. Fighting in a war between two continents on their behalf, they stand here now in representation of them and their standing. Nothing gains more glory than the one participating in a war is what they thought. For such an instance they would fight in a mock one to sate their appetite.

The crowds cheered on their high joy and fire of their spirit, but as loud as they could cry and cheer, the man of the Stormlands shouted and hailed even louder. It is an interesting conundrum to many, the warrior’s soul of the storm raised higher where other voices are cowed and dispersed. It did not last as long for it to be in annoyance to Vergil, but he wishes that it would end sooner.

“There they are…” A curiously delivered with whisper and a shout amalgamated into one from the lips of the announcer. “A strong, sturdy and billowing lions’ mane… clad in shining steel and gold all the same…” He points towards the west most corner, in the middle where red and gold are in formation and line unmoved and disciplined.

“Here they stand House Reyne of the Westerlands. Led by Reynard Reyne, blood red that runs its course so strongly!” There are both cheer and silence, it is a complex reaction. For Vergil, he recognized the tumultuous reign of the overlord. But for it to reach the hearts of the people is rather odd, one would think the rivalry of the clouds meant little for those vying to eat each day for their work.

“Two hundred man strong! See how they stand unmoving, even the strongest wind did not sway them! The west stands strong as they carry our pride and honor of the WEST!” they are still, even with the high voices of disparity and joyfulness. It would seem they are careless against the tide of the low. Such voices are irrelevant to high-man with greater purposes.

“On the northern side… a pack of gambeson and leather! RIDE AGAINST THE TIDES!” The announcer points towards a wave of brown and iron. Shy and uncertain but honest and are willing prove themselves. Their lips quivered between a smile and stoicism. Unknown if to reply to the declaration with a cheer or an indifference.

“They are man of the people! A voice of those that climb the mountain to glory!” The announcer continued to speak. “Their names and origins uncertain, here they came to correct such notion. To chart their blood into the annals of history! Led by a hedge knight with no name! each will declare themselves after their victory as they promised! WHO ARE OF THE SAME VOICE FOR SUCH A COMPANY!”

The high podiums clapped in etiquette ways as ladies and lords laughed in such a view, for goodwill or in mocking it is unknown. But for those below, who wore drabs and common cloths. Who brought their children in wooden sits and where most stand to see as oppose in sitting on pillowed chair. They all guffawed in motivated merriment. The clouds dispersed and even some called in a cry. It seems some members of the hedge knights’ company have their family to come in cheer.

“But if all of you think that is a tourney most irregular thus far… You have not seen everything yet!” The speaker said, it put most into silent as the cheering down poured from its redundantly long moments. “The lords bring their armies… and yes, the hedge knight came with their own collective of drabs and armor against the titanic lords… but one came… daring and full of bravado.”

The speaker points towards a lone man, azure coat and all. Vergil lifts his hand up to his head, massaging his forehead in exasperation. “A lone Valyrian, silver hair and all… with sword as slick it can cut through your SOUL!” The crowd gave a small gesture of claps, but most if not, all are more curious than joyful.

“All has bring their compatriots… but not this man… this man STANDS ALONE!” The speaker turns towards the audience with his finger pointing towards the blue hue. “ONE SWORD, ONE BODY! HE WILL FIGHT AGAINST THE TIDE OF MEN! I BRING YOU NO DECEIT PEOPLE OF WESTEROS AND ALL! HE HAS BROUGHT NO ONE BUT HIMSELF IN THIS MELEE!”

Gasps and confused manners of voices covered the air, mumbling and grumbling scatter on the seats, podiums and all those who watches from even outside the fences of wall and man. Some look around and some looked to the fields to see any signs of jest, which they found none. The chatters that felt like a cluster of ants on Vergil’s ear felt more than an annoyance.

“Alastor…” Reynard spoke, and his cousin stared as well to the primary interest of this event as he answered.

“This is unbelievable to me as well, Reynard…” Alastor replied, though he shakes his head in perceived folly rather than the disbelief he spoke. “Either way… it is his corpse to give, no issue of ours.”

“Fascinating…” Reynard looked on still on the bellowing blue specter on the horizon. “One must be utterly confident in his capabilities to dare himself to fare against more than a thousand man…” Even now the scion of house Reyne still notices Vergil standing still awaiting. Contemplation of many thoughts came to him…”

“For who does he fight for do you think?” Garth queried to his captain beside him.

“I see no symbol or banner on him.” The captain replied. “Though if I may elaborate shortly… one who fights alone often fought for themselves…” he scrunched his eyes to focus. “Though even from this range, he looked rather young, milord… perhaps just as young as the crown prince himself.”

“Yes… though not of the same root it seems… if he was there on the Red Keep during my visit, I would’ve noticed him.” Garth eyed the lone Valyrian more sweetly. “Yet none also have spoken about him. Such oddity, for one looking so resplendent.”

“THE LONE VALYRIAN! SHALL FIGHT UNDER THE BEHALF OF THE LANNISTERS IN PROTECTION OF LADY GENNA’S HONOR!” the speaker declared, just as willful as before.

“Well…” The captain of the Tyrells spoke. “Least now we know who he fights for now.”

“How bewildering…” Garth spoke to himself.

Vergil however. Finally moves his head towards the lady in red. Their eyes met as for the first time the son of Sparda equips the most confounding look of all. Genna smiled sweetly, but also slyly. She lifts her one hand to wave her fingers up and down towards him. The man shakes his head as he exhaled, that was not part of the deal… he whispered thoughtfully. Though he endured it for the time being. And readied himself with both eyes open as both his hands rests on the pommel of his sheathed blade.

“All bets shall move forward in this battle of the decade! Perhaps even the century! Place your golden dragons forward! For the battle HAS BEGUN!”

---XxxxxX---

“Emmon…” Stevron said sternly. “Be ready…”

There were many things he was worried about in his life, but in this day came another to be quelled underneath the mountainous stack that already are. He bears no love for the lady Genna, and he hoped there is another way for an annulment, but such prospect would be no different than pissing onto his father’s breaches. To marry with a great house is a prospect of a miracle to a vassal, much less to the one such as his.

He sympathizes with her; he gave aid to many of the chores of the festivities. But to equip another man with her favor, with no idea to even asked him for such an offer. It is a notion most upsetting to him. There he stands unmoving as the stormlanders is the first one to take charge and the man of the reach charge against them. In Emmon’s mind he contemplates if she does not know the disrespect she just gave.

Frustration and fury, that is what resides within him now. Genna is anything but moronic, she is ten-fold ahead smarter than the other ladies of all nobility, even the presumptuous Ellyn Tarbeck. He writhes in rage above his horse and proceed to declare to his brother. “Fuck this…” Emmon said. “We will charge…”

“EMMON!” Stevron warned. “Do not be foolish! Remember the plan!”

“We’ve been stymied once again, Stevron!” Emmon replied in utter indignation. “We came here… I came here! With goodwill and the utmost of my honor and the Lannister’s swiped it all away! Perhaps the Reyne’s and the Tarbeck’s have the right idea in their act against their liege.” Stevron sighed as he listened. Their eyes locked and the eldest horse moves closer to the other.

“Many have said much, brother.” Stevron said with a whisper, grabbing the back of Emmon’s head towards his forehead. “There will be reckoning after this, we will try it I assure you! But do not compromise this battle, this is more than just the whims of one! Do you understand!?”

“Yes…” Emmon whimpered softly, “This isn’t right…”

“I know… I know.” Stevron replied. “I do not know what we deserve, but I know we have been slighted. Patience brother, all in due time. Father already making all the mistakes in the world, we cannot afford to have one in his stead, the bastard.”

Garth’s forces met with the stormlanders one. Connington and a Tyrell sounds of steel finally sings to the air. Their cavalry clashed and the screams also came and followed. Such is the minds of the rowdy and the arrogant. One so underhandedly belief on the numbers of his force, while the other a great faith in their prowess and strength.

Two sides of shaded yellow and green mingled on the middle field of the melee, the sun shines bright onto them as the rays reflect towards the audience. A violent half a rainbow that will emerge with the color of blood that is soon to come. A stormlanders may beat more than one, but the reach being a three hundred is perhaps a lesser number than they truly are. More than four dozen perhaps lie in wait from the rear.

“Everything is going smoothly…” Stevron stated.

“Not exactly.” Emmon points towards the color of crimson. “Reynard and his man are moving only slightly.” Just so, the Westerlands representative moves as slow as a tranquil march. In motion towards the left and right of the field, away from the clashing of steel. Enough for anyone to see they are participating, but not fast enough to join the fray.”

“The Westerlands force are a discipline lot.” Stevron said, in worried sigh. “I am not one to undermine our own force, but even with a proper entry I do not think greatly of our chance against him… if we must win this, they have to participate… Wait!?” There they march in a brisk pace towards the Reyne’s, a cavalcade of the hedge knight of warriors of barbarians clads in common.

“Their cavalry is wanting!? Do they intend to ambush him?” Emmon stated. Eyes focused on the colors of brown that slowly approaching the Westerlands wake.

“I do not think so Emmon… but then again, this is no collective of an educated flock.” They watch on as the hedge knight forces approach the crimson lion. Unwearyingly so, the line and formation of those behind Reynard did not move one bit to retort against the hundreds of the common folk in lowly spears approaching them.

“No…” Stevron spoke. “No… why did I not think of that… MAN! WE MARCH FORWARD! AT MY PACE!” Stevron shouted in the end. Emmon followed suit in his brothers wake, and found himself reaching to the same conclusion as he studied the marching hedges.

“The Hedge knight’s army…” Stevron said, as they slowly parade towards the battlefield. “They’ve joined forces with the Reyne’s.” As he spoke, both of the groups lined in formation facing the same direction beside each other, just as the vale is charging towards them almost entirely on horses all of team, in all honesty most of them wear steel works, unknown to all in how and why they could wore such many steel in this mock war.

“Ronnel Arryn is charging towards both of them…” Stevron said. “The plan is not compromised. We still have a chance, worry not.” All man of Frey sighed in relief. “In a moment the stormlanders or the reach will falter, they are all ferocious. Mind the Reyne’s and the vale not at the time being, their battle will be long.”

That is cunning… and without honor Emmon said in mind, Reynard sent the shields and the archers slowly as oppose to the fierce charge of the hedge knights army against the wave of the Vale’s horses. Both of them met as the draping brown company coiled with the Arryns. Their tactics are sound. Shields forward and spears up, one would piss themselves and crumble and quivered as the stampede comes closer. But the man of the hedge knight did not set such motion, they are veterans Emmon is sure of it.

The horses fell and so are the man above them, many bones-a-breaking but only some of them, but for the rest that are prevented by the armor they wore stand immediately to take their glory. quick are the movement of the hedges half-plate at most and boiled leather at least, they stride in quickness and excellent precision not obstructed by armor and closed helmets as their opponents.

The Reyne’s supported and bolstered for every fallen man of the hedge knight that fell, each arms-man wearing crimson will replace them just to fight an already exhausted opponent. Using the common folks as fodders. Just so drapes of red defeated each of the Arryn’s that comes in contact. In a short moment the brown slowly turns to crimson, as what is left of the hedge knights forces are depleted.

Reynard placed himself in the second line of the vanguard, just before the very front that have met and now fighting. Now only his man is fighting against the steel works of the vale, their armors are of iron also, but the man of the mountain are often one and wear such attire in many occasion, they flow and swift significantly better than the ordinary armored man.

“Uncouth behavior, Reynard!” Ronnel Arryn shouted. “Sending others to take your burdens, whilst you are sitting on-“

“Be silent and fight cur!” Reynard remarked, Ronnel simple scoffs with a slight feature of infuriation. “Alastor, send more arms-man to the side! They are faltering and slow!” His cousin did as he should, and delegate the order to the appropriate man, not long but a dozen seconds, red arms-man ran and strike from the sides. Leaving the Vale with two frontiers that needed attention.

“Where is the rest of the hedge knights’ company!? They are supposed to attack the other side!” Reynard remarked. Alastor examined his surroundings to find no indication of a common drab around their red company, almost being faltered of a sword swing from the Vale arms-man. He kicked his opponents’ knee as he struggled to recover from his swing and incapacitate him with a swing of a blunted sword to the back of the head. Alastor manages to look to Reynard to shake his head.

Reynard knows what It meant. As he looks to his surrounding as well, there are none but his man and the Vale. That is until he hears the clash of steel in the place not should’ve been heard. On his rear, line by line is slowly dispersed by the rest of the hedge knight’s company. Laughter of deceit came as each Reyne-man fell to their blade. Fucking traitors, Reynard thought.

He rides to the side as he shouts to his man. “Hold the Line! ALASTOR HOLD THE LINE!”. His horse bellowed with the wind to the empty plain besides the formation, moving swiftly to lead the rear away from defeat. Unfortunate as another horse came, the hedge knight himself dared to meet him half-way and their horses clashed face to face as they both dropped to the ground.

Infuriated, Reynard quickly bring his bearing forth. And unsheathe his golden pommeled sword. On the horizon, the vista of many men coiling in conflict painted the background as both man stands in duel as they face each other. “Should’ve known you lout would not keep your word.”

“Do not think I know not your plan. Using my man as a lamb as yours finished the job” The hedge knight smirked. “You think I would be stupid enough to follow through?”

“You have no hono-“

“Be silent and fight!” They clashed, brown gambeson and half-a-plate against jet-black armor painted red in the lines. One fought dirty; the other is known to be well-trained but fundamentals predictable. Yet well fed in his life and well-muscled, Reynard is always quick enough to compensate against the hedge knight’s technique.

He blocked a swing of a sword and tries to strike immediately with a pommel strike… Reynard immediately dodges.

He charges with a shoulder tackle, and Reynard proceed to take it and replied with a headbutt.

He kicked the shield pushing his opponent backward, Reynard quickly firmed his feet and thrown his shield right on the hedge knight’s face. It hit him square on the forehead, the blood runs as It downpours. “FUCK!” The knight exclaimed. “So much for your fucking hono-“ No interest to heed, Reynard tackled him to the ground and tried to actually kill him with a stab. Frustrated with the fight, the scion of the Reyne fell to underhanded methods.

The hedge knight tries to dodge, still the sword edge hit him, but fortunately on the steel plate. He grabbed the arm and poked the lords’ eyes with his finger. The fight continues on… dirty means stacked upon the other and just as much to the other. All the whilst the hedge knight’s forces and the Reyne’s and the Arryn’s coiled behind them.

For the reach and the storms, what was once three hundred man, now only a hundred stood each side. All the words and bravado of the stormlanders call have finally been put to the test and has been found exceeding. More greens have fell than there is yellow. Three men fell for each storm, Garth looked on in horror. “This is just madness… I did not think-“

Oh, so suddenly, there came a sound. Hooves stampeding from behind. The Freys came with their horses, face covered with hoods and steel. Stevron and Emmon led from the front as both parties of Connington and Tyrells are to preoccupied with each other. In horror, Garth can only watch, as the horses in a second met with him and his own man. No time or attention taken to guard the rear as they all fell.

They pierce through straight like a spear. No man of the Tyrells succeeds to evade from the onslaught of the stampede. The stormlanders however, have time to see, and so have the notion to escape. Just as the horse are a few moments reaching towards their heads, they move away to the side. No different than the wave of a sea dispersed to the side if one looks from above.

“THE TYRELLS HAVE FALLEN!” The speaker shouted. “LORD EMMON FREY HAVE FELLED LORD GARTH TYRELL!”

---XxxxxX---

Now that she could see as close as she could to the horrid sight of war, the opinions she has of it is completely unchanged. It is exactly how she thought it would be, improper, messy and no semblance of honor to be found. In time she would see proper man fight properly as she saw during Tygett’s training with the Master-of-arms of the family. but so quick It also turns into a brawl with method designed for macabre attempts.

The work of the mind prevailed greatly when using a force greater than oneself, as she saw the armies carried the fields, as one party would disembark the other from one side and take position to act a certain stratagems. She couldn’t imagine needing to have a full and calm spirit when a horse tries to trample you or when one sees a sword attempts to swing at you, but they have done all so manageably well.

The rear of the Reyne’s as they took the brunt force of the hedge knight’s man turns into a wall of steel with spears moving in and out like a contraption. Cavalries piercing through a line, each horse steady in formation as they pace through the field, their hooves step onto bodies and uneven plains yet there they stood in neat.

Emmon won through patient cunning, she would not fault him for that, in fact she praises. Loved ones would yearn to see them home rather to hear their glory in death, she hoped in the same cause that her brother would yield the same results. She still bears no affection the way Emmon wants it, but she at least gave a modicum of respect and mutual care, the man truly deserve it as he tries.

Now the stormlanders bear little cavalry and the Freys horses moves to arrange themselves for another charge. The rumors are true that the children of the storm are a flock of warriors, many have been trampled yet dared themselves to stand. Jon Connington moved and led his man to make a shield formation with several lines as the archers shoot from their rear. Several horses fell for each fire, it was truly a surreal view for Genna. To find such a powerful force before to be slowly quelled a moment after.

Still more than a half a thousand man still fight with manner of many pigments. The Reyne’s finally escaped from the pincer due to Alastor’s lead. The hedge knights army are to focused on destroying their rear rather than focusing to intercept on the side. Understandably so, as there is no one to lead them as the hedge knight himself is busy fighting for his life against Reynard.

The Tyrells lord has been defeated but less than a hundred man still fights just as much as the storms, the Reyne’s hold a hundred and fifty and the hedge knight’s consist of a hundred and twenty. Or at least that is Genna’s estimate as she sees it. only the Vale and the Frey’s bears little harm, they still retain most of their troops. The battle is not chaotic enough for the man to scatter from their formations makes them for easy count.

And just as so she finally sees it, Vergil moves forward with a slow relax pace with his sheathed blade in hand. The under of his coat raises with the wind like wings, he seems so serene in his movement, as if there are no horrid sight in front of him in the shape of a war. Genna did not saw how he fought against her man in the library, but he was so certain of his victory that he declared it more of a chore than a glorious task, it was all so strange.

Still her heart beats anxiously, as if the deal fail or succeed, it would result in an underhanded results nonetheless. Already she requested the speaker to declare her favor towards the man of Sparda, to see him fail would be another shame for the family name, how could one man could take a half a thousand man… yet there he walks with no care.

“This is taking to long for my liking…” is what Vergil said as he arrives in the midst of the battlefield. Unknown to Genna in what he has spoken. The crowd watches on with curiosity as even the lords and ladies stand on their podium to see the schemes of the Valyrian apparent. Vergil lifts his sword until his hand reaches the shoulder, whilst Genna holds her breathe.

He swings down swiftly like a line that is sliced through the clouds…

A booming sound came, and a wave of STRONG wind came forth…

Vale, Reyne and the common warriors thrown to the air by the airstreams…

The stormlanders steadfast in their formation, just to fell down to taste dirt…

And the horses slipped and fell as they are carried by the gales…

A moment of silence came, whilst the sounds of nature continue on as if no abnormality occurred. Everyone could hear the chirp of the birds, the natural winds grazing their ears and the sways of the grasses still with a noise. No one made a move… neither crowd or armies in the tourney. Still Vergil moves forward.

“Lady Genna… I” A guardsman spoke. “I know what comes after… I-I don’t think you wish to see it.”

But I do, Genna spoke in mind. A semblance of his powers just shown itself, and she needs to see more to know she has not been tricked. Not only her, the whole world stopped blinking. What was once a variously clouded skies now shimmer with only the sun. even the stars intend to watch. The crowd once full of noise and cheer now are enamored as to what they saw. Already the first prove came that her mind is not challenged.

The three parties of Red, Brown and Iron stands and looked upon him as he approached. She did not know what they are speaking about, but all of them are watchful and attentive to every word spoke, yet it seems to be a short one. Genna moves closer to the edge of the entrance much to the dismay of the guards. She must see it all.

Only a minute long until Vergil moves forward again and he smacked Reynard’s face with his sheathed sword. The Reyne flew away like a disaster beckoned by divine intervention, the rest watched in horror, especially the red army as they saw their master tossed away towards the vista of the horizon.

First it was Alastor that make the first charge…

And then came the rest of his man…

And then the vale and the hedge knight and his cohorts join…

And then the rest…

None of the crowd is sitting now, they are all standing as in utter silence as the work of the mystic make itself clear to the eyes of many. Even Ellyn Tarbeck stands with all her smug features gone replaced with confound. Tytos loses his smile, in place of confusion. There Genna also saw the captain of her house Dylarr, viewing the battle with face fatigued in mind as he exasperates through his breathe.

He does not seem to be shocked or flabbergasted…

The Vale Cavalry takes on to trample Vergil with their charge, yet not even near enough to the man, his blue edge of the coat swings as well to follow by the momentum of his strike. And within the same second, dozens upon dozens of horses flew and dropped to the plains. Their weight and the severity of the bellowed gales led to their bones breaking and disjointed. The same could be said to the man riding them, though not as severe.

The Frey comes next with their cavalry as well, yet very unlike before where he is expectantly would give another sword swing for the strong winds that would falter them, he instead vanishes. Appearing just behind the charge that has failed… and not but a moment after, their armors and bodies are shredded like a pack of flagellants, a sign of razor wounds littered their bodies as the blood seep out. None have died, but even then, the pain is severe.

More than enough indication that this is no ordinary event for all that have eyes, what was once a pack of man who ventured to enter warfare, now quivered on the event. Vergil still strides forward, this time towards the hedge knight. The man has no daring bravado left; he ordered his man to flee just as he does. Though he himself did not ran as to lift the wounded of his company to escape firstly.

Taking the chance, Alastor tried to strike from behind. Just as Jon Connington tried to trample him from the sides. Vergil caught the sword by its base with his hand, it is no demon work like his brother’s blade thus no blood came from his hands. Alastor’s grip is strong through instinct as by the sword, the son of Sparda swinged him towards Connington’s horse.

Alastor felt the crack of his spine as it made contact with the legs and body of the mount, Connington fell face first to the green grounds, shredding his face and dragged his neck as the momentum carried him afar as he mark the grasses away. Both gagged and coughed out blood like a fountain.

“What the fuck are you!” Genna saw the lips moved from Emmon’s lips. Vergil did not even bother to put his attention towards him as he swiftly strafes to the left merely an inch as Stevron’s sword swinged down from above. With no words of interest to be patient of, Vergil simply backhanded the suspect. And Stevron flailed to the air like a rotten corpse alive.

Emmon tried to charge, but a hand held him from moving forth. He looks up to find it belongs to the Valyrian sorcerer, shades of blue covered his vision as the man spoke. “Yield…” Vergil said. “This won’t end well and I will say this only twice… Yield”.

Stevron’s body shuddered as he lay, Emmon looked and hope that that is no sign of death. Fear and fury looped within him as even in heart he fights to make a choice to run or bout. Without sense he ran towards Stevron, carrying him in his arms and queried for any signs of life. “Stevron, please! Please can you hear me!”

“Ah fuck!... fuck.” Stevron spoke, immediately so with his bleeding face. “Emmon… I…. I cannot feel my face…” both brothers converse as Vergil merely stands there, both repeated the notion if the other are well. Both urge to stay alive and to leave the premises. Seeing this as an indication that the bout if over, the azure coat walked away.

Emmon eyed his bellowed blue coat, gently he put his brother down. “Emmon don’t… DON’T!” Stevron pleaded. But indignation covers all common sense, and Emmon charge with a sword unsheathed. Even then Vergil still manage to make his voice known.

“I warned you…”

He simply swings softly towards his knees with a sheathed Yamato, and the bones are fragmented just as the legs moves in a way most unnatural. Still, he stands in one leg as Emmon intend still to swing a second later just for Vergil to not even move as the sword passes the tip of his nose, though the silver haired man made his move and break Emmon’s sword hand as well with a simple tap from his pommel.

“Shame…” Vergil simply spoke. “The finale is boring… At least to me.”

He is gone after that proclamation; with a blue fading mist he appears again right in front of the speaker. Eyes boring like a concentrated sun towards the man’s soul. “I won…” He spoke. “Declare it…”

---XxxxxX---

Fifty thousand Gold Dragons… and an honorary ceremonial blade made out of gold, on the sword and handle completely.

That was what Tytos seeks to reward the victor, a generous reward for a pack of man willing to fight as one. A smaller prize then so would lead to difficulties in distribution after the win, as this melee relies on the works of many rather than one. Thus, the irony came in quite a hilarious notion as only one being came to take the gold.

There would be no aftermath festivities, no one dared to move from their station and seat. They all observe in silence as the Azure Valyrian walked without word after taking the bounty. The flocks of man and woman high and low both dispersed like sand and sea as Vergil walk to the nearest exit. Again, only the sounds of nature wrung the surroundings, as if no human is present at the time being.

The only sound every person gave in the moment are merely heavy quivering breathing, children forced by their mother to hide behind their skirts, some children even wanted to approach in awe if not stopped by the guards from their perceived folly, their voices only came not long after the great silence. It meant little to Vergil, but then a voice came…

“My lord… don’t!”

“That was amazing!” A child came, barely half a decade old. His attire is fully lordly as all the highborn has to wear. “Are you- Are you a Valyrian? Are you part of the Royal Family? Are you not a Targaryen!? Can all Valyrians do magic like that!? I want to learn magic!?” His eyes are focused straight on, but even in his peripherals he could see the tint of red shining silk.

“M—my name is Gerion by the way! Gerion Lannister! My father is the host of this tourney! How do you like the fight? Was it fun!? It has to be when you can do magic and summon winds as such! Do you learn it on your own? Were you born with it!?”

“…”

“I hear you fight on the behalf of my sister! My sister Genna Lannister! Yes! My sister is Genna Lannister! Does that mean now you are in favor of her!? Does that mean you are a lord as well!? Which lands do you hail from? Is it true as many said you hailed from Valyrian itself!?”

“…”

“Si—Sir? O—oh sorry! My lord!?”

“…”

“Will you come to the feast later!? Can we talk more there!?”

“…”

“Why can you not talk!? Is it because of the magic—hey wait!? Don’t leave me!”

“…”

Gerion lunges to Vergil’s legs, hugging it as he was dragged on the ground like cloth. “Stop! Please!” Vergil kept walking forward with slow pace as if there was no burden on any parts of his body, no more than ant crawling on an elephant. No matter how much Gerion tried to budge him, it felt as if the whole world is against the young boy. “Why won’t you listen to me!? I order you to listen to me!”

“GERION!?”

“Huh!?” The boy turns his head to find his eldest sister frustrated face. “That is UNCOMELY! What did I just teach this last year? Surely not this barbaric pleading!” Gerion pouted as he let go of his hands slowly from Vergil, as if to let go would led to him to disappear. Oddly just as to Gerion, Vergil Stood in place just as Genna’s voice is heard.

“Either go to your father or go to your chambers with an escort, this is not a place for you at this time!”

“BUT!—”

“Gerion!” Genna spoke sternly, but faltered at the last second as she gave a sigh. “The feast will be the time when the reward from the tourney will be given… lord Vergil will not go anywhere, you are tiring him.”

“Vergil! Lord Vergil is that your name!?” Gerion looked back. “What is your last name, is it a prominent family—”

“GERION!” Genna now shouted. “Go to your father! Or you will never see him again!”

He pouted once more, as childish disappointment. But then he armed his face with a smile once more, such is the fickle of the young. “Apologies if I tire you lord Vergil! I hope I can see you again during the feast! I’ll take my leave if you promised to be there!”

“…”

“…”

They stand there standing besides each other. Gerion eyes glow as he stared towards Vergil’s cheek seemingly not even blinking. Vergil however did not deign to meet his eyes, simply staring forward, the houses and castles afront are more interesting than a child much more animated than a bunny.

“Dylarr… please take this young man away…” Genna said in finality with exhaustion.

“Right away, My lady.”

“Wait! No! NOOOO!”

Just so, Gerion is carried of onto the castle, though his protest Is fading slowly from their ears. Genna spoke first. “My utmost gratitude for being patient with my brother, i—”

“Don’t bother…” Vergil answered. “He is a child, kids do that…”

“I… see.”

Vergil turns around as blue gaze meets green. He wasted no time to fly to the point. “The deal is concluded…”

“Yes… yes it has…” Genna sighed with a guilt featured on her voice. “Though I did not think you would harm him that severely…”

“Less than what I did to your guards… but yes I did.” Vergil answered simply. “My warning was unheeded. He invites his own suffering… now If you wish to discuss something IMPORTANT. I would be in your library. Do not disturb me if it is otherwise.” Just as he finished, he disappeared in a blur of blue.

Genna felt a weight has been released as the son of Sparda is no longer at her presence. She did not think such powers would exist, but here she stands corrected. Though her skepticism is minimal on the account of her guards, she assumed the sorcery is embellished. Only now she realized the truth is being downplayed.

She turns in order to walk towards her father once more, only to find hundreds of faces watching her, both lords and the common man. Voices are already heard of the connection between the Valyrian with the lady of the rock… Genna couldn’t help but curse within her mind. “By the Seven gods no…”

Complications are now inevitable.

“What deal?” A voice spoke behind her. There stands Joanna Lannister striking still in her beauty. “What did you just do?”

Notes:

I am late by six days for the update, i am sorry on that. i am being whacked by my own thesis. even now i uploaded this on 3am in the morning and my eyes are weakening. i do believe i've conquered most of the mistakes, but please do tell me if i miss anything on the grammar.

And yes i'll try to update at least each week.

Chapter 4: Hands above the board

Summary:

Confusion and terror surrounds the air of the Lannister Halls as all manners of lords and ladies chases after answers.

---XxxxxX---

The feast is on…

A festive Vergil has no interest in partaking…

Still, he could hear the voices from here in the library, no matter how absorbed he is by the literatures that surrounds him, all manners of voices would still be reached to his ears. It is of no surprise of course and just as well it is of no concern. The feast is held in the courtyard where he recalled to practice his father’s kata and martial arts. He hears murmurs and grumbles of many, not their specific words. The last he needs right now is knowledge he has no attraction to know.

It has been two days since the tourney has been beheld. Of all the short time from that event, no one has come up to bother him other than the common servant intended to clean the chambers. They are all fearful and shivered the more they stray to close to him, for Vergil such things will not upset him, subordinates doing their errands are not one to disturb him from his own task. Especially when most only strays close to clean his table and the floor around him.

He felt their drastic rise of terror there… understandably so, though he had no interest to exploit it. That is not how his mother raised him, he is sure his father already beat such ideas out of him during their many trainings if there are at all such beliefs within him. Thus far, all has been nothing but coiled silence and natural sounds of the plains. A prospect most agreeable to the son of Sparda…

A mountain of parchments and books have been stacked these days that almost rivalled the Maester’s curriculum of the Oldtown Citadel in a year. It would seem being misplaced in another world comes with their own merit. The path to power is far from over for the eldest Sparda, the knowledge of the mystic is a prime reserve in this realm unknown. He has many works to do, and just as many enigmas to uncover.

He senses still the gateway in the place where he hikes with the merchant, is still gathering the appropriate energy to opened its jaws to this world, at the time being it barely absorb enough to be any different than the intensity Vergil sensed even a week ago. It is of the utmost certainty that it would be a very long time until another demonic entity would enter this world. just as well it would, for Vergil to find a way back to Redgrave.

His full strength has already recovered even not long… not even a minute after he entered this world, in that he is relieved. For now, he could bide his time to make himself stronger until the day came for another bout against his brother, A demon’s power will grow significantly with age, but that means just as well would Dante could outpace him as he is now. there could be many flukes on their last battle, but it is unwise to deny his growth…

I need more power… Vergil thought to himself.

Already has plans been made, forms of powers here are already established in various locations and objects. In the castle of the Red Keep lies the head of the ancient dragon Balerion the Black Dread. A once living fire breathing dragon whose wing span can cover an entire village and changed the weather at its infernal whim. They say it breathe can melt steel and stone walls. Still, a dead fossil and bones of such creature could make itself useful if he could examine it.

The Isle of faces, a sacred island belonging to an ancient race now questionable in its existence by many scholars and figures of authority of this world. they say weirwood and heart trees are windows to the realm of the gods and many things supernatural, in the isle it is said that such things are numerous and would surround the visitors with their knowledge. They say the Children of the forest have used a certain hammer to break a bridge linking two continents… such weapon could prove useful to him.

The island lies in the lake of Gods eye, whether it is aptly named in time Vergil shall see…

 In the north, far deep in the white tundra of this planet. There lies a gargantuan wall of ice that shields the lands of the starks and the undead, or so the story told. Large and tall that it would touch the clouds, as many would say that it seems like a house of the gods on its own far from below. There the night watch is stationed as they guard the realm of man from monstrosities of the north… whether they are but man, animals or other beings.

There are many more worth to be examined. Baratheon’s Storms end, The Hightowers Black stone on battle isle, the bloodstone history in Yi Ti, The Dornish water mages… Qarth… Bravos god of death… the sea stone chair… the lands of always winter…

Vergil is not yet in the prime of his power and age, but even with all these wonders of this world, if he could at least acquire a partial of their powers, he could greatly outcast Dante and his macabre fighting style. There is mastery that he needs to consider along the way… he forgot his father’s teaching, and with Karma, he cannot recall it in the most prominent of moment.

He relied on his father’s sword instead of Yamato in which the latter has been his greatest extension for more than half of his life. The greed came and took over, and his brother further exploit his weakness both in mind and body. His outset to prove himself has cost him his father’s power, now Dante is most likely steward it right now. letting it hang on a wall no different than a stained drape.

He has time to waste yes, moments he could use for meaning full endeavors. Awaiting powers as he ages is an action most unwise, Vergil knows his brother’s calling, a demon hunter is a profession one would reach a certain death with if you are an ordinary human being. He would gain strength through such conflict, and in turn widening the gap even more… Vergil cannot have that.

Though he is sure their last fight ended due to his own moment of weakness rather than Dante actually surpassing him, he will take no such risks here. He summoned Beowolf, another hint of strength outside of Yamato. The plains of this world are large and full of emptiness, less humans resides here rather than his own home world, a notion he is currently unknown as to why considering the fertile views that he sees.

Nonetheless, he cannot depart this realm as of yet until the gateway has reached its appropriate necessity to be opened. Another characteristic he knows is that often powerful demons would await just beside the gate in hell before it unlocks to have the first blood. They would often fight with one another to take the first line, just so the first one to reveal itself would always likely be the strongest of the pact.

A theory needs to be tested before he can depart on his ventures… it would all be useless if he cannot return to his world… or to hell… Still, the prospect of Valyrian and the Wall in the north is two of the greatest interest to him. Especially the former when many has associated his traits with such civilization, especially so to the Targaryens. A query came If these Valyrians are also descendants of demons just as he is.

But if so… they would not need Dragons to conquer the world, and from what he hears the blood of the crown though shares the same silver hair and demeanor, they held no power not even a speck close to the son of Sparda themselves. An inference came that they could be of the blood of a lesser demons. Sparda is the greatest one of all after all, he wondered if Fortuna still worshipped his father.

Vergil stacked another book to the mountainous corpses of literatures just so he could stand and pace around whilst he contemplates. As far as he could learn, there is no name for this world just as his home would call itself earth or the world of light for those who believed in the history of the hellish sabbath.

As far as he knows the learned man of this realm does not even know of any other world apart from this one, a wanting conclusion but one of common sense. They lack the means to know such things, and any other knowledge of another comes from religious knowing that many have found to be dubious. Such is the merit of belief.

Vergil can hear the inevitable footsteps coming towards him as he thought, he looked around to find still only some servants cleaning the library as silently as one could have unmoving their bodies, amusing that they in actuality still sweat though not making any active drive. He scoffed at the sight, it is a natural state if you stayed in a room with the unnatural.

“If your lady master wishes to know where I am, tell her I am out for a brisk walk…” Vergil said, the servant listened from the very first moment he started to speak and as it ended, she nodded sluggishly, still foreboded with fear within.

And just so, he vanished in a blur of blue fade. No noise has been made through such action, not even a trace other than the warm sit and the stack of books from his previous endeavor. Not only one servant noticed the magical act, all stood silent as the figure is completely gone from their sight as they slowly released their breathe that what once caged.

“I told you…” One of them spoke. “I told you he is of a sorcery make! All of you looked at me as if I was insane!”. The very same servant who nodded is the one to break the silence. The rest glanced at her wearily, though they are still in a perplexed state. “Many have even saw him moved like a faded storm on the tourney! Be thankful I urged you to be silent and without words this day! Less he chopped you like a rabid dog!”

No longer than a moment, the lady of the house herself appeared as the entrance of the library opened in her wake. She strides forward as quick as passion, wearing a red dress tight elegantly on her figure with a shawl black and red glittered with shine and fragment of jewels like a red night shining with joy.

She looked around to find eyes of her servants wary and fearful. “Where is he?” Genna spoke in query. “Where is lord Vergil?”. All of them looked to each other, very much unknown who to speak the words. The very same one that have spoken decided to take the post.

“You have just missed him, M’lady.” She has said. “He… he disappeared from our sight all instant like! And then there was nothing left of him… he said that he would take a brisk walk to… to… oh… he did not say…”

Genna rolled her eyes as she followed with a gritted tooth. Now! in the eve of the reward and the feast!? She thought in frustration. “Continue on with your duties then…” She said with a tired voice, Genna walked towards the entrance once more, still striding nobly, the dress gave her no penalty on movement as old lessons seep well to her bones.

As the door closed, all the servants let out their breathe in relief.

Genna passes the courtyard where many nobles have draped themselves around as they scatter gracefully in each stone floor. All mind themselves as they take in the view of the sea and the plains, some court ladies-in-waiting above and underneath the flowers littered all around, some gathered in groups discussing old glory or future prospects of trade.

Or at the very least that is what they have done before she walked pass more than a few of them, so many eyes seem to be in her mind this far of the months it seems, unbeknownst to her, her azure visitor also would state the same claim. It was once a despairing event with a vulgar candor as a purpose. And then Vergil came to muck the whole realm to confusion.

Conversation changes right then and there, they were speaking of it before they spoke of the usual lordly business amongst other things. A sorcerer living amongst the lion, employed by the house to do more than unscrupulous acts. When the rest is tired speculating him to be a part of a royal family kept hidden, they instead speak of the Blackfyres. One would say that is a treasonous topic, but bearing in mind what just happened, the matters outside of the norm is not that unacceptable.

Other hidden converse relayed by one of her servants speak of the deal of marriage, that the hand of the lion’s daughter would be given to him as they share the powerful bloodline together. Genna is irritated profusely on that one, none of the nobles here have known her ire to him as he mangled her father’s man. But if the rumors that Vergil is a Blackfyre living in the rock may spread with the voices that spoke that her hand will be given to him as well, that would mean her house would be speculated to be treasonous by the royal family.

Her breathe started to heave heavily as she come close to her father’s seat. Not of exhaustion, but of worry and anxiety. This is the punishment from the seven divine is what she has thought as she recalled all that just occurred on the decade. She lived in a relatively peaceful realm from every kingdom that interact with hers safe from banditry and savagery due to her father’s lenient hand. But will the royal family act against such rumors especially during the stepstones invasion is now at large? She can only assume.

Her father smiled as she came close and invite her to sit beside him, as she takes her place, she motioned her head to find the chest that reaps the reward for her daring visitor… only to find it missing from beside her father makeshift throne…

“Father…” Genna inquired slowly and carefully. “Where is the chest?”

“Pardon?”

“The chest father… the reward for the tourney… where is it?”

---XxxxxX---

Ten years he has served in the house of lions…

It is an illustrious house; of that Tymon has learned well from his compatriots. He remembered the first time he steps foot on the castle. Gems and gold in places one would not expect, in plates and even in closets, even the door handles. He trained well in his early days to be taken notice by the master-at-arms. T’was before he had a family, before he took on the red cloak, before his feet touches the floors of the Lannisport.

He has made his place for those times, all those years. He served the house and its tasks well, the master said so, there is not much he could boast nor does he take pleasure on it but he like to think that he does, more so than others he believed. As he watches the sun slowly came to the middle of the skies and eventually the cut of the Horizon, the ache within started to arise.

Eighty-five gold dragons and four hundred silvers are the name of his wealth, sure enough to help him and his family survived for more than a decade. When he retire he would humor the prospect of farming in the name of the Lannister’s, they have given him much yes, surely with his honest work in the past it would give them the faith to lend a land for future grandchildren to partake in their lives.

But all is gone to ashes… what remains of the gold now have mostly been spent to aid and support him during his days in unconsciousness. The maester on Lannisport and the sept have demanded so much from his wounds, yet then again… a limb that has been mutilated and severe gashes on several parts is not a task one would call in ease.

He looked to his two sons and wife, hugging him and smiling just to see him survive. But what life would they have now. All the insurance and savings for their future to make their way as adults of their own are gone, and a man with one hand is barely a full man at all in this kind of life and world. I could’ve settled if it’s the left arm… he thought. All the sword training has been mostly on his right, now that the left is what remains, he must relearn everything.

He walked towards the sept and the maester’s house the other day, to plead for some of the gold to be relinquished back but none of them relent. The former spouting blasphemy against the gods and the other threatening the name of laws. He made no move to be threatening, not that he could’ve with one stump of an arm. For now, he could feed his family for a year, in a house barely large enough to accommodate a guest. He is counting his days now.

His old friend and fellow victim of the blue sorcerer attack on the castle has tried to plead to lord Tytos for leniency and to share his wealth for all the time we have given to sentinel his lands. But of all the irony, it is Dylarr himself that barge us from entering the rock in audience. At first, his sympathy is clear, but as the discussion to convince him to let us in taken further the more his patience runs thin, and all civil threads turns to shouts. As he made us turn our backs, I still could see the regret on the master-at-arms features, he is merely doing his duties

We were desperate… Lord Tytos has always been kind. But if we had not been as impatient as we were, we could’ve had what we wanted. I was thinking of my family, of their future, I’ve ruined their potential now, because of my exasperation. We walked home with our heads held down, tears wanted to relent, but one must be strong for his loved ones, someone has to.

But not everyone can. “My mother is on her death’s door!” Yelon shouted, face contorted with great sadness. “I’ve only needed a year more work before the Maester could have treated her!”. Then the tears sprouted, and he starts to walk like a drunkard. “I can’t…” he continued to speak. “I can’t face her like this… it was because of me she moved here… she abandoned her shop, so I could…”

They were walking in the edge of the castle’s tower walkway, more than a twenty dozen feet above the city ground. Yelon started to stand on the tip before he speaks his last word. “I can’t…”. He fell… Me and Dolton, my other companion lunged to reach him but we have failed, and me with my idiocy tries to reach to him with a hand that is no longer there. The pain still lingers even when lost.

We were terrified and despondent of Yelon’s state, we looked to each other to see who would dare to look down on his corpse, on who would tell his sick mother that his son has taken his own life. I dared myself with an old bravery to go first. Yet there he is, safe and landed safely on a hay. But the hay is more than a few feet away from the tip of where he should’ve fall, he fell without force, no it is impossible for him to land safely even on a hay, it still should’ve killed him.

“Huh?” Tymon exhaled in confusion, what was that? he thought to himself. In part he could be mistaken, but before he noticed Yelon’s safe landing he could’ve sworn he saw a fading blue blur just beside him. He blinked to see if there are any trace of what he just saw, but nothing remains but grunts and the pleading of his suicidal companion. Very odd.

“Come on!” Dolton spoke in hurry. “We must go to him now!”

They went their separate ways after, Dolton however stayed with Yelon. His inebriated and depressed state is not one to be left alone. For Tymon, he starts to breathe heavily as he begins to came close to his home. Small and lightened with lamps, he saw his wife preparing food with his firstborn helping her, they seem unwise to their circumstances. He relent at that, at least for now they can enjoy what little they have. But not if he can start to act now. perhaps there are other jobs-

He saw someone… right then and there besides another house watching him. He was cloaked, his face hidden behind the darkness of his hood. He made no move to approach him and Tymon shares the same mind. He walked towards his family’s house, eyes not daring to move from the shaded figure. He walked and opened the handle of his door, but as his eyes wondered back to the suspicious entity, he is already gone. Only the murmurs of a crowd of the market coiled in his senses.

His family greet him warmly…

The dusk is almost at its twilight, though the sun barely touches the line of the sea. He spoke much with his wife, of all the troubles and all the issues. She did not spoke in disappointment much less in sadness, she spoke well-enough of the future, of plans and light schemes. She spoke of simple task of logistics, how she and him could aid in simple jobs and simple pay. He thought she is not supposed to do that. that he is supposed to be the one making ends meet and she holding everything together.

He wanted to wail then, to curse the gods for giving them such life. But there was nothing but gratitude from his wife and she held none other than he would keep fighting as he did for all of his life.

And then she was gone to tend to other things, and his firstborn came in speeches. Declaring himself to join the guardsman fold, to be a Lannister knight someday as he once dreamed and what his father also wanted. A well of worry and anxiety came over Tymon, his son though well-trained is not yet old enough to held a sword unless it is blunted and light. Dylarr wouldn’t approve.

His firstborn spoke much, of glory and wealth, and Tymon simply spoke in soft downplay, to balance his expectation and focus on training and practice. Even then he was so happy to prove himself much to the amusement and chagrin of Tymon. They spent the dusk watching the sunset with his second son as well, though he is a toddler still.

He hoped that someday his wife and sons would not grow to hate him for his weakness… that they would remember the good in him. But the utmost wish that he had, is for them to grow better than the mistakes he has made as a man. Who would’ve thought that their lives would be down poured due to a visiting sorcerer, of all the things that happen in life.

The sun is set… though the red dusk still persists. They all decided to go inside except for Tymon’s firstborn who instead wished to practice in the open field. He relented, there are no dangers within Lannisport, especially on their neighborhood where many Lannister guardsman make their home as well. He strides towards the bed, hoping for a small peace and to forget their troubles even for a day.

At least it would have been if not for a knock on the door. At first it was his wife that opened it, only to reveal a plain-dressed man holding a sizable chest. He has spoken of Tymon’s name and with that his wife called upon him to the front. He wishes this is not another courier that brings ill-tidings more than he already have.

“Are you the one named Tymon of the Lannister guardsman?” The courier queried. Behind him is a horse with carriages holding multiple chests.

“Aye, that is who I am.” Tymon answered. “What brings you here good ser.”

“I have a deliver for you.” The messenger answered. “Here, this big chest is yours. Your hands only.”

He pushed the chest just right beside the house door, large and bronze coloring, his wife looking at him and her husband oddly. She opened it right then and there, wary of what is within as before she enquired Tymon is he is expecting something only to be answered otherwise. There was a shine coming from within and her body shivered as she instantly closed it again.

“What is it?” Tymon queried.

“Who sent this?” His wife ignored him for the time being.

“An odd fellow named…” The courier, revealed a parchment from within his plain coat. “Eva Redgrave… You know of him.”

“No… I don’t think so…” Tymon answered.

“Well… He knows a lot of people that does not know about him I suppose.” The courier stated. “I’ve delivered several of the same thing to others before you as well… are you a Lannister guard as well, if I may ask?” Tymon simply nodded with a humph of a yes to answer him. “Well… it’s the same for others before you. and I am sure for the ones after too… Well, I’ll take my leave, whatever business you have, I think it is much more interesting and less dangerous if I only looked from afar.”

The courier departed with his carriage. Within it he saw other chest of the same traits as well and some with varying size. He turns back to the one given to him and opened it quickly in an instant. And just so his eyes colored tears transparent, his hands vibrate with both worry and gladness. He turns his head to his wife to found her having a mystified feature as well.

For both of their eyes even without counting within is a gargantuan amount of golden dragons, shining even without the touch of sunlight. For those who have lesser eyes it could even blind them, but for the family that looked upon it they simply sent away a breathe of relief. “Come on! Let’s get this inside.” On all his excitement he tried to pry the chest with only one hand, not long after and with the scolding of his wife they brought it together. Unbeknownst to them at the time, they are holding four thousand golden dragons within the chest.

Their sons jumped around like madmen as they saw the thing, excited by the enigma of the day. As they put the chest near doorway of their parents’ chamber. Once again, a knock came from the entrance. Only this time Tymon is the one who answered the door, and to find his fellow friend Dolton outside.

“Did you not hear?” Dolton said, after they exchange pleasantries. “Almost all of our friends have been given the same as well, a chest full of gold.” He spoke with merriment, he mentioned Mikal, Killian, Georgie and Roy who have the same mangled body just as he does receive more or less the same chest full of wealth. “Yelon cried of joy after he received his, at least now he wont be shamed seeing his mother missing one leg and all.”

“Is it… Is it all the same guardsman that has been mutilated by the sorcerer?”

“Yes, I thought about it too… all the one who only have been bruised and gashed severely received the same albeit lesser but…” Dolton look to him curious. “Do you know anyone by the name Redgrave?”

“No, Dolton.” Tymon spoke, “I wished to ask you the same as well…”

“Then… you don’t think this is charity, don’t you? Perhaps the Lannister’s is doing this?”

“Then why would they use another name?”

“I don’t know…”

“Still…” Dolton wondered. “From what whoever have gave us… can you imagine it!? Its more than what we would’ve gotten from being a guardsman for five centuries! Maybe even more!”

They returned to their families after that exchange. For Tymon, odd has the day become. He hoped that this is no dream for him to wake up from. Perhaps now the children would live to see a greater future than one he could’ve imagined them to have.

---XxxxxX---

There Genna stand, on the stairs overlooking the Lannisport…

The suffocating false pleasantries of the feast sometime is to much for her. She could expect the many notions of politics or intrigues that relates to the forward march to noble dealings. She has also expected to be infuriated with insults regarding the notion of the tourney and feast. But instead, she has been cavalcaded with questions and enquiries regarding the Valyrian sorcerer that is now nowhere to be seen.

She could not suffer the queries more than she could answer. Some even dared to pay to visit Vergil for her troubles. Even clandestine reproach has been made, especially so after she has given her favor to the blue sorcerer as oppose to her betrothed. She hoped for no insult to the house of Frey and Emmon, but this is one of the ways she could hope to nullify the betrothal.

She has heard the news that both Emmon and Stevron has been severely injured that they cannot attend any feast or activities that demanded more than a modicum of body movement, Maester Creylen have implored they would fully heal In time but for the time being, even walking is an insufferable motion.

She hoped this would be the first step of avoiding the marriage fully, now that house Frey cannot officialized the betrothal in such a vulgar way, Genna now sees many path has opened for her future. It wouldn’t take long until Emmon goes home with nothing to gain from her and by that time Tywin would be home to slice away the issues that their father has made a problem of.

Not long after she saw him moving up the stairs towards her castle, his blue eyes gazed to the entrance seemingly ignoring her presence, infuriated she let herself known then and there. “Where have you been!?” Genna said. “You remember the deal did you not?”

“I do…” Vergil said, still walking with a slow pace taking his time. “I battered your betrothal in the tourney and now you’ve made your end and shut up.”

“You forgot the part where you need to attend the feast you fool!” Genna sternly spoke. “The reward can only be legitimized by the presence of the host and witnessed within the feast. Did you not implore me for the reward as well?”

“That was not in the deal…” Vergil said, his voice sliced the air. “It was the reward only…”

“There is procedure Lord Vergil.” Genna said half-mocking. “Either way, we have other problems… the chest containing your wealth… it is gone.” She said in a worried tone, worried of the coming reaction of the man beside her. Then again, he has not made any reaction other than the permanent scowl. “Did you not hear me!?”

“Lower your voice…” Vergil said coolly. “I’ve taken initiative and took the gold before I made my walk…”

“What…” Genna stared at him flabbergasted. “WHAT!?”

“I told you to lower your voice…”

“YOU!” Genna inhaled a breath and continued to speak in a whisper. “You took the gold underneath my father’s blessing? On the feast where many could’ve seen you—how did you do that without anyone seeing—”

“Irrelevant…” Vergil answered. “What you need to know is that our dealing is over…”

“Not yet…” Genna said with a sigh. “There is one more reward waiting for you… My father intends to give you a golden sword with a glorious lion scaba—”

“Not interested…” Vergil quickened his pace, as he entered the castle and making a pursuit towards the library.

“Hold yourself, you impatient man. Is this how you treat a lady when she is talking to you.” Genna said slightly exasperated as she walks with Vergil’s stride. “You cannot go the library; dozens of servants are cleaning it as of now.”

“You will order them to disperse, naturally…” Vergil replied, body and eyes focused forward. “After that you will leave me alone.”

“This hampering of yours—”

“You are a resourceful woman are you not?” Vergil intercepted quickly. “You find a way to discard the dastard event of your consummation, you manage the feast and tourney where it should’ve been your father, you even managed to kept my existence on the shadows until the tourney. Find a way out of this fickle on your own…”

“You will NOT discard me that easily! Vergil of house Sparda!” Genna equipped a harsh voice. “Remember why you are not disturbed inside that library. And remember who’s castle you are living in.”

“Remember when I almost entirely decimated your household guard, recall also that I have mangled your lords playing war on that ridiculous melee…” Vergil said, standing before her. Forcing Genna to look up to him as she stands so close to his chest. “Don’t think you can cow me like your little guardsman… you have no idea who you are up against.”

Genna did not relent, her fist stands firm beside her as she challenges his gaze. “How brave is you to try to intimidate me where I am now as a lady of my house… it is unfortunate you are failing. There will be no end of disturbance on your precious station on the library if you don’t listen to ME.”

Both deign no interest to falter, nor giving in to each other’s demand. They stand there with no prospect of surrender, trying their best to cow the other. Their fury however, was dissipated as the sounds of cheer from within Casterly rock and outside on Lannisport. It only for a moment until they try to intimidate each other again, stupid the prospect may be. “I could just kill you now and be done with it…” Vergil breaks the silence.

“Why is it taking so long then?” Genna replied with a coy smile. “You have your sword, have at you!”

The stare from Vergil turns from arrogant fury to cold exhaustion. She as well turns into a slight bow of embarrassment. The silver-haired man sighed miserably on the circumstances of the evening, looking towards other view other than the lady beside her just to control his fury, truly he is being tested in self-control. Though the sounds from the feast are reduced, the merriment on the Lannisport is still on their culmination.

“Fine…” Vergil relent, someone needs to be the adult in this, he thought. “But I have another extension to our arrangements…”

“More than you already have?” Genna audaciously asked, the glare from Vergil made her eyes roll in frustration. “Go on then, what more do you want…”

“Tommen’s roar Street on Lannisport. Do you know of it?”

“I lived here, Vergil.” Genna replied with a brow raised. “Yes, that is where most guardsman housed themselves… if they are not stationed on the castle or other post that is. Rarely you’ll find anything or anyone other than retirees and cripples there. What of it?”

“Post your able-bodied guards there…”

“What? For what reason?”

“Never you mind…” Vergil simply said. “Just post more than some there.”

She looked into him, bodies leaning back whilst her hand rested on her elbow. She looks all the haughtier than she does before. “If you wish for me to make changes on guard, then you need to tell me the reasons why…”

“…Vergil, those kids are more confused than angry. Is that how you are going to be as you grow?”

“…You’ve made a mistake sweetie, everyone always has. the worst part is not doing anything about it…”

“Dante is too lenient… that means I have to rely on you to be the firm hand… are you listening to me Vergil?”

“Your brother is a little too trusting that little boy, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble would you sweetie…”

“I didn’t give you Yamato just so you could chop away like a maniac! You need to be better than me or not at ALL! Do you understand!?”

“Lord Vergil?” Genna queried. “Are you in a daze now!? of all places!?”

“I will not attend your idiotic party if you don’t station your guard on that road…” Vergil stated firmly as he released himself from old stupor. “If I found out that there has been thievery on that part of Lannisport, there will be more blood letting than you have seen on my onslaught on the tourney and the library…”

Genna stared, Vergil’s patience seems to be on the edge. His heavy breath shown it, especially as the mist starts to form even when the chill is not that cold. “Fine…” Genna relent as well. “We’ll go to Dylarr before we reach the feast, I’ll order him to do so… but remember to mind your manners on the occasion…”

They depart. “And You’ll tell me for what reason Tommen’s roar is of importance to you…”

“Just go on and walk already…”

---XxxxxX---

Everything seems to be a shade of gold on the halls and yard of the feast…

The lampshades and the chandeliers gave a tint of yellow that does not betray the golden hue of the room and halls. There are more than shades of red as well, on the drapes and the covering of the table. But more so on the persons that employs such color in their banners and house. All is well and grand if one would look from afar, but come a tinies bit nearer and more will notice the disparity.

Smile is given but far away from genuine, laughter and guffaws are shared but the stutter in their throat are more than enough inclination for many to notice the falsehoods. Most tried to converse of subjects pertaining their lordly pleasantries, but their soft whisper and quick whip of word with no wit indicate the lack of passion in such discussions.

They all knew from within what the true heart of the matter in which they want to speak of, far and long has been the time since the very notion of magic has littered the halls of many lords in their castles. Knowledge lost and mystic blood diluted, all that remains are names with power dubious in their claims and thousand of years of tradition barely known the meaning of such acts.

The tourney is an event most spectacular; no one is in the mind to deny such proclamation, no one even think to necessitate for that to be loudly declared. They all know what they saw, or at least presumed to know, most already speak of the resurrection of Old Valyrian, that an ancient calling of dragons has come through the shape of man.

Others would speak of old elusive realm of Asshai, sorcerer that came from such lands bearing powers that should not be withheld by the hands of man. All fear on those speculations, many have known on the cursed land and waters of such realm. Even saying a word on such places would cause a mystical event for the worse of someone, the last anyone needs and wants are for such probability to exist on the lands of Westeros.

They broach the topic oh so subtly… Quite the event yesterday isn’t it… My so many unique occurrences we are having does it not?... Lord Tytos, what is new with your house? so fearful to tackle it head on, perhaps such voices speaking the right words directly would result in a cursed outcome, no one dared to test the theory.

Everyone felt such things, except for those who partake in the tourney… and those in relation…

“This is outrageous of the highest order…” Reynard spoke with a huft of disdain and exhaustion, every word that came from his lips are painful, the damages Vergil has caused has led to severe pain in certain movement. Quite unfortunate that such things remain on the Reyne’s cheek. “How could anything could lead to this?... where has Tytos found such a man?” He questioned.

“I’ve spoken to him…” Ellyn said, gaudy still in her movement. “He has no part on the Valyrian’s participation on the tourney… it was outside of his works.”

“Works…” Reynard scoffs. “As if he had anything to work for… No, you were right, it was Genna that have a hand in this. You heard and saw the speaker proclamation. He declared that Genna’s favor is in the Valyrian’s hand. It is she we need to speak too…”

Ellyn sighed, and her face curious, but worry still came though in thought. “How is your face?”

“The maester said that it would heal given time… but considering the force on what that backhand has done, it would not be anytime soon…” Reynard replied, still exhaling breaths in pain. “How do you think she acquired such a man anyway…”

“I… I know not but assumptions, though there were some rumors…” Reynard looked at her expectantly. “They are wary to approach the library for in there he usually posts himself… it seems he is quite a learned individual. Genna also often visit the place before the event of the Tourney, so I would dare to presume they are quite familiar with each other.”

“You think… You think the Valyrian is in the employ of the Lannister’s” Even in hushed tone, The movement still hurts for Reynard. “I mean… we know he is a learned man judging from the sorcery alone, but I have never heard such magics wielded the way the man has wielded his, if at all I have seen magic at all. I can barely think he is even human… perhaps the old adage has a point… Valyrians are closer to God than man.”

“But that is not what you are so worried about isn’t it…”

“No…” Reynard readjust his throat to swallow, even that is an agony. “What does this mean for us… if Tytos send such man into our fields we will be—”

“I told you, Tytos has no claim over the man… Also, what makes you think he would do so? You know how the man is, he would not harm a goat even if its shit on his mother’s grave.” Ellyn replied in a huft, eyes wondered to the host of this castle, drinking in merriment with the other ladies-in-waiting.

“NO… no… not Tytos, but what of Genna?” Reynard enquired. “We make a wrong move and we’ll be cutdown in spades.”

“I—”

Just before the Reyne’s finished in their converse, the entrance to the feast opened to reveal two figures. Everyone held the air in their lungs after they conceived what they have perceived. The very same man himself stride forward with Lady Genna beside him. Everyone is silenced as they watch, Genna is ever always agitated, stares and attention are not an unfamiliar sensation for high figures, but this one came from a different kind of frame.

Her father stands tall as he saw their stride, Vergil aloofness shows no indication of decline. As all eyes wondered towards him, so does Genna’s. Tywin held the same mind, walking forward with a straight body like an arrow, all else are nothing but an unnecessary obstruction. She tried to find such purpose to hold such mindset, to be so confident on one’s goal that anything else is irrelevant. But even so… with strength unrivalled by a thousand man, how could one not be indifferent to many things.

“You can leave after my father has done his work…” Genna whispered, almost close to pleading. “Please, be mindful and patient to him… this is demanded of him.” Vergil showed no sign of listening to her other than a quick glance from his iris that not many would notice, Genna included. As of now she merely breath in anxiousness of what is to come.

She looked around the hall for any apprehensive looks, though surely, they are not that difficult to find. Though they are more wary than aggressive, features quelled with a sad scowl that an angry glare. In a long moment she manages to glance to Ellyn Tarbeck and Tion, both held no face of old smugness that was once pertaining them greatly, though it is to Ellyn more than Tion.

Garth Tyrell, his face is scarred though it does not make him unappealing more than he already is. All this tourney event is a play for him to raise his name, though all with sharp senses know the man’s true nature, moniker such as the gross is not one title that came without reason. Still, he held the same fear as everyone else, even now he is unremarkably lesser than he was before.

The Hedge Knight that has gone unnamed watches on from the yard outside of the hall, though the large chamber is open enough for one to see many from the outside. His compatriots stand beside him, all just as wary except for the knight himself. He equipped a mix of excitement and a cautious look, keeping pace in walking with both Vergil and Genna to not let them lose from his sight.

Ronnel Arryn and his man adds a more unique reaction to the son of Sparda. Angered look more than terror. Such is the nature of the flock of the seven, one hint of magic and their first answer is folly and hostility. Genna sighed at the conclusion that has been made by them, Arryn is a powerful man in name and all things lordly, but Vergil is another being entirely. She wished that there would not be another bloodletting anytime soon.

Vergil stands just below the stairs of the house seat of House Lannister, where her father and Gerion Is sitting above them, she sighed and pray that her brother would not be on his childish streak at this time, she knows not the limit of Vergil patience. She took her place just on the other side of her father, refusing to deign a look to the awed onlookers.

Though she noticed no Freys have attended this feast, that would mean the consummation is now far and away from being done, within her heart she is gladdened, there are things to be thankful for in this day at least. Now all that is left is to annul it entirely. Her father stands above the sorcerer champion with a smile, as he let out his expected speech.

---XxxxxX---

It is a simple thing, the speech that Tytos currently delivers…

Very much unfitting to the spectacle that has occurred recently, a very much uneventful speech to a very unnatural event. The words spoken are common and with no passion, speech that have been given by town criers who wishes to be more with only a trickle of hard work. Jon Connington scoffs on Tytos voice, all man high and low put their focus on the true entity on the hall.

Underneath all those spoken words, not even a sentence of it spoke the Valyrian’s true name. They call him the silver-haired man or a simple azure coat fellow, the hedge knight proclaimed that he will give his name If he win the tourney, a prospect now away from the man, one would think he only do so to make the day more spectacular in his name. But this one speaks no words more than necessary, perhaps even less than we should understand.

Just so, Jon Connington hears the sound of a shrill sword unsheathed, on Tytos hand is a golden sword with a lion’s decoration, black, gold and red all around. “On behalf of house Lannister please accept the reward…” Beneath Vergil gritted his teeth and hand curled in a fist, Connington see such things through, this hall and feast is insufferable to him.

Seems he’d rather be elsewhere… Jon thought.

Vergil reaching simply to the sword and took it with it sheathe, not even giving the attention of eye contact to Tytos. “Thanks…” He spoke the word unenthusiastically, after which he turns his back and immediately walks with focus towards the entrance, not deigning for more glory in the presence of lordly party.

“Hold there ser!” Tytos called out. “Regarding your golden dragons—”

“I already took it…”

“What?”

“The fifty thousand golden dragons…” Vergil continued to speak, merely glancing back towards the toothless lion. “I already took it… you don’t have to worry about that.” Tytos looks to Genna in confusion, his daughter simply nods and whispered to let him go. The rest however, watch on in curiosity still. Whispers and mumbles spread all around.

“Good ser… How did you do so? The chest is right beside me, I did not see you—”

“Correct, you did not see me… but I did take it.” Vergil said in finality. “that’s the end of this farce…”

The whispers turn to quiet gasps from many lips, Genna sighed once more on his action and words, only looking on as he walked away to the entrance. Tytos is a lion whose tail has been many times been tangled by mockery, but even the Genna hoped that Vergil would at least pertains on some formality. Though the night did not end with a quiet hall…

“WAIT!” A voice called, a young one. Red and black not even a head taller than the table the feast is decorated with. “Wait for me!” He ran towards Vergil, as fast as his little feet can take him. Genna held his breath in panic, standing up immediately to chase after the little lion.

“Gerion, stay where you are!” Genna sternly spoken as prose as she could considering being surrounded by lords and ladies, yet no matter if she abandoned the act to swiftly paced towards him, she would not reach. And with the last blink of her eye, Gerion is hugging the leather pants near Vergil’s thigh to withheld him from leaving.

Vergil instinctively lift the golden sword up to avoid an incident, as it almost sliced the little lord’s face in his sluggish approach. He stands completely still as Gerion in his little frame tries to pull him back towards the hall for a request most audaciously childish. “You’ve just arrived and already you want to leave? You said you’re going to show me some magic!”

Genna tried to pry him away, whispering lightly on other means of pleasure a child would have to plead to in order to have, unfortunately… “No, I don’t want some stupid cake or a new sword! I can get them another day! I want to see some magic!”. Vergil grunted with a sigh on this idiotic spectacle, he looked around to find many others find the situation in unbelievable.

“Get this runt out of my leg…” Vergil whispered harshly towards the lion’s daughter.

“Do NOT call him that…” Genna replied with gritted teeth towards him, still trying to pull Gerion. “Gerion please, everyone is watching. You don’t want lord Vergil to be bothered do you, he would not be capable doing magic when he is angry you know…”

“Really?” Gerion queried with a sniffle, Vergil however look to him with the very same cold scowl he often wears. “Liar!” The boy exclaimed. “He was really angry at the tourney! And he can do magic then! Why can’t he do it now!?”

This can’t be happening… Vergil thought in as his cheeks firmed in excessive frustration. “Be quiet!” He spoke severely towards him, Gerion let go of his leg by instinct as he hears the stern voice. In exchange however, Gerion’s tears started to swell and excited body turns to the inevitable quiver of a cry. Vergil and Genna watches on to the process in panic.

Of all the things!... immediately Vergil’s figure coiled in blue aura, and the eyes starts to shade in glowing red. Like streams of azure tentacles, the ray glow dances all over his frame like the whip of the sun. Now whispers and gasp turns to exclaim and vain declaration of their gods as they observe the son of Sparda slowly turns to the mystic.

Gerion however, watches in awe of the shining splendor of magics. the once tearful eyes turns to excitement once more, and proceed to jump in his place as all the boundless energy of a child unrelenting.

“Vergil…” Genna whispered carefully, the nature of the man before him is still largely unknown, she grabbed Gerion towards her, hoping that the phantasm that blanketed the figure before her is no cause of danger. But as the seconds came and gone, a blue transparent sword appeared on the tip of his finger.

He approached Gerion, and everyone that watches held their breathes. Tytos is petrified on his seat, unable to move on the unnatural spectacle, Genna however stays in her place, hugging Gerion’s shoulder in apparent protection against the unknown. But as matter comes to a place, something else has occurred.

Vergil relinquished the azure transparent sword towards Gerion, the object floating on top of his palm, no larger than a short sword half as tall as the youngest Lannister himself. Genna wanted to hold him in his place, but with his unmatched vigor, he escaped towards Vergil’s hand. “Will you be quiet now!?” Vergil enquired.

“What… what is it?” Gerion asked, the very same sword is now floating on top of both his palm, circling around him like a manic compass.

“It is a sword… you young fool.” Vergil exclaimed in frustration. “It can’t harm you; it will do as you ordered and it is weightless.” He continued, though his eyes wondered towards Genna instead, a word of appeasement to discontinue the prospect of argument. “Now leave me be!”

With that, he turns to walk away with quickening pace. No interest to give even a smidgen of attention to the rest of the pompous flock. As his feet step to the hallway outside of the feast, he sighed a breath of relief. What a droll event… he thought, as the noises of the feast turns to the noise of the night and crickets, now in peace away from the masses he marches back quickly to the library.

For there are many tasks to be had.

---XxxxxX---

Genna looked to Gerion in worry, the very same blue sword still twirls lightly on his fingers giving no indication of dispersing. The boy gave it full attention no different than a hawk toying with its food, as they move back to their seat, Genna needs to guide Gerion to ensure he did not stumble into another incident, especially with such magic in his hands.

It is in a short notice that the sword stopped in its twirl and began being swinged around by little Gerion like a newfound fabulous toy. By then he needs to be sent out to the yard for him to relent that boyish energy with the supervisor of a couple of guards including Dylarr, for now she held a different kind of scheming problems.

Still, she still stingingly worries of the sword her brother has been given, such a sharp item is not something a child should hold, more so with its magical properties. Yet Vergil have been nothing but infuriatingly honest with her in the times they interact, he did not fall to manic and slaughtered the castle even when he can, thus the benefit of the doubt came when he hand over a magical hue to her brother. She can only hope…

As she returned into the hall, Tytos is surrounded by all cavalcades of nobles, demanding answers to queries beyond human comprehension. Beside him stands Maester Creylen, easing his way through the crowds, spouting words to cease the subtle riot against the host of the house. “What is this!?” Genna enquired sternly. “Why are you surrounding my father!?”

All manners of lords turn towards her, with diverse faces of worry. The first to approach is the gross himself, Garth of house Tyrell. Even with mangled features, he still dares to walk with stride of the unashamed. “Yes, lady Lannister. There is much we need to discuss about!” The man spoke. “Surely we have the right to demand answers for what just occurred!?”

Just so, the crowd around him shouted with concord. Each voice that partakes gave more headache as she hears more than a second. “As you would to enquire, lord Garth…” Genna replied. “But it is unnecessary to surround my father as you did, if you wish to ask then ask do not coerce!” right after, some man calmed themselves in introspection, the rest scowled in impudent fury.

“How can you!—”

“Quiet!” Genna moved towards her father, pale and filled with sweat like a man on deaths door. “Maester Creylen, please escort my father to his chambers… he is not well to handle this.”

“My lady—”

“Not now Creylen, please just do as I say…”

They locked eyes in worry of each other, though the Maester relent in the end with a slow nod. In seconds their figure slowly disappears into the corridors of the castle towards their destination. “Should’ve known Tytos is to much of a cunt to—”

“Careful sir…” Dylarr spoke from beside the outspoken noble, the man is bearing the symbol of house Florent. “You are a guess here, better watch what you say… less your liege lord face will be the least damaged goods in this realm.”

“That is enough!” Genna shouted, and all the unsheathed sword is stopped in her wake. “Have you all forgotten traditions and honor? Did you not vow for guest rights and all!? Sheathe your swords so we can discuss this in civility.”

They were in a moment of utter silence where time itself seems to slow, but even then they remembered their stature, and all the steel shining dampened once more by their leather sheathes. “Now… you all wish to enquire… then enquire…”

“Since when did you have a sorcerer in your midst!?” Reynard asked first, his face still coiled with pain as he speaks, beside him is his sister Ellyn in just as confused face. “It is impossible for Tytos to acquire such a… I don’t even know what he is!? is he even human!?”

“Only recently…” Genna spoke. “And he is a friend of the family… I will leave it at that.”

“Truly!?” Garth spoke still in disdain. “Tytos Lannister is befriending—”

“My friend…” Genna corrected. “Through a very odd circumstances, one that I would not deign to elaborate.”

“You!?” Reynard replied. “How did this happen?”

“I told you…” Genna said. “It is complicated, and I wish to not explain… you have been counseled, move to your next questions.”

Reynard scoffs with a shake of his head. “That’s it? you treat your guess with this lack of respect!?”

“You are given the respect you deserved… you’ll find our feelings mutual considering our history, Reynard…”

Reynard wishes to interject more, but her sister stops him from his impatient rant. This time however Ronnel Arryn came in to voice. “How could you let this happen, my lady. The teachings of sorcery are one of ill works of evil. I wish to ask on how could this happen, but I know you request not to relay such past. Then my question is this, will he be someone we should worry about?”

“What is this question?” Garth intercepted. “Did you all not see what he has done!? What he can do!? There is no longer need to question of the danger! We must be wary! He needs to be discarded!” He finished with bold anger. “Such powers should only be in the hands of the gods, his existence is a disparity against what is good.”

“Careful, lord Tyrell…” Connington spoke, very much unlike the rest he is not one of the crowds who tried to cow Tytos. He merely stands in the nearest pillar, watching close enough to hear and speak. “The Targaryens are of the same being of the very same race the sorcerer is, they are all Valyrians no? such statements could be considered treason…”

Garth shakes his head as he walked back with his hands on his hips frustrated. “All of you know that is not what I meant!? He has shown sorcery not even the old Targaryens have! he could be a danger to us all.”

“We hear you, Lord Garth… but I have a different question.” Connington spoke. “Where did he learn such powers?”

She has been In omission and lying thus far, but even now she wondered where such magics could be acquired… it could be in… “Asshai maybe, perhaps the man travelled to Valyrian…” Genna said. “Truth is, he never spoke where and how he could procure such strength. It is a topic most private to him, you’ll find me just as clueless as all of you are.”

“Here you said that he is a friend of yours…” Reynard spoke with pain.

“All man has their secrets, lord Reyne. Its is crude to pry.”

“So, he is not related to the royal family then?” Arryn rhetorically spoke. “Could this be a problem?”

Connington raised a brow. “How so?”

“Well… A man capable to take on an army like that…” As the words are released, the outlook of the future becomes all the clearer as the suggestion is conceived. Everyone looks to each other with eyes wide open. “I mean no denying the man is Valyrian…” Genna coughed lightly on that “if he someday would clash with the Targaryens… what are their odds…”

“Arryn, you are looking to far here…” Connington spoke. “We don’t know why he is even here…” as he finished, he looks to the lady of the house. Genna did not bother to make contact in all sense. No interest to answer in retort. “For all we know his purpose could have nothing to do with us.”

“Should we take that chance?” Arryn said.

“What other choices do we have?” Connington replied. “Unless you wish to uphold the seven’s teaching, then with all due respect, lord Arryn. Feel free to apprehend him.” No one dared to speak words of outright hostility after Connington’s statement. Heads held low as they all contemplate, “Besides, he is a guest of house Lannister. We speak of traditions before, should we break such things today. Circumstances considered?”

Genna look to the yard and see the very same sword of azure flying and floating and dancing on top of Gerion as he laughed. “Let us make this quick, my lords… there are many things we need to take care of…”

---XxxxxX---

There were no eyes being opened as the night turns to its darkest…

In the matter at hand, expectations of what the day should have been, has been severely shattered into pieces of confusion. They all scatter into their echo, the colors that they bear have discarded their prominent traits, no longer they openly display from where or who they came from. Discussion is in peak, but as all is the dealings of the lords it all came into the ideals of power.

“How do we approach this…” Connington said towards his fellow bannerman “The Royal family is on warfare and the Baratheons are with them. Should we just note what has happened here or should we take part with in depth investigation?”

“To what end?” Eldon Estermont said, of the noble house of green stone. Both men are vassals of house Baratheon, loyal and passionate as the storm above their homeland. Or so they say. “The man is a guest of house Lannister, as far as we know they are in league with each other. How could we approach the man, aloof as he is now.”

“We must try…”

“Again… to what end?” Eldon affirmed. “For what purpose do we approach him?”

“His existence here… it is not right…” Connington replied. “What do you think would happen if a house exists with such capabilities in Westeros? We live in a time most peaceful bar the invasion that came from the east. What happen if there is an entity powerful enough to subdue us from within.”

“Do you think that is actually what would occur?” Eldon retorted. “Variables are many now… I find it very odd that such a fellow with magics that we have seen to be kept hidden so thoroughly. Lady Genna spoke that they are of recent friendship, one would think that the man is a visitor of the east perhaps. But then again, one should’ve heard such things even so far away in Essos as it may be.”

“Are we so sure of that? Essos is a land with many beliefs and events… who knows what else is kept hidden from us.” Connington replied. “Either way, should the royal family have learned of this matter? He seems more threat than ally. He made no gesture of friendship to anyone here save for Genna, even then they seem quite… irritated? With each other…”

“I know not of the relationship between them, but regarding the royal throne… we do have obligations to uphold in protection of Westeros. As we consider so far the implication of this fellow existence in our lands, perhaps its wise to report such things.” Eldon suggested.

“Yes, but then again… why didn’t house Lannister made the first move first” Connington remarked. “Perhaps their loyalty to the iron throne is dubious.”

“There is one more thing…” Eldon spoke. “Many tongues have spoken of another line…”

“Line?”

“Bloodline…” Eldon whispered. “They say the man maybe a… Blackfyre” Right then and there, an exhaled came as air of breath released with anxious exhaustion.

“That is a… quite a theory.”

“There is sense in stratagem I suppose… when the Royal Family is busy conflicting in the step stones…”

“A flank that came from another road…” Connington finished. “But the only indication of him being a Blackfyre is only the hair…”

“And the regal coat, and the sword… Not to mention the way he moved both in and out of a battle.” Eldon suggested. “You see it to, don’t you? He is not simply a wandering mage. I’ve heard the lady Genna herself call him lord Vergil…”

“Vergil…” Connington whispered. “I don’t recognize the name… Also, a simple wandering mage? As if there are anything simple in being one at all? Shouldn’t a Blackfyre wear a symbol and color of their house?” He ended humorously

“Not if he tries to hide…”

“Then he is not doing a great job.”

“No, so he does not. And never mind that” Eldon affirmed. “Does that add to the argument or otherwise? He has a kingly look to him and this bear not his… powers”

“You know if this is the truth it would be devastating, Eldon.” Connington replied, they are slowly pacing away from the halls in the yard, near the edge where the waves of the sea blunted their sounds. “If he is a Blackfyre and he is supported by house Lannister…”

“That is what I thought as well…” Eldon said. “With the Lannister wealth and his sorcery… how do you think we fare?”

“How do you think the royal family will fare?” Connington sighed. “This is outrageous, Eldon. This is not what we expect when we arrived in this rock. But…” An idea came to him. “Why did Genna revealed him so openly?”

“Yes, I see that as well!” Eldon concurred. “One would think they would keep their treasonous act hidden, but here they are flaunting it to the free. I say that this is intentional, to show the kingdoms of the standing and power of her house and the could-be Blackfyre. Perhaps… just perhaps… she is trying to convince us…”

“To join her and the sorcerer…” Connington continued. “Yet, she did not speak of it when we questioned her…”

“Perhaps not then, perhaps not now… later maybe…” Eldon looked around as the moonlight shines the minerals around them. “When we are alone to be convinced in private, outside of ears that are stubborn in their loyalty…”

“Their loyalty?” Connington queried. “We are loyal are we not, Eldon.”

“We are, Jon… I am just making a point.” Eldon corrected, smiling in humor. “But then all we can do now is wait until we are approached… or… or we could approach the man himself…”

They stand for more than a moment to contemplate the idea, the concept most likely to end in the greatest of pain. If recent events of the scars on their body would give them any indication at all. “We are far away from that prospect in order to make better ends, much less to survive if it goes awry.”

“Yes, how foolish is the notion.” Eldon scoffed in humor. “But one thing we do know however, the man is a lord. Genna called him as such… so in that perhaps a much more, intrigue approach would be more appealing.”

Unbeknownst to them and each other. All the lords and ladies present have given more or less the same sentiment. Tales of old Dragon’s awakening, songs of the seven prayed within their chambers for signs, the heart tree beneath the rock shakes in anticipation. Words of secrecy surrounds the air, as plan and schemes has been made by the presence of the son of Sparda.

“It is almost the edge of chaos out there, Genna.” Joanna Lannister said, peaking from the balcony as numerous men of high birth wonder in curiosity. “Of all things, Genna. You manage to acquire a magic wielder to your midst… how did that happen.”

“He just came to my library… and…” And she revealed all, Joanna is the other half of the maiden of the Lannister’s. there are cavalcades of secrets they hold over each other, every lass needs another to speak with, one could only do so much in such time of complexity. “Never have I saw so complicatedly mad and different the way that he is… none of the wiles we have been taught for has worked, at least on my end…”

“Ahh… an elusive one, is he?” Joanna spoke coyly. “Not many can say they interact with such beings without the norm, I don’t think there are any design out there for lessons pertaining socializing against being of otherworldly stock.” She ended it with a laugh, as both minds conformed to the situation. At the very least, she managed to make Genna smiled.

“How about the other things you have learned…” Joanna edged. “Other than being a lord of house Sparda and the odd sword he wields, what else have you find…”

“He reads nothing but topics within his mastery, Joan.” Genna huffed. “I cannot approach in knowing him when every thing he has shared does not lies in common sense. I do not even think he wishes for us to develop in cordiality, the man is rasp in a permanent scowl, the nerve of him!”

“Do you wish me to try?”

“You want a lick of him? Then by all means, Joan.” Genna giggled as he delivered the words. “But we have greater things to worry about, still.”

“Oh, how many times you have said that already… there are always something to worry about.”

“Yes, and this one pertains you as well…” Genna said. “When Tywin came home… what are we going to do…”

Vergil however, sit in silence on the library. Ignoring the wonderment eyes of little Gerion that have managed to sneak out of the vision of both Lannister ladies. They did not speak in the occasion, merely tolerating for the one and stares in awe from the other. Occasionally Gerion would return to play with his phantom blue sword.

The hands of the seven kingdoms are moving, little the influence of those present at the Casterly court may be with the exception of Garth Tyrell, Ronnel Arryn and the Lannister Flock, their hands hovered above their pieces as the board grows larger to accommodate a form of a dark slayer.

Another blood came and entered the game… but the man himself is unbeknownst to it, reading still in the repository of knowledge…

In due time perhaps…

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

I need to sway away the idea of updating at midnight-morning. I am losing sleep because i am worried to pass the promised deadline.
Anyways, as usual. before any hard events to happen there has to be a buildup. expect such process to be the norm for me. Though if you have other suggestions let me know.

(Also, i did a grammar check. But i am only human, if you see something amiss please let me know about that as well... words or statement not delivered correctly can break a story you know, i fear for that greatly)

Chapter 5: Establishing boundaries

Summary:

The humor and patience is long gone, Vergil will find no peace until he made his claim, much to Genna's dismay.

---XxxxxX---

There were many places that he could go to, being stranded in places of abhorrent filth is not a prospect unfamiliar to him. But the strategy Casterly rock bestowed far outweigh the disturbance its dwelling persistent in giving him. Some lords dared to enquire upon him more than twice, some in wisdom decided to falter from the first course of rejection. Either way, the taint of irritation is already spreading thoroughly in his mind, every second wasted to humor the ill high folk are seconds that could be used for training.

In the balcony yard underneath the castle, the Son of Sparda does his best to make himself unknown during his sword practice. Only the lady of the house and her loyal captain are informed on his whereabouts and would be places if he is needed, rare such occurrences may be. but naturally eyes wonder in incident here and there and just so does rumors and gossips wonder, the place is still too small for one to be secretive. Hence this time came a figure of a woman clad in red though with a more mature outlook to her than Genna have not yet acquired.

“You are not one wanting to be found, are you?” Ellyn Tarbeck said, dress barely hides her shoulder, golden hue lined on its edges. This one tries to find the balance in elegance and desire, an apt tactic for a man of ordinary kind, unfortunate she did not know the present company upbringing and origin. Vergil attempted to find the words to deliver in a swoop.

“I’ve told your brother I have no interest in answering trivial questions, disperse…” Vergil said, deadpan and cold. Ellyn tilts her head in doubt, a brow raised as she looks upon him with a smirk. Vergil sighed, this one needs a harder hand it seems, He thought. Already his hand itch to continue his kata, the ticking in his head sounds louder and louder as time kept withering.

“So quick to make a verdict… Will you not interest me to hear what I have to say—”

“No.” He replied, justly and with no recourse. “If I want to humor useless endeavors, I would be in the privy… relieving myself, which is a tad bit more productive than whatever it is you are trying to do right now.” He finished; a threat of a growl almost spewed out from his lips. He re-wraps his fingers to Yamato again, attempting to feel the heft to calm his impatience.

Ellyn abandoned her smirk, her eyes narrowed on the words listened. “Do you have any idea who you are speaking to?” She spoke, arrogant, spoiled and very much undeserving. “You are a foreigner here, a newcomer who knows not on the state of these lands. Do you actually think the host you have now is the true power in here!?” She ended with a vitriol, frustration caving in as cunning is abandoned to make way for fury.

“All you have to do is to listen to the words around you.” She continued, haughty upwards stare upon him, “it is well promulgated if you must know, hence it is impossible for you to not hear it. Tytos must have paid well for one with your capabilities to serve as his underling.” The air grew cold, what was once a lively morning of crashing waves, now turn timid as the breeze threatens to upwind winter.

Vergil turns his body towards her, though he is quite far in the discussion, standing a few meters away from her as she equipes a stern and a much more louder voice to upend the waves, missing they are as of now. She felt the frostbite sting so strong, as the air breathing away from her mouth shows the freezing mist.

“It must be that girl you take a liking is it.” Ellyn persisted in speaking, “Genna is a lovely one, well outfitted and a succulent figure that threatens her gowns. Surely you are not one to be so easily swayed even for such a high price? The young lady holds a great steadfast and appearance, but pale in comparison on what I can give you…”

She intended to approach him, but the sway within her soul demands a retreat, a predatory sensation almost overwhelmed her, surrounding her… ready to engulf. Yet still in her vanity she kept speaking. “You have seen the laughter on this castle’s court, the jape and the twist of words? The powers in this house are there in name only, in due time it would change… would you… do you… I…”

She felt confusion, and then came the anxiety, feelings that came without consciousness. She shakes her head to break away from her stupor with no proper results, “What… I’m sorry, I don’t know—” The dizziness threatens to keel her over, the only sound anchoring her to reality is one voice that deigned to speak as if to lower himself to her lowly stature.

“What’s wrong?” Vergil asked, “Tongue tied on your own pride? You should get yourself checked.” Ellyn cannot even try to think of a quip, much less to spoke in retort. But the sensation slowly dissipates, and as she recalled to reality, she blinked her eyes to see her azure opposition standing right before her. Only a few winds separating them from touching.

“Let me see your hand…” Vergil requested, tongue still as stern and cold as prior.

Ellyn smiled softly and smirk in her heart, in her mind all man are slaves to their instincts. Not even one as powerful as him has will against a woman’s wiles, though her thoughts would be shortly toppled in the moments to come. Feigning interest and pain, she gave him her hand, with a soft word of false pretense and exhaustion.

“Soft and Silky…” Vergil stated, “Not one touch of hardened work on your palms… you must be really spoiled.”

“It would be much more satisfactory, if you lend me yours with mind…”

“Really?” Vergil said, a tint of playfulness in tone. “I have a better idea…”

---XxxxxX---

Many troubles have been resolved, the melee is done and the jousting would come in due time to take its place for the public fanfare. The cleaning came smoothly, taking only several days as oppose to the expected week of full task. A bait of a golden dragon to quicken the pace does make for an effective catalyst.

From her balcony, the fields below the rock are as clean as it once was once more. With only the seats and the podiums furnished to a better state, long and wide to accommodate many more people. The melee may be an event most outrageous and utterly fantastic in devastation, but still some is expectant of more revelry, it has been promised after all, and the Lannister’s name is on the far end of the grave if they do not fulfil it.

Still, for Genna the day is young and most of her issues are seceded. If there would come a time for her to stride towards her hobbies and past times, this would be the most obliging period, but alas, her mind unfortunately wonders elsewhere towards another trouble. Quite fortunately so, one of her friends would be by her side to carry the brunt of the burden.

“Alright…” Joanna spouts out the words with her breath, “Dylarr and I have taken a brisk walk to Tommen’s roar district… I have to say, the rumors were true.” She found herself falling to the nearest sit, fanning her sweat away, caused from her gait. “Your former guards have been… Compensated with dragons of excessive in amount… all sources speak of the same thing.”

Genna turned towards her as she lay down her book, Joanna still have much to say however. “All those coffers are delivered to all from a person who calls herself Eva Redgrave…”

Genna tilts her head downward, contemplating as her fingers fidget slightly above her palms. “Does your magical dashing friend have an acquaintance nearby?”

“Hmm?”

“Redgrave…” Joanna iterated. “isn’t that what you told me where lord Vergil is hailed?”

“Not hailed, not certain at least.” Genna replied, “He only enquired if I know the place… he did not relay other than that fact.”

Jonna sighed, “Either way, it is connected to him. In all honesty however, the amount of Gold that has been distributed is not far away from the prize rewards given to him… it could not be anyone else, Genna.”

She did not answer, leaning back to her pillowed chair as her eyes watered in mental exhaustion, her back faltering more so by the day. “All given to the crippled he maimed?”

“Some are given larger amount than the other…” Joann replied, “The ones who are maimed the most and the such from what I have seen.”

“I see…”

After that they talk of many things else, of news from the stepstones, of her family warring in the narrow see, of the implications of the coming jousting and the such. She closes her eyes for the moment as Joanna droll on regarding the feast and the festival at large, it did not take long for everything to revert back to the blue figment on the room.

“They did not seem to want to stop, Genna.” Joanna said, “I have to pull Garth Tyrell away from the lower yard a few days and hours prior. He wishes to demand much from him, but you and I know full well how that would end.” She finished, but Genna only look on to the nearest wall deadpan and indolent.

Joanna chuckled looking to her companion’s despondent state, a pity smile coming from a humorous place, in which the reason would come in words delivered in voice. “Here I thought that you escaping from a clutch of a greasy lordling would elate and relief you, though it seems your mind likes to wonder from one miserable thought to the next.” She ends with a smile, “I wonder what dejected thought you will find next after you have resolved this issue…”

Genna shakes his head with a smile as she hears the jape, “I’m sorry.” She answered, “you speak rightly, it does seem like I did those… but then again, trouble seems to found me in a most bizarre of ways…”

“Yes… a sorcery knight from old Valyrian would do that to you…”

“Here I wish it would stay that simple…” Genna spoke with a humor.

“Try not to hold your breath sweet heart…” Joanna said, still equipped with a grin, “Long life awaits us still… who knows…”

They held in trivial joy for a long while, smiles and laughter below the window overseeing the Lannisport complimented their cheer. In a moment both of them sees the silliness of their predicaments, for who would’ve foreseen the bridge life will take them would make them collide with magics of old thought long gone.

However, such mystical imagination comes in brief as the door is knocked rather loudly for one to assume it is for a civil matter. Both Lannister ladies look to each other in worry before Genna decided to deign her answer. “Who goes there?”

“I am a maid of your house milady…” A soft voice spoken from beyond, “I bring urgent news…”

Genna sighed, already the exhaustion came in droves once more to know that her joyful respite ends so shortly. “Come in then…” She said, just so a maiden servant of red uniform politely and slowly opened the wooden door. She fidgets as if she entered a domain to high and noble for her presence. “What is wrong?” Genna ask, wary.

“It’s lord Vergil, Milady…”

---XxxxxX---

Jon Connington stands and watch the commotion from the edge of the yard with a telling prideful smirk, many times he forewarned many others of high and low born alike to be in great wary when approaching the blue Valyrian. It is quite a tragedy that only a semblance of all those warning came being heeded.

The hedge knight tried to convince the Valyrian Lord to join him on his crusade of warfare and raid of profit on the lands of Westeros and Essos. By the third time he endeavors to attempt in persuasion, the guards found him bended on the stone rails of the yard stairs overseeing the waters and the craigs.

Garth Tyrell tried to summon the man with threats of a thousand forces of steel and fires of the reach if he does not turn to give him attention, a bravado now considered a grave mistake as he was a tad short of a lop of a head, if not for lady Joanna interfering in the quaintest of time. Still, in his last moments, the Tyrell have sought death and realized it. he quivered as he walks away from the Valyrian.

Connington thought after those minor yet dangerous incidents, the people would grow half a mind to leave him well enough alone. But just as it Is foretold in many stories of fate, there must always be a third. Quite a pretty one is the wife of lord Tarbeck. But pride really do come before the fall, a story as old as time, and very much like history, it tends to be repeated in reality.

Not long as he lean on the nearest pillar, Jon Connington hears the sounds of a cavalcade of footsteps both armored and otherwise coming closer to the place of the transgression. it is of the most natural of all senses that the master of the castle would be present on such times, as his eyes wonder to the entrance of the courtyard, Connington finally sees the source of the march. Lady Genna and a handful of guards well-equipped on her midst.

The commotion silenced a bit in her presence, all the present lords, servants and good people are cloistered all around the place as they wonder in excitement and curiosity of what would occur in due time. Some however naturally find the coming prospect terrifying, for lo here is another macabre act from the Valyrian guest, therein comes who wonder when will another come.

Almost all lords are in attendance to these circumstances, from the vale all the way to the reach. Curious, Connington hindered his relief and walk towards them in kind. For he understands, that this act comes with a greater implications, a hedge knight life is a passing thing, but a lady of a major house is another beast entirely.

“Let me see her…” Genna spoke softly, yet gravely. The crowd dispersed to make way, and a figure is seen, two to be exact. One is in a kneeling position, holding a bloodied wailing form of a woman, crying and panting in pain as the blood pools still to expand beneath them. Genna approach them, slowly with heavy breath.

It is Tion of the very same of house Tarbeck, holding his mother Ellyn above his shaking arms. In short time she noticed the source of all the drip of crimson red. For where there should be a hand, delicate and soft like a flower fitting within the form of a lady, is now merely a mangled stump of what once was. For a moment she is silent and petrified, as Ellyn’s left arm shakes in horror.

“What happened?” Genna grimly asked, all eyes suddenly turned towards her. Some bears the face of passive confusion, the other antagonism and dread as usual. She hears a heavy step of iron from the right.

“It is your guest that has done this!” Reynard spoke vindictively, wearing armor and sword on his hip within a place that should be of cordial environment. “Your Valyrian cunt of a guest mutilated my sister! Underneath YOUR watch!”

Beside them, Genna can hear Lord Connington and Arryn sighed from the declaration, she also presumes from the figment of their shadows one is shaking his head though she does not know which. “How did this happen…” Genna questioned, massaging her forehead for another inevitable headache.

“Why does it matter!? The how’s and the why’s?” Reynard replied in scorn, “You have violated guest rights with this act!”

“I did no such thing…” She retorted, a stern whisper and a short shriek. “I was not the one holding the blade to maim her!”

“The Valyrian is under your command!”

“He is in no—” She wishes to retort that Vergil is in no one’s allegiance, that the sorcerer stands alone in his schemes. But to admit such claim is to show weakness to her house for a guest not in her control. Yet on the other hand, to admit otherwise means taking accountability for an act very much dubious without the context proper.

“No… it does matter how it happened… I know lord Vergil well-enough to understand he would not act dastardly unless provoked.” Genna answered, a brave face equipped well. “If you do not relay this in hand, then I would be forced to question him directly, Lord Reynard. Do you wish for him to tell us the full accounts?”

Genna spoke as short and collected as they come, all the resentment quelled deeply within her that almost suffocate her being.  Reynard curled his fist, his gritted teeth barely showing on his apparent fury, though he relent in the end. “Tion…” he called, “Tell the Lannister cunt here what has occurred to your mother.”

“HOW DARE YOU—” Dylarr, brave and ever loyal sentinel, tried to defend Genna’s honor. Yet she touched him gently on his shoulder and shakes her head in kind. She does not wish for further escalation of the ghoulish view that it is now. Tion looked up to her, face of worry and confusion instead of the hateful derision his uncle furnished.

“Not here…” He said, with a careful whisper. “Not around these people…” After the words spoken, Reynard sighed in furious fatigue but he could understand. Even in first layer Genna can already see the implication of such request, if it was a tale that could be woven to put the blame on Lannister hand, it would be shouted out loud instead of in clandestine. But perhaps Tion is made of more honorable heart than his peers and family.

Genna ordered the guards and Dylarr to disperse and bring the other spectators, nobles included to be brought out with them away. Connington and Arryn wishes to protest if their narrow brows is any indication, but in consideration to the ghastly situation, they concede justly. After the steps of the crowd fade away onto dim, Genna nods towards Tion to speak.

“W-Wait!” a voice came, none other than Maester Creylen approaching towards them. “The wound must be cauterized and she has to be tended in term…” He said, Genna scoffed to herself. For once it is quite a peculiar moment for her to forgot that Ellyn is in total pain. Perhaps Joanna has the right mind that exhaustion made her hazy in a few points of aspects.

“Can you lift her, Lord Tion?” Genna asked.

“I can…”

“Then let us bring her to my office…” Creylen exchanged in turn, “The quicker the better…”

---XxxxxX---

It was supposed to be a quiet day, and in some apparent case it is. lesser there are the servants that were usually tasked to neatly clean the halls of the library. Repository as large as this does demands a quiver of attention for all the books long forgotten and other things long unknown. But for this very day there was no one here to bother his senses. From within he knows why, from books and parchments to hearsay and rumors, he acknowledges that what he has done is an act of ultimate violation.

For mortal man perhaps, but an ants work for him… in the end it makes no difference. They will make their chagrin uselessly and the days will fall just like any other. He could hear her screams once in a while, once before he contemplated that he should’ve mangled her neatly than the distorted corpse of a stump she has on her arms. But he asserts in time that the scream of pain is a great cautioning for those who are not willing to heed.

Of course, it would be in due time that the true host of this house would come bearing fanged words for an apparent misbehavior constantly forewarned. As it is in his thoughts so it became reality, as Vergil noticed the entrance of the library opened slowly for a figure of crimson youth of a lady bearing forlorn face of resignation.

She approaches solemnly and quietly, not an act of politeness but that of an exhaustion, a mother who grows tiresome in scolding his son very much the same. She took a seat not far from him, just on a west side of the table where he sat on the north. She sits there silently looking down on the fingers on her laps, sighing and breathing loudly as if trying to find the correct words to say.

“You have made my life very difficult…” Genna spoke finally, still her eyes did not wander to met his. But then again, so does he not deign to do the same. “I’ve taken and declared you as my guest, one and many have believed you be one of honor as well… I’ve given you a task I know you would succeed in absolute that it might as well be a reward given for nothing… all those tens of thousands of golds, long gone for a simple work of your likes.”

“Are you here to declare your decent performances?” Vergil scoffed, “Save us both the trouble and make your way to the point…”

She curled her fist, the nails threatened to pierce her palm. The festival comes with invitation of great lords that make her day a mortification in reminding her, her place of this world. And now a Valyrian sorcerer deigned it adequate to cease her library and speaking freely as if her presence is an existence of irritation.

“There will be war because of you…” Genna retorted, her voice vibrates with indignation. “Do you know who you just mutilated?”

“Ellyn Tarbeck…” Vergil answered simply, “A whore of a noble house, not significant enough for me to give even a humble attention…” He stood, walking with pace of precise grace with his hands behind his back. He looks towards the window, looking towards the seas, contemplating and thinking what is to come.

“The Tarbecks… is one of the most powerful vassals of the Westerlands, rivalling house Reyne in power.” Genna said, hands curling on her hair. “Together and with persuasion towards the other houses… they could have the power to rebel against me, against my father. Before the two moons come, I would not be surprise to hear their forces mustered to be aimed on this castle…”

“During times of war?” Vergil queried, one of curiosity. A thousand or a hundred thousand come what may, it would mean little to him in the end. Genna’s seat grinded as she stood up to finally meet the silver back of his hair. Her disheveled hair graces her cheeks like a summer waterfall, complementing her sharp features of anger.

“One-fifth of them yes! They are brought to war!” She replied, “But half a ten thousand stayed still In their lands. The same is said for the Reynes or any other houses…” She rubbed her arm in comfort. “The Ninepenny kings are treacherous, but far from a great danger. They brought troops equal to a kingdom, not seven.”

“In touch with news of warfare, are you?”

“My brothers are participating in that cursed lot of war! Of course, I would try to know much!” Genna replied, vehemency retained. “Even then, a small contribution from each house still makes for a wave of strength unparalleled once cavalcaded. Thousands of landed knights and nobles combined Is within Westeros. If even a quarter contributed little, the war is still all but won… which is safe to say that the houses still kept much of their strength!” She ended in emphasis.

Vergil jeered at the proclamation, the notion is an inferior kind to him, but he believes that is what separates the true power and the ones believing they hold one. A hierarchy of chains that relies on another whom also relies on another to keep the chain intact and durable, a system of reliance rather than independence…

Revolting is what Vergil think of it. cut one chain and the other will disperse into chaos or rebellion.

“Kill them…” Vergil said simply, Genna looked at him, her head fallen slightly but her eyes still bored onto his back. “Kill them, Kill the Reynes, Kill the Tarbecks and correct your father’s leniency…”

“You…” Genna scoffed, “You cur!… how easy for you to say such things… you with your… CURSED magic and your unnatural capabilities!” She spoke with vipered voice. “How many fathers and mothers have you killed!? To be so easy to use murder as a solution for an issue!? Do you think I am a rotten being who held life with no regard? Do you think I hold the power to fight against them? To tell all those soldiers and warriors on my employ to die for me because I feel uneasy!?” Her face wrinkled disgustedly. “Have you no shame!? NO Honor!?”

Vergil turns toward her, and in an instant, walks until he loomed over her like a wall on a forest. “They insult you underneath your house, mocked your father, insult any virtue this house of you have and all the other lapse known to man have been done at your ignorance… did you know what Reynard Reyne did to your mother’s grave on the garden underneath your castle’s garden?”

“What…” Genna sighed the words, a whisper of dread in contemplating any inhumane deeds that can be done… “What did he do?”

“And worse yet, they have made the worst mistakes of all…” Vergil spoke with great authority, “They have made you to BOTHER ME!”

She hears the sounds of a cackling knuckle to find her eyes wander towards Vergil’s fist curling unnaturally as if struggling to contain fury. He walks to towards her, face scowling with total rage, his cheeks wrinkled that resembled anything other than a human being. “What are you doing!?” She questioned, walking backwards with dread and fear.

It was a slow reach, but Genna cannot find It within herself to stop Vergil to not hold her hand, fearing that a sudden movement would lead to her death. She felt his hands curled on her wrist, like a vice he holds her, but with no pain to be felt. “Where are you taking me!” She demanded with a quivered voice. He did not relent.

“Unhand the Lady!” The guards spoke from the entrance, words that came unheeded as Vergil backhanded him as he flailed towards the nearest wall and splatted. His groan of pain is loud as does the crack of his armor. All the servants make way for them to walk, Genna tries as she might to let go, find herself to find the strength absent for every second she is dragged.

“You are hurting me!” Genna exclaimed, words spoken halfly correct. Though for some odd reason Vergil’s hand gave her no hurt, yet the exhausted beating of her heart threatens to keel her over. For all her struggle has been halted the very moment her senses felt the light of the warm candles of the main hall where everyone gathers, she brought herself back to her senses, only to find confounded faces of the visitors looking upon her.

“What are we doing here!?” Genna demanded in question, Vergil did not answer. Her eyes wander to find Arryn, Connington and all the various lords and ladies looking towards her and mostly towards Him in kind. “Let me go!”

Vergil tossed her to the middle of the hall, towards the floor where the carpets cushioned her fall. He walks forward towards the upper podium where the overlord of the house may seat, yet instead there Vergil stands with pride and arrogance matchless. He looks towards the denizens of the hall, weak and frail in his eyes.

“I wont bother introducing myself nor will I deign us here with pleasantries that are useless and wasteful of time…” Vergil spoke, strict yet not loud of a shout. Still the words vibrate throughout the hall. “All the time I have spent here, minding myself… away from your inept and pathetic works of lords that would bear no end other than a pitiful stain upon this lands.”

Just as Vergil spoke the words, already half of the lords stands from their seat with face enraged, but this did not halt the words to be spewed from Spardason. “Many times, I have made myself clear that I do not wish to be bothered by your irritating spew of plans that I know would become nothing but half a speck on the annals, not worth to be a footnote…”

Crowd of lords and good people alike entered from the yard and the main entrance to hear his voice, already quiet murmurs have been initiated, as they all tries to make sense of the challenging words the sorcerer decided to spill. Rarely do a lord would declare warfare on another, rarer are the ones who would do so with no one but himself, with no army to speak of.

“I have decided to humor some… much to my chagrin, most of those I forewarned with telling of dreadful warnings… as I stand here this day… it means it has been unheeded…” They all look to one another, puzzled in what would occur.

“Reynard Reyne…” Vergil called, “Show yourself…”

It was such a long time, a long moments of pause where no one is moving, when even the greatest of all blood stood in unconscious fear. Though still one have the courage to make way for mistaken bravado, Reynard moves forward to reveal himself. Just so not a second after, Vergil pace towards him with iron footsteps.

“I have—” Reynard did not even have the chance to finish his words, as when Vergil reaches a few feet from him, a blue transparent spear appeared from his hand and pierced itself towards Reynard’s torso…

Blood and gore fall from his belly, as Reynard’s eyes widened from the sudden calling of death. It was a quick strike, and that is still an understatement. No one even seen the spear moved from its place until with a blink it appears in on his body. Reynard tried to speak, he tried to plead, but not one bit of strength came for him to make his voice, all the organs within him are mangled by the inhuman force alone.

The spear, azure and translucent like a figment of a spirit did not coat itself with his blood, pouring heavily they may be. Vergil lift it upward and pierced its blunt edge to the ground so deep it needed a thousand divine hands to release it from the floor. Reynard’s body is there for all to see, squirming and fidgeting above the spear as the blood starts to pool on the red carpet below.

“This is another warning… for the ones who are not wise enough to Listen” Vergil spoke, hands behind his back. “You do not listen? You will be punished very much like a child… no words heeded? Then blood will pour…”

“No!” Tion shouted, half a hand almost reaching his sword until Alastor Reyne held him from the erroneous decision. “Uncle Reynard!” He shouted, pleading and furious in one voice.

“Stop!” Alastor spoke, “Not now! You can’t kill him… LISTEN TO ME!”

“Most of you think I am a sorcerer sent by gods or demons alike… that I am unkillable and utterly powerful…” Vergil said, though his face is deadpan. Like a teacher speaking only of truths. “You are correct…”

“Genna…” Joanna said, worried and wary. “Genna, we need to leave…”. Genna however, watches on with mouth half agape as her eyes paid in attention to Vergil, through the waterfall of blood from Reynard’s corpse. “Genna, are you listening to me?” Joanna whispered.

“No… Joanna we need to stay.”

“Most of you think that I am a rogue element… that I would not follow the orders and authority of your overlords and king…” Vergil said, “You are correct…”

“Arryn… this is sign enough as it is…” Connington speaks whilst his eyes widened as he heed the words

“Yes, it is… you were right, Connington… this needs a more sophisticated approach.” Arryn said, holding his breath.

“Another notion that you all have think of… is that I wield no mercy of any kind, any of which a human should…” Vergil said, “If not for Lady Genna’s intervention… you are correct…”

“Tion! You will die! Do you hear me!?” Alastor said, “You saw what he can do! And you have another you need to protect, think about your mother!” Tion relented, his hand falls from the sword grip like a droop of water.

Garth Tyrell breathes heavily as the pool of blood outpoured from the carpet and reaches his boots underneath the table. He has seen death… but not one to come so easily and quickly, much less so to another fellow lord and even rarer still to be dying so dishonorably, being shown as an example in the centre of the hall.

“I’ll make it concise…” Vergil spoke with finality. “This spear and corpse will be held for eternity here as a sign. I am at my last draw… the next time one of you dares to irritate me again with issues of insignificance… than there will be more than one example here…”

Vergil stands upright and shouted sternly. “Last Call.”

He walks away after the proclamation, stopping right beside lady Genna he decided to speak. “He insults you and calls you a cunt under your castle and you speak of honor… Reynard Reyne pissed at your mother's grave with Garth Tyrell s few days ago.” He said, “Pathetic.”

His figure disappeared onto the shadows of the entrance…

For everyone else… their breathes are stilled for the coming moons…

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

I really do apologize for the long while i have been gone. truth is, i got coiled with another fanfic and my work on thesis. feeling bad about it, i decided to release a chapter i've made in just one day. i'm sorry that it is not as long as the previous ones, as i hit a fatigue in just writing this so quickly and my guilt on not continuing this story.

so lets established a status quo right here, do you folks want me to post long chapters like before with only a certain chance it would be uploaded once a week, or do you want me to release a half a short one (5k words or more) for a certain update under a week?

Also let me know if there are any grammar problems, etc, etc.

Thanks for reading

Chapter 6: The Storm is Coming

Summary:

Vergil and Maester Creylen find each other odd but pleasant company... But some people just have the need to kill the joy...

---XxxxxX---

He paces around the room with the back slightly hunched, though only a decade and a half worth of lessons and various study, Creylen is not one to lose a second away from education for a rather uncertain activity. Where other Maester’s would often make open discussion of merry topics or debates on subjects of science questionable in dispute, he would rather read and write his knowledge and the knowledge he has acquired.

He dallied now and then to the social interaction, but only for a moment of true query, where answers would be easier and much more understanding to be found in words more than writing. One-tenth of his life in the citadel is spent on desk rather on table with many seats, hence his eyes are focused to read the lines in between, yet his spine is hunched before his years of twilight.

There was many a magical moment during his schooling as a simple learning scribe on the citadel, elders and “wise” minded young folks would find the ventures towards the arcane to be as much bizarre as it is a useless path. But to Creylen, that notion does not dissuade him for attempting to understand, lost the pathways of the mystic may be, its splendor through hearsay alone is such an interesting thing.

He wonders now and again, if someday or if somewhere out there, there is someone who is currently practicing the ways of the illogical. Bending fire, creating illusions and bestowing great strength through a pool of magical basis. It must be such a glorious and liberating thing is what Creylen thought of it, to be so free on this world that one is capable to violate the laws of nature itself.

He did not mean it truly in full when he speaks of the evil and the malicious nature of the arcane towards Lady Genna the days before when Lord Vergil desecrated many of sacred acts that has been vowed and expected. But perhaps the power magic brings could entail the heart of man to do unspeakable things, or perhaps power itself reveal what a man is truly worth. In Creylen’s mind, there are better things to be thought of, but still that thought lingers in every action he has made.

For how could he not, when the prove of magic came back… now lingering in the domain of the library which was once his…

It is truly odd how one could carry himself so variedly in multiple occasions, once a maid accidentally dropped a book not far beside him, yet the sorcerer did not deign to look upon her and continue on in minding his own act of reading. Once a child would visit his father who is a servant that cleans the yard where Lord Vergil would often make his sword practice. The child in line would also cheer and be awed noisily when he watches the sorcerer trained his magic and sword mastery in the open grounds, much to his father’s dismay and terror.

Little Lord Gerion and the Servant’s child would always sit on the stairs of the yard and watched the man trained his sorcery, and still they would raise their voice in glee whenever he practices anything inhuman, and there were many that Creylen could both named and otherwise. But for all the giggles and the joyful squeal the little boys have done, Lord Vergil would continue on as if they were never there, with face still more stony than the powerful crags of the Casterly Rock.

Yet not far away in time ago, he savagely mangled and murdered a lord of house Reyne in the main hall, where many have seen his act in shaken macabre awe. Where his magical translucent spear is a prove of his short patience on everything trivial. In Creylen’s mind, perhaps the trivialities that he could not tolerate are the ones that would hinder him from his goals.

For he would know how It feels when someone bothered him everytime he is focused on reading a book on the Citadel, a violation of a determined due process is an irritating notion… The children are only playing, noisy as they may be, but Lord Reynard is threating the sorcerer of his life and dignity. His patience can only go so far, Creylen supposed.

But then again… it is quite telling that a man can be so bravely punished a major lord, yet leaves the children alone… For Creylen there are many enigmas needed accounted for, and he could not help being overwhelmed to know that magic came in such an apparent form, and one that is quite difficult to surmise. Yet… that is to be expected when one is dealing with a prospect against everything logical.

Maester Creylen decided to journey again to the library but not of his will. For the sorcerer has ordered a servant to summon him to his presence, perhaps this would be a great opportunity for many questions to be asked… and hoped that he will leave in time with his feet rather than being carried in a coffin.

---XxxxxX---

There are five servants in the library, perhaps even more in other crevices. Even from the entrance Creylen noticed the way they all shake slightly, jittering if there would be retribution incoming to be in the presence that is more god than man. However, Lord Vergil does not seem to find their existence of importance. Naturally so, the same could be said for any lord, but what are the lords compared to the one who could break reality.

Thus, Creylen took one step after the other, each one vibrates his nerves as he approaches closer to the table where the man himself sits. And every second, the light from the windows would grace him and soothe him as he makes his way. As when he reaches the edge of the table and put his hands on the nearest chair, still the sorcerer did not make himself away from the book to give him any attention.

Creylen pulled the chair, its being makes scrapping noise as he does, each shriek of the wood cringing him, fearing that it would give the wrong sort of attention, one that would beckon death upon him, but it is a worry unaccounted for, as Vergil still paid his eyes towards the book. Creylen sighed in relief and place his buttocks upon the wooden seat.

Yet right at the moment the chair felt the weight of the Maester, the sorcerer closed the book with a snap, and with the thinning of the book, Creylen saw piercing gray ocean eyes immediately wrought upon him. He wishes to stand, but the suddenness of the act made him take a seat faster than his mind could order his body to stand, so instead he froze with mouth half-agape as the sorcerer gaze upon him sharply.

Without a hint of focus lost, Vergil stack the book he holds into the pile of its compatriots beside it, the amount he has set is as tall as an ordinary man if it is lined onto one stack instead of the multitudes he has made, they are in-line and neat in placing, from afar they look like buildings immaculately made, like they are obsessively tidied…

But for all the magic he used that make a blue translucent hand appear to neatly placed the book behind him, he never wavered in eye contact towards Creylen. The Maester noticed the subjects in which the sorcerer has made himself known to read, all of them are magical in nature, from the edge of Old Valyrian to the barren white snowy dunes of the land of always winter. He has set his priorities, it would seem.

Vergil blinks his eyes slowly as he stares upon him, whether the man is capable to be fatigue is unknown to Creylen. The very fact that the sorcerer manages to read so many books in so little time gives an idea of the authenticity of his discipline, the man has goals if the Maester ever seen one, if only he could simply ask the question without the risk of being impaled by a magical spear.

“The Long Night…” Vergil spoke at last; the tone of his voice is stony yet bears no inherent threat. A man seeking answers than enemy. “The Drowned Gods, Greenhand’s accounts and the Dragon’s formulation… many of these books seems to give information… yet disregarding essential accounts…” He finished, looking still towards Maester Creylen.

“P-Pardon?”

“It’s a messy collection of knowledge… where are the rest of the information?” Vergil replied, ending it with an exasperated breath.

“I don’t understand…” Creylen speaks, “You are looking for something? What do you think is missing?”

The sorcerer changed his posture, leaning forward towards the Maester, with his hands and elbows resting on the table. “Historical accounts are contradicting each other, some say the terrible darkness came eight millennia ago, yet the Andal’s spoke them coming in three. The hammer the children of the forest is said to have, has been use to destroy the neck and the bridge of the narrow sea, yet another account spoke it is an act of the seven who divided the continent to protect its people…”

“Y-yes it does often—”

Vergil lifts his palm upwards, motioning him to step speaking. “I understand that manipulative acts of any form could occur due to the authors bias of the subject, this premise is easy for one to understand… what I want to conclude for me is if there is a collection somewhere that would entail a factual explanation?”

Creylen inhaled before answering, struggling to deliver his words with as straight and without stumbling as possible. “I would suggest True History to be a most promulgated and stable of all written accounts, as several great Maesters have deemed it.” Creylen swallowed a lump the moment he saw Vergil shakes his head disapprovingly, the man closed his eyes before opening them again to speak to the Maester before him.

“True History speaks of history that also contradicts the accounts from many sources…” The Sorcerer replied. “It contradicts Erreg the Kinslayer and the timeline of various history. It contradicts the presence of the children of the forest as well…” The man huffed as he leans back to his seat, “Perhaps it was stupid of me to make faith for an unbiased writing for a millenniums worth of history… where instead can I find sources from the first man, the seven and the Rhllor accounts?”

“Their accounts?” Creylen ghastly spoke, disbelieving the request, “B-But they are heretics, their words are twisted and untruthful—”

“If I wish to hear your half-believed opinions, Maester, I would ask. Now answer my true question…”

Half-believed… Is mayhaps the right word for the Maester as it is it would seem, in truth Creylen never dissuade from the faith of any magical notions. So fearful is he to be exiled in mind and in body if he is openly speaking regarding his hobby on the arcane topic, in truth he is not the only one who seeks the same during his time at the Citadel…

He had friends once… they use to sneak onto the hidden accounts to read all those mystical whims and lore. There were so many of them, Creylen and a dozen more. It is prohibited for one scribe to enter such places, even a true Maester would be silently chastised if seen entering such categories of wisdom. Many say magic has died… but its epic spirits do not follow it. He and many others has dreamed of it… to be like the heroes of old, wielding arcane arts to smite evil away…

But that’s all they are, old dream of a young heart…

“There were accounts…” Creylen begins to say, the figment of chastisement of his colleagues are already in the back of his thoughts, still he persists. “Knowledge that I know of regarding the history of magics and runes… of Dragons and liches… but they are barred from public knowledge, and for that I… I cannot tell you too much.”

A whip of the wind, that was what it was like to see the suddenness of Lord Vergil standing up from his seat, by fear and etiquette, Creylen stands as well in politeness, such is the way if a superior is seen standing. But Vergil motion his hand downward, gesturing Creylen to stay in his seat before the Maester could even adjust his robes to stand up properly.

The man paces back and forth, his spine is prided upwards but his head tilted slightly low, if there are ever someone that would question the predatorial nature of this sorcerer, this would be the time that the sensation alone would disapprove such idea. In time however, Vergil halted and twirled his hand behind his back and spoke.

“Where In the Citadel has it been hidden…” He questioned, Creylen jittered in his seat. What is a worth of a man, if an oath spoken cannot be uphold in times of great crisis. He vowed when he graduated from his study to never spoke of the secrecy of the Citadel, unless beckoned by events of necessity. But how does one deduce an occasion of such kind…

Here now stands an unrelenting power in a shape of a man, urging him in atmosphere alone to relay his deepest secret. Creylen questioned if this is a crisis of ultimate proportions, that if he did not relent than the man would invade upon the gracious lands both of first man and Andal, and proceed to desecrate everything if not humored.

“I cannot…” The Maester spoke gravely, the sweat pooled on his body, preparing to flee, yet the mind realized the hopelessness if he would do so, for how can one run to a man that can materialize with a quick of thunder. “I’ve sworn an oath… of secrecy. It has been spoken to all who succeeded in their lessons…” He finally relayed, and now he awaits the coming judgement.

He looks forward, no appeal to see even a tint of blue in his peripherals. But Vergil approaches him, the dark azure edge of his coat can be seen in Creylen’s eyes edge. “And if I say I would kill my way towards the Citadel… and destroy everything in my path. Your lord and lady included…” Vergil spoke, a sharp whisper. “Would you still keep to your vows?”

Creylen never exhaled a breath so deep it would dim his vision to fade, not even when Lord Gerion threatened to accidentally end his own life when he played above the yard railings that could make him fall to his watery death. “Please….” Creylen attempted to plead. “Lady Genna and Lord Gerion is innocent… they are but children—”

“That is not what I asked…” Vergil interjected. “With all the risk that I tell you… Will you still keep your word?”

He breathes for a dozen moment, before he could find the strength to reply. “I have many oaths, lord Vergil… To keep the lord’s children, save and to be silent of the repository are mine to uphold…” Creylen turned in continuing his words, eyes quivered as he met with Vergil’s, “But I can tell you what I know! I’ve learned my way even to the hidden of all scrolls and books! Whatever history or knowledge of old magics, you can find the answer through me!”

It was a daring declaration, to uphold himself rivaling the Citadel’s greatest. But it was a risk for his oath and the safety of those he cares. From what he can inferred, the sorcerer is a man who kept the useful and purposeful in high bearing. It is unknown to him what is the importance that are the Lannister that he would keep them alive, quick he is to be capable of to dispose of the rocks inhabitants he may be.

But this is a fitting event as any as demanded by the oath he spoke, in time perhaps there would be a way to apprehend a mystic this high of prowess. But for now, he could find his way to a compromise. “From the Yi-Ti to the green of Sothoryos I have learned much… history of mundane and mystic alike! If there would be a basis for your intermediate of knowledge, I can be the one in which you can start!”

They exchange stares, and Creylen is so close to faltering until Vergil takes his seat again, eyes still bore onto the Maester. How does one keep his concentration in gaze for so long is very boggling… “May… may I have a request…” The Maester dared to ask, his hands curled on his lap as the words escape him. “It… it is a Maester’s duty to learn and account of everything in this world… this includes the lineage and houses that pertains to Westeros and beyond…”

In this course however Vergil stare towards the window where the sun rays with a luminous white grace the floor, for this moment Creylen feels at ease to be away from such hunting stares, rousing enough strength to continue in his speaking. “They know not of your bearing you see… the lords and commoners alike, if I could just enquire of you, Lord Vergil, it would appease me greatly!”

Creylen exhaled a breath that was stuck in his throat. “I-I did not mean to gainsay you! Please! it-its… it would also aid you in your travels here! If everyone knows of your lordly stature, they may make it easier to make way and provide leniency for many faculties!... I… forgive me, I am just a simple scholar, I wish to learn… is all…”

Vergil’s gaze went back to him, and immediately the Maester tensed…

And in a moment, the sorcerer decided to speak…

---XxxxxX---

The afternoon seems more lighthearted than usual in these weeks, but such is the nature of the weathers in this world, they are fickle and unpredictable in nature in many ways. Which is in turn, quite odd in its being, so anathema are the Maesters to disregard magical existence, but the patterns of the weather also brought discrepancies in natural disciplines. Perhaps such paradigm is too strong and ingrained for it to be challenged, one would not be at fault to say that it is not yet known rather than admitting faulty basis.

Which is a thought that came because of the tone of the present, the sun is orange with a windy breeze that comforts the day very much the opposite of the sensation Creylen felt as the queries goes on and on after the other. it was bizarre as much as it is provoking unease, a flowery air to the despicable topic in which they discuss.

Though in truth the conversation goes back and forth from the most rotten of all subjects to the greatest of myths hailed to legends and heroes alike. It started with the Iron islands and their drowned gods, the origin of their name and culture onto the Mer-kin bloodline they stated often and loudly to all. Halfly murky blood of the waters as much as they are in man, Creylen heard Vergil scoffed at the claim.

Then came the subject of the cursed Blackstone that is placed and used in Pyke and many of the islands of iron of the Ironborn to the secret stone hidden underneath the battle tower, beneath the powers of the HighTower. He questioned the use and history of it, and Creylen gave the man the trues answer he could find… In that of course he does not know.

He mentioned all the theories though, that the stone hailed below to imprisoned the old kraken fated to swallow the seas in the name of the Drowned God, some even say it was the Drowned God himself that it has confined. Or it bears the old knowledge of magic, lessons of all inscribe in the purest form of energy that is contained with the black stone. Either way, there is no certain answer to it, for all that has approach it would be faltered by its invisible might, by fainting or by death.

Then came as well the history of the Hammer of the Waters, a weapon that said to be designed by the old children of the forest to destroy the paths of the first men, first the arm of Dorne then the neck that separates the north and the south. This story interest the sorcerer greatly, for every tint of lesson bestowed he listened with gaze relentless. And he questioned much on its powers and more so to where it is kept.

The answer however is less to his liking… legend speaks that the Hammer is no true weapon, but a name for an act of a ritual that beckoned through sacrifice of lives, some would say it uses the blood of the first man, the other stated that it can be done with the blood of the youth. Whether they meant young folks in general or the young’uns of the forest children is unknown, but rarely do Maesters ponder queer lore such as this, when there is certain discipline needed that are of solid purpose.

Vergil however, does. And though the answer comes in wanting, the movement of his brow shown the satisfaction of what he has listened. It is such a remarkably unique thing to observe, for a face so stony where the lips, nose and cheeks stood unmoving. The eyes and brows however, greatly shown his emotion when someone deigned to noticed it, and Creylen noted it often. Mayhaps there are a semblance of humanity within after all…

The conversation has been extended in such a long time, before the both of them know it, three months has passed after the death of Reynard Reyne. And they both have promised to speak of Sothoryos, Asshai and Old Valyria. Creylen could not say that the presence of the Sorcerer is one with fear when one is often in his company so often. In time however, the authenticity of the man is clear and genuine for most to see.

In time his existence is considered to be a boon, a notion many folks of the castle and the port came to realize. There used to be loud voices of mockery to the Lannister house, less to none in the castle, but often and noisily in the port and around it. Vergil often makes pace towards the sea every dawn and dusk. Many has thought he is in favor of Lady Genna, much to both of their consternation. But the rumor and hearsay are enough for them to halt their speaking of scorn.

But for Creylen it is a hopeful thing, that for more than a day, the Lannisters name is upheld with respect…

Of course, the debate and discussion has become a routine, that in the first month Creylen did not even need to be summoned to make words with Lord Vergil. He even dared to say that the Sorcerer enjoyed their talk, deadpan his expression may be as always. Even now he put a polite and brave and quiet voice in request to release Reynard Reyne’s corpse from the main hall, as it has ill made Lady Genna and Lord Tytos, and has made Lord Gerion to be barred from visiting his own halls.

“You have been… decent company…” Vergil spoke, softly and with a nod. “The corpse is no longer there…” He finished speaking, and as the request came after their talk is over, Creylen immediately inspect the main hall to find the Wizard’s word proven true. The red blood is caked to the red carpet, but the spear and the corpse is no longer above it. The Maester is worried that the body is gone forever that it could no longer be returned to the house it belongs.

But Captain Dylarr in his shock came to bear news that the body is found on the stable where the horses feces is to be found. It is a most rotten act to do such thing, but Creylen blessed the day that he even manages to convince the sorcerer to do so. The sorcerer is truly a force of nature… will not retaliate with force of destruction if not bothered what so ever, such a wonderous thing to find an allegory came to life in such a way.

Creylen becomes more comfortable just as much as the servant boy and Young Gerion in watching Vergil in training of his sword hand, in time Lady Genna would attend as well, looking from afar with the other guards and soldiers. But where the latter would look upon in great awe, the Lady would equip a wary look, and one with anxiety.

For all these months they spoke… rarely… Creylen does not know what they are speaking of, and in time perhaps he would enquire to the Lady himself. For now, however, he is content in magical discussion and his outstanding sword work. The Maester once say, a man is truly as worth as his words, and Lord Vergil has kept with ease.

There has been no murder… there has been no noise or disruption of any kind… and the deal that has been made in Lady Genna’s words are sustained. The Sorcerer would keep to his domain in the library and the rest would belong to the Lannisters.

Often however, Creylen wonders the how and why that they are all still alive, in consideration to the capabilities of the Sorcerer. If he wanted, he could have exterminated all blood of the overlord with a hand swipe, but he did no such thing. But in contrast to that, he has been very cordial, to have the will and patience to refrain from doing such malicious act spoke much of his character, more so with the power he commands.

Perhaps he founds the sincerity in Lady Genna’s claim and words, perhaps he found the Maester presence pleasant and joyful, mayhaps even he cared for the life of the children that is little Gerion. Perhaps he found something here that he found wanting from Reynard Reyne and Ellyn Tarbeck… which led to one life taken and a mutilation of the other.

Perhaps there is a reason the gold won from the tourney is given to the mutilated guards of the library by an unknown alias…

Perhaps there is a reason why he often tolerates Young Gerion every time he squealed and giggled in the library…

Mayhaps there is a reason why he often wondered to the battlement of the castle, looking east with such a guarded face…

Either way, life has never been so… odd to Creylen, perhaps the same to Lady Genna. Eventually, Creylen finds the courage to asked Vergil of his origin…

And no answers have ever been so wonderous as what the sorcerer has told…

---XxxxxX---

News came from the stepstone, that lord Jason Lannister would lead Ten thousand man and a thousand knights to the bloodstone where they would meet the Ninepenny kings in battle. Lady Genna has often visited the sept to pray for her brothers and her uncle’s safety, but just as well as she often prayed for the safety of the Westerlands.

As news also came from the words of the Farman lord, that the Ironborn has come towards the Lannisport to raid for spoils. Though it is unknown when they will arrive, but the son of Lord Farman and Damon Marbrand just as well as the Crakehalls have also come to re-enforce the walls and ports of the port.

During such time Creylen would aid in preparation, but such task for him is over a few days ago, and the rest can be done in leniency through the blunted hands, Servants or sergeants of the house. Even now though on the unknown eve of inevitable battle, the sorcerer still seeks his company in conversation.

The man asked if Creylen wanted to make way for discussion in a later time considering the distressing circumstances, but in truth the Maester finds the conversation helps in dissuading frantic thought. Thus, each day he would come to query on the history of Vergil’s old kingdom, whilst the sorcerer would ask the Creylen of other sources of the mystic.

But naturally… the day came sooner than expected, as the screams of the Ironborn is heard from afar even from the towers and halls of the library. Lord Tytos as usual, has fallen ill through stress and anxiety, which leaves Lord Marbrand and Farman to lead the troops to warfare. Yet for all the chaotic distress, Vergil still asked his questions as if the wailing and cry of the people below is unheard of…

But for all the face of and tone of bravado Creylen wishes to prepare, the voices of anguish from the people and the guards pressured him greatly. He endeavored to answer all the questions as much and as neat as possible, but the fear and the worry kept coming in hordes. It did not take long for Vergil to notice his despair, and in turn spoke the words.

“Does this invasion bother you?” The Sorcerer asked, “You don’t have faith in your people?”

“The Ironborn they…” Creylen swallowed, “They come bearing Five thousand man strong…”

Vergil leaned back as he enquired further, “Strong numbers… do they not participate in the war on your stepstones?”

“They should’ve been… They should be…”

“So I’ve heard that the Westerlands are the most equipped and trained man in the seven kingdoms…” Vergil said, though his tone suggest a playful gesture, “Other than the Reach that is… if so then you should have nothing to worry about…”

“I… I am…” Creylen wished to spew the words, to request for aid, to ask for more… But how does one simple Maester could make appeal for another otherworldly being. For however Lord Vergil shown himself as kindred in the path of knowledge, the traits of magic and greatness still lingers in the minds of many. Many have seen him as more than man…

And with the answers Vergil has given, Creylen is full of mind to believe it so…

“These Ironborn…” Vergil spoke, “Why do they still exist? From history learned, they give nothing but utmost peril and distress… do they have a purpose? Other than being an atrophy to your people?”

Creylen looked down to his hand, hoping that the answer he gave though in truth would not dissuade the man to find an enemy on the pack of raiders and rapist, for in the Maester’s heart, the iron islands are just so. “They are chief in trade for ores… of iron and lead… they have always been quelled but never completely dispersed… many have tried, but in our dismay they’ve failed… some say they are cockroaches, when numbers go low they will scutter about and breed like rabbits in due time… and whenever there are acts of reaving, the overlord of the Ironborn would claim them dissident rather than kin. It is a difficult and complex circumstances, and there are more reasons, but what I’ve just spoke are the chiefs of all rationale.”

When Creylen look up to find himself staring at the gray eyes again, Vergil did not make way for a reply. Instead, he seats in silence as he occasionally watches over the orange scorch of fire brought upon by the wars below, and in a second would turn back to gaze upon the Maester again with intense concentration that is unyielding.

With each turn of the moment, the Maester grows restless, it did not take long for him to fidget in his seat. In time and with bated breath, he open his lips to speak again, but the sorcerer lifts his palm upward as the usual sign to be silent. “How generous is your king?”

“Pardon? My lord?”

“Your king? Is he a fair one?” Vergil further queried, “Kind? Compassionate? Rewarding of great acts?”

“M-My Lord?” Creylen recollect himself before answering, but an idea shaped onto his mind, for all man are wolves, and the most powerful are always one who are paid their dues. “King Jaeherys is a fair king… And one wrought with justice… you of course will be heavily rewarded! If you would disperse of this malice raid!”

Vergil smirk…

He smirks…

And just so the icy chill of tundra returns once more, the same coldness that came during the tourney… And every other time he has made an outrageous claim and act. Creylen felt a tint of regret and a copious amount of eagerness, but the former is the only one from himself, the latter however… came from another source.

And there he stood in blue sparks and glow, eyes glowing red dimly as he look onto the window with his hands gracefully sitting behind his waist. His odd sword floating beside him like a true companion, going up and down seemingly alive…

And within the moment, the sorcerer in his absolute confidence asked the question…

“If I let say… Annihilate all of the Ironborn… Down to the edge of the rock… And I take the Iron islands for myself…” Vergil spoke, though his voice sounds like two voices talking at once. “Would your king… be slighted?... Useless his further actions may be?”

“…” each moment, EACH and every moment, always does the sorcerer brings words that are more daring than the last. For how could Creylen respond to such utter boldness? An audacity so great yet it does not equal to the power the man actually has. but this time the Maester wouldn’t dare to look upon him again, and less so he could answer the query with theories uncertain, he could only say the truth…

“I don’t know…”

The Demon speak again with more than one voice… and with it the sword unsheathed itself to appear in his hand…

“Time to find out…”

Notes:

There it goes, the other half of the chapter of what should've been part of the previous one. i think 5k word or more is a good number as a goal post, its not as intimidating as before, and i think it compliments my schedule well. i would even go as far as to say that i would update in less than five days... here's hoping.

tell me if there are grammar problems, i heavily dislike words that are repeated and a single word mispoken could make or break a story, i'd rather not risk the latter even though i quadrupled check the writing (I simply am a frail human)... if you have the time that is (Thanks). (Then again, i'll check once in a while to make sure that the writing is as immaculate as i possibly can)

I also want to make a note that Vergil as the Voice actor said is a man who "Only does an act if it is meaningful". every action made by Vergil, who he kills and does not kill, Threatened, compelled or persuaded or any action in the dictionary is because he has a purpose for them, this is a long story, VERY long, for i have plans for it, many of them. Think of this well before making assumptions on the story and read between the lines if what you read is ACTUALLY what is happening in the story or is the narrator playing tricks on you? who knows. Vergil is not a simple attack dog that pounce on anything that bothers him, unless they are ULTIMATELY in his way, to do otherwise is to make mockery of his character. apologize if this is not what you expect from the story, but i suggest instead of leaving a dastard comment, one should find other fanfic instead that is to their liking.

I hope this is the last i made this type of notes, for i am quite worried that by leaving hints like this i may accidentaly reveal a spoiler.

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated.

Chapter 7: The Storm of Swords

Summary:

The Storm is here...

---XxxxxX---

The sept is unusually silent, a well-protected construct centralized within Lannisport where all eyes and ears could view it in due time in their stay or visit, to be beckoned by the light of the seven. It was always silent for any visitation of prayer, but the reasoning behind this recent lack of sound comes from a much dire circumstance.

Genna looks towards the nearest window, to see every sight and movement of the streets and houses to be littered with frightened beings. Many men wielded swords but lesser there are who know to flail it properly, for most are merchants and vendors, with simple smiths and fletchers to be the only ones with some semblance of weapon mastery.

Ironborn raids are not an unfamiliar prospect too many of the people on this port, but an invasion of a five thousand strong caliber, though not a number unheard of in the events of war, it is still a number that is not anticipated for a maraud. The scattered view of longships on the west almost hides the horizon from the city, more menacing in sight than words could ever bring.

Genna sighed at the circumstances, for it is barely a quarter year after any dastard incident has happened to her house. Though she finds the sight much more sensible than the sorcerer, a knowing part spoke that this is a more terrifying prospect given the conditions. Vergil is a powerful entity indeed, but far from uncivilized, she dared to say in most times he is much lordly and aloof than the usual princeling… Yet his powers will not be exercised unless the man is bothered…

Ironborn, however, came from a different breed of savagery. If one or three even step foot behind the walls of the Lannisport could mean a guaranteed murder or a rape. Genna often thought how a man could be so brash in the life, when they are capable to be so much more, but it was a fleeting thought, and foremostly there are other minds she should’ve contemplated.

She turns back towards the huge hall of the Sept, large and wide though not to rival the Casterly halls, it Is still enough to hide a quarter thousand heads. All of them hunch and are seated from one corner to the next, underneath and above the benches that are aimed towards the statues of the pious divine entities. Below the warrior’s altar, Joanna and Gerion stationed themselves, the former hugging and rubbing the little one’s head for comfort.

“Why is everyone so scared…” Gerion enquired, tone waving like a quiver of fear, “I thought the Ironborn are weak and stupid people… So, everything would be fine, right?” He leaned his head on Joanna’s shoulder, knees arise to his chest and arms around it. Joanna soothes him more and more by the second, urging him on the safety and protection of both divine and mortal lords.

“We’re not terrified of the Ironborn defeating us, sweetling…” Joanna spoke, the waves of her lips bring a playful sound. “We’re worried that a lot of things would get stolen and taken that do not belong to them, just so you know… they are of dishonorable ilk, little Gerion. You know how much you don’t like your toys getting taken for you, doesn’t it?”

“No, I don’t…” the boy answered meekly, after which he let the silence permeates once more. Genna sighed, with only a cavalcade of whisper from the many lives hiding themselves even from the shadows of the fire. Just so a thunderous sound is heard, and therefore, the time for swords to clash has begun.

Even Joanna wondered what could make such a powerful noise. The Ironborn came from afar through the seas. She wondered if their ships were capable of being equipped with trebuchets. Even then, how could they reach so close to make aim for the walls? And as both Genna and Joanna finished their thoughts, another roar of a sound came again.

“Will Lord Vergil be in the battle?” Gerion asked underneath Joanna’s arm. Genna wondered the same as well, though she did not let herself give the answer to him, only silence as a reply. She was actually planning to enforce his aid, yet she did not think the Iron islands would come so quick to Lannisport as it is.

“You there…” Genna called, a well-equipped guard came to her beckon. “Ride for Casterly Rock… call upon both Maester Creylen and my lord Father to inform and enlist aid from Lord Vergil.” Just as she finished her words, a pale raises to the guardsman's face, “They will be the one to ask the sorcerer for help, Goodmen. Now! GO!” Recalling to his senses, the guard goes to venture for the rock.

Thus far, the man is a mix of amiable and hostility. All the talks they have, have been peculiarly chaotic, ranging from total silence from him to unusual playful quips, yet many others fail to see the latter considering he never smiled nor moves many features of his face save talking and seeing. Once In a while, however, he would entrain a humor, yet rare and few in-between.

Only Creylen manages to persuade him to remove the corpse from the main hall, with a simple request to add. She wondered what came from the Maester to be indulged by the man, regardless she counts her blessing and Creylen’s as well. At the very least, Gerion and many children have not the chance to see such ghoulish sight.

Another thunderous sound came forth… and then a noise of tumbling rocks from afar is sounded. Genna looked to the windows again in confusion. The seas lie to the west of the city, yet the rocky sounds of destruction also voiced itself north. Screams followed, yet this one came from just the same direction as unnerving thoughts came to the lady.

Moments in contemplation and panic, Joanna’s whisper is heard, “Genna…” she called, and from her stupor Genna returned to reality looking into her cousin. “You order seems to be disregarded.” Both turn her head together to the point of topic. The guard stands on the half-opened door, the only movement only came from the spear he holds that shakes clearly for all to see.

Noticing that the rest of the denizens of the sept becoming more anxious for every second the guard shows his fear, Genna march towards him to bring vehement words. “What do you think you are doing!?” she questioned, but the guards watch on to sight unknown outside the door. “Did you not hear me!?”

As she moved herself slightly to see the commotion outside, only to see semblances of Ironborn colors running on her road and city, a thought of dread came to her mind, The Ironborn are inside!? She supposed. “Close the door…” she ordered the guards, half a plan to bar the doors from the inside with hopeless courage. But the guard simply looks at her with features of anxious calm and a small smile.

“He is here…” The guardsman breathes out, and makes way for his lady to see the outside…

The first to be noticed naturally is the Ironborn, running swiftly from one place to another. But how peculiar is their path… to pace away with their heads, occasionally turning back to see what is on their rear, rather than concentrating on pillaging their surroundings. Some of them slip and fell, some raise again but some other are trampled as they disregarded every house on their flee.

Yet the road is sporadically glowing with blue light, no different like a pact of fireflies littering the streets. There was nothing to be seen all around until Genna saw an Ironborn suddenly pierced in the head, with a blue translucent shape of a sword just as large as a Great sword.

And the same tale is spoken to the many other folks of the Iron islands, some are stabbed in the torso until he is mangled inside out, some are pierced in the legs only to be shredded once more by another through the head, some are even cut in half by force alone. In that moment, Genna decided to look upwards as she felt the shine from above…

Hundreds of droves of flying azure luminous sword covering the skies above Lannisport like falling Stars. Each blade making their way towards their own call to strike down an invader. It was a beautiful view if not for the ghastly circumstances of their purpose here. Each of them glides so fast, they released lines of rainbow as they pass…

An Ironborn saw Genna’s face from within the door to the Sept, and with a terrified face sprint towards the sept sluggishly as if the body did not answer coherently to the mind. Yet just as the man was about to reach the entrance, the guard immediately tackled him outside once more, barring the raider from entering.

“Stay outside! You monstrous fuck!” The guard said, aiming his spear at his enemy. The Ironborn lunged towards the guard, much to the latter’s surprise, but instead of an attack he decided to plead.

“Let me in!” The Raider said, his face shaken with terror. “I am Holgan Myre of House Myre! I request for ransom! Hold me for ransom!”. The man did not stop reigning terror with eye contact with the guard. His legs quivered every moment with no notion to stop. The guard looks towards Lady Genna for instructions, but Genna is a half a mind perplex by the turn of events…

“Let me in…” He said, looking back and forth to a certain street to the sept. “Let me in! LET ME IN! GODS DAMNED YO—”

It was such a quick moment, not unlike a blink of an eye… Genna did not even have the time to release her words…

But another azure sword came first to decapitate the Ironborn of house Myre as the blood spurt to both guard and lady….

---XxxxxX---

Heavy are the burden of the world for all man who are ill made to trek against the imposing hills of life, it was rather difficult to find joy even in lands of green for a man whole, one can easily imagine how hopeless and dire the circumstances may be for ones that are crippled and not whole in making. Even a missing arm or much worse, a missing leg could be the notion of life and death even in the most civilized moments…

The halls of open grounds have been brought by fires and steel. Even then the walls stood tall and mighty. The road of Tommen’s Road hailed the veterans of the Westerlands man. Each year and heads of their lives are skills of warfare in slumber now push to awakening in the brink of Ironborn invasion. Rusted steel held with seasoned skill is a danger still to any who came forth with idle hands.

Still… mastery and greatness will never quell the fear of uncertainty, and the shouts of the raiders are becoming louder by the second…

Another march came, a squad of old warriors came from the front, faces bearing dreadful features more so than the usual dejection. “Tymon…” Yelon spoke gravely. Both are man of old Lannister guardsman and arms man both until the magical incident that came from some while. “The fates are more dire than I thought… the northern wall has been breached…”

It is a fortunate thing that they spoke freely far enough from those who cannot fight, but the news still brings despondency still to those who hear it still. “How… patrols and watchmen are stationed masterfully all around… why aren’t there news of this? One scout should be enough to see—”

“I don’t know…” Yelon answered, looking down in thought for any signs of old faults. “I checked with the captain on the routines of the northern towers. He speaks of the guards, but when I survey the barracks for their likes, they are nowhere to be seen.” He relayed, sword grip becoming harsher, before he speaks the final words. “You know what that means… treachery from within…”

Tymon shakes his head in disbelief, “How many men are suspected?”

“Two… Goes by the name of Himlen and Terian…”

“Two!? That is impossible if true…” Tymon spoke, a severe smile upon him. “More than a dozen man are watchful of the night and day towards any parts of the Lannisport. Even so, the patrols or scouts around the plains should be enough to foretell any inconspicuous activities…”

“One scout should be enough, Tymon…” Yelon replied, and with a heavy heart, spoke further. “There are now two thousand Ironborn breaching Lannisport…”

“Two Thousand!?” Tymon struggled to catch his breath as he hears the numbers. Five thousand man is a conflict of destructive proportion for a port, but seven thousand in total that came from a pincer attack is a disastrous event. “What… What do we do!?”

“What!?” Yelon exclaimed with a worried face. “I would ask you the same! Weren’t you not Dylarr’s Lieutenant?”

If it was half a year ago, perhaps he could take the path of warfare gladly. But the stump that once was an arm creates doubt upon him. His left hand can barely swing a sword properly, in his mind he would be looking upon as a weak force of will against such savages. “We need to report to Lord Lannister…”

“Tymon… are you joking!? Lord Tytos!? Knowing the man, he is most likely hiding underneath his late mother’s grave!”

“You speak to freely, Yelon. Gods damnit all!” The man looks towards the north, where the smoky orange hue of fire slowly rising up, blackening the skies. He turns to see his fellow compatriots, both of work and retiree alike, their hands shakes with tentative fear, for how could they not as some have forgotten their sword grip after so long.

Rare are the days have Tymon led a pack of men to battle. Most times are against bandits. Very few are against real men of war. But as many eyes look towards the horizon in uncertainty, he has no choice but to usurp the call from a better man and take the sword towards the conflict. “Kinsman!” Tymon shouted, “Ready your arms and rally to me!”

“Tymon…” Yelon stare at his friend with dreaded heart, “Don’t tell me…” Not only him, so does the rest of the man of Lannister look towards him in disbelief, for to march to war with disabled hand is to court death vehemently. “We need to regroup!” Yelon continued, “Seek aid from lord Crakehall or Marbrand! We will not find victory here!”

“Hear upon the scream, friend…” Tymon spoken, the shrieking wail of the fallen becoming louder by the moment, “They are too close, we will be cut down on our way to the piers…”

With only one hand at work, Tymon grabs a sword and march to the edge, “Recall upon the faces of your family!” He shouted with apprehensive poise, all the men of war stops their shake slightly as eyes fall upon him. “Most of you have marched to war! I see your scars upon you!” He turns to see all the men, the malicious shadows of fire shines behind him. “You cheat and fought against manners of death many times! Is this the day you lose your heart? When the honor of your family and land is threatened in front!?”

Brows raised as the words are heard, some look to their hands, the calloused grip of old makes them recall their fighting spirit. Others glance behind them, to see woman and children on their knees and under the arms of their mother as they whisper words of assurance again and again. “So brave are you all, when you fight to claim honor in your name! yet when land and blood of your kin is threatened, you chose to bend the knee against savages and cutthroats! Have you lost your pride!?”

Fickle are the hearts of man, so quick to move from one place to another just as fast as one's emotion could stray from fear to great anger in a moment. All the warriors of old and man of doubtful figure decided to lift their hands with swords among them, lost pride awakened and love of family ignite them. “MARCH!” Tymon shouted, “I see still the fire in all of you! Let me see your steel! and let us deliver DEATH UPON THEM!”

They scream with magnitude fitting of high knights of honor, and with their voices their body followed in stand as sure as the sun will rise. “DEATH!” One shouted, “LET US DELIVER DEATH UPON THEM!” Another voice came.

Tymon and Yelon nods to each other, and they make their way to lead their respective cohorts. Though their march is brief as the screams of the Ironborn are now grows louder nearing their road. “Here we must stand…” Tymon whispered, but the conditions are less than adequate for they are too close to innocent eyes. Even now they could hear the cries of the innocent stricken with fear behind him.

“Remember the cries of your family behind you!” Tymon screamed again, as all the Lannister man making their way to formation with swords and spear in front. “Their smiles and laughter will be lost to darkness if we FAIL! We will NOT let that happen!” Intrigue is no forte of the man, but Tymon knows of what the feeling of loss is, and great are such things to be as bonfire to the hearts of man.

“HERE THEY COME!” Yelon alerted.

Thus, hundreds of souls came towards them with malicious faces…

---XxxxxX---

To make mistakes in war is a most fathomable notion. When arrows and rocks and swords and spears are thrown from one ear to the next, how could a man both in ordinary and otherwise could be beholden to their stoic stature so strongly. Only the best can be unflinching when the prospect of death can come from all directions, and they are fewer than the fewest. For when one is threatened by the unknown, the most reasonable of all acts is to flee or to fight.

Such threat to the hearts of man is surrounded by the Marbrand lord, for already are the Farman’s ships are occupied with their own share of the Ironborn long ships. Their faces of malice and conceited evil are so clear even though the fogs of war veiled many, and the rest are now in clash with the steel of crimson red of the Westerlands house.

Lannister, Crakehall and Marbrand flags are flying and splintered as the battle moves forth in the harbor in which they are stationed. In due time, the only distinction between friends and foes are the bleak colors of lead and darkened crags of the Ironborn’s homes as their garments and armors. For Damon Marbrand and the forces he leads, they can only assault any man who wore dark colors, as the stratagems fell apart to make way for attritions.

Tragic still as bodies fall, they are all bled with crimson blood, as corpses start to litter the fields of the port as the skirmish is becoming slower and smaller. In time, only the man of the land acquired victory for the hour, but thousands more men in longships would come in due time to continue the fray. Damon approaches the Crakehall lord for a discussion above the vile smell of the dead.

“How many men do we have left?” Damon asked, breathing heavily with one arrow barely pierced his chest piece, though it pierces the skin still slightly. Joran Crakehall exhales his own share of temporary relief, looking around the fields for all men of allies around them. “I’ll infer we still have more or less a thousand…” Damon fathomed gravely.

“That’s a good number…” Joran nods as he speaks, “I would say nine hundred to be as close as it is…” He ordered their force to make rest near the way they would make formation once more, they know not when the longship will arrive again, but respite between the conflict would return morale lost in droves. “I say… about a quarter hour the rest of the longships will try to force their way again…” He narrowed his eyes to the bloodied seas, “I don’t know what they are planning… This is not sensible…”

And that is the word most true, as to make way for brief stillness in war when one is in advantage is to give way for your opponent to find their composure. Damon is of the same mind, for now he has the chance to reinforce higher ground with archers and to reimburse the vanguard with lines of spears and shields. A foundation that would never would have happened if the Ironborn have decided to continue on their onslaught with waterfalls of man.

As a quarter of an hour passed, the longships started to move forward. Though they move slowly, even though the wind is strong to carry even the largest of galley. The silent came, eerie to those of land, as the man of the Westerlands shivered and squirm in their position. Just so a messenger came, running in huft towards both lords, Damon and Joran, look upon him with faces baffled.

“What news do you bring?” Damon asked, his hand on the courier’s shoulder to compound his relief. As the man’s voice slowly returned, the words he brings put the horror back onto the lord’s figure.

“The Northern wall…” The courier spoke with bated breath, “It has been breached! Two Thousand strong Ironborn is now pillaging through the northern street!” Joran released a quivering exhale immediately. His armor become heavier than his spirit and bravery slowly dissipates. “They have reached the Tommen Road, but the man there is holding them back as we speak! They spoke need of aid!”

They stiffened. They are not unfamiliar with war, but death has never come so close to them. Though no sword is near their faces yet, their now terrible circumstances bring the vision greatly onto their heads. Damon’s eyes can only look through darkened tunnels as he stares on the road behind them in horrid, as if an Ironborn face would appear in any second to destroy their lines.

“Tommen road!? We stationed no garrison there!” Joran interjected.

“Man of old and weakened soldiers ser!” The Courier relayed, “Veterans of war deemed too old and crippled…”

Damon gazed back to Joran As a dreadful idea is formed within their minds, though they both spoke of a different scheme. “How do they fare!?” Joran enquired.

“They are at their limit’s sir! Which is why I am here; they would fall any second!”

“Joran…” Damon intervened, “One of us needs to bring a score of man to support them…”

“NO!” Joran replied sternly. “We cannot! LOOK! The Ironborn are closing in!”

“This battle would be doubly hopeless if our rear is compromised, man!” Damon replied, with coarse and roaring voice. The Longships are closing in to the harbor. "The port numbered thousands! But if even half a hundred man manages to breach through Tommen’s, then our armies’ integrity would be compromised! We would be cornered and squeezed like a vice!”

“MAN! MAKE READY!” Joran yelled, and the walls of spear shielded the bridge of the piers against the Ironborn. “We move the man now! even a few of them! Then we will be the one at our limit!” Ten and a hundred footsteps of iron touch the wood and beaches as their vicious scream motivates their compatriots.

“DAMON!” Joran shouted; their foes are half a minute away to reach them. “FIGHT!”

All men and lords unsheathed their swords, hopeless the day may be. More of Farman’s man are supposed to reach in due course, but the quick arrival of the Iron islands could mean that they would only arrive only to see only corpses and raped bodies, Damon prayed that the man of the Tommen Road has the strength to persevere through the uncertainty.

Then a hue of light is felt on the peripherals of his eyes, and just so the Ironborn they fought halted the swings of their axes as their eyes are fixed to the skies… And for a moment, it would seem time has stopped as the wind is the only thing they could hear as they looked to the heavens.

Have the skies ever glowed so blue?

A rain of sword came…

---XxxxxX---

Rare are the times Tymon has ever felt so hopeless. Once, when his wife lay unmoving for a moment after she delivered his second son, another time he recalled, is when his son has fallen on the ravine near the beach, only to be found unconscious on the edge of a cave. Perhaps there are many more within the crevice of his mind, but folly to be thinking such a thing when savage men are slowly caving inwards as his defenses started to falter.

He hoped that the narrow road would bolster their position, to ensure that the thousands strong Ironborn would be meaningless as the path squeezed their numbers in line. At first, the plan worked wondrously, as the surrounding construct became a wall in itself to make sure that the numbers their opponents bring would be horridly utilized on their home ground.

Tymon started with four hundred men at the beginning, now eighty-eight of those have fallen. With only a hundred of the Ironborn number as payment for their deaths. It is not a fair trade, not when the numbers are so greatly against them. He had expected that the tactics would make such lost to be dispersed, but the Ironborn is fighting with savagery uncouth and just as unrelenting.

Then again, what can cripples and elders do, veteran they may be, against young arms with lust for the unspeakable. “I CAN STILL HERE THEIR CRIES!” Tymon shouted; his throat coarsens by the intensity of the voice. “I CAN STILL SEE THE MOMENTS THAT OUR CHILDREN WOULD BE FELLED! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT! MAN OF THE WESTERLAND!? DID YOU FOUGHT ALL YOUR LIFES FOR IT TO BE TAKEN ON ITS GREATEST NEED!?”

To make his men see sense is what comes first as he strikes down any man who manages to pierce through their defenses. each five seconds or more, a soul would die, leaving holes and opening for a moment they can exploit. Yet there will come a time when there will be no men to re-shield a hole that is pierced.

Tymon wanted to cry. Of all the days he fights and all the deaths he dodged, he did not expect to die in failing defending his family’s life and dignity. There was a plan if not for a fleeting moment of a few moons, that the thousands of golds that he has acquired would be made for a small keep of their own, conjoined with the other former Lannister man for them to make a life together.

It is a beautiful thing… He can imagine it…

A well-sized village outside of Lannisport, just in-between the Sarsfield and the Gold Road…

A modest house for each family…

And a large stone keep castle for all the denizens in the centre, to guard against the elements when needed…

To keep all the granaries and the meat for Winter…

For little boys to play at the top as princes and princess of their own…

It was so close… Tymon wondered, and all of it would come to an end, because of the poisonous man of the Iron islands. A tear escaped his eyes, and as he felt it stream down onto his cheeks, the smile of his sons came upon him and the worried look of his wife. And in turn the tears followed the cheek until it reaches the edge of his lips, the salty taste of it recognized. And with that, desperation give path for vengeance.

“HOW DARE THEY!” Tymon roared, “HOW DARE THEY HAVE DONE THIS!” His voice rang in the ears of the surrounding men. “WE HAVE HOPED! WE HAVE THE GOLD! AND WE HAVE THE POWER! AND THIS IS HOW IT WOULD END!” His face contorted unnaturally, a mix of dejection and rage. “I SEE ALL OF YOUR FACES! I KNOW ALL OF YOU! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE DREAMS WE HAVE! THE CASTLE WE WISH TO BUILD!?”

Like poison does anger spread, but through the course of the fury a message is sent, the dreams of the common men, of warmth and kinship, are renewed with vigor. The Shields raised up once more, and for those who have none, their bodies are sturdy enough to make a wall. Swords are shattered and axes are lodged through the skin, yet still they fight. With gritted teeth, many men of the west plunged their hands onto the heads of their invaders and gouged out their eyes and shattered their skulls through grip of anger.

All have screamed for retribution, to surrender themselves to vengeance for the misdeed the Ironborn have begotten. And with all the stratagems that have been placed, so to do the fury of a countryman revealed itself. Noble hearts of the common men turned feral as rage consumed their humanity. Teethes are plunged through necks and nails are embedded deep within wondering Ironborn.

Some are shocked by the developing ferociousness, some of the invaders take a step back as the men of the west are so quick to becoming demons themselves. It spelled doom for some. As the walls of warriors break, some Westerlands arms man leapt and clawed the nearest Ironborn to shreds.

“YOU!” Tymon pointed to the nearest man, whose spear was shattered with only a wooden tip for a weapon. “I need you to fall back to the houses and tell every man, woman and children to flee towards the gold road!” He said, “Do you understand!?”

“But—”

“It's lost…” He whispered, even though the clashing of flesh and fury is loud enough to hide the loudest scream he still whispered. “We have lost here… You see… Tell everyone at home to take their gold and make their dream…”

“…”

“GO!” He shouted, “Don’t let us die here for nothing…”

The man nodded with a heavy heart, stumbling on his way as his soul and mind clashes with each other to stay and to flee, but still he followed orders as his figure fade away to the darkness of the fog. For all the ferocity Tymon has beckoned, it will not suffice for a victory. He sees now as each of his men being ripped apart for every three to five men they felled, but the numbers would make them lose all the same.

But when one did not gain victory, preventing loss has an honor of its own. Man spoke of many honors, but the oldest and the most gracious of all honor, is the honor in protecting those who we care about. It is a thought Tymon, and many other knew. Who all are fallen beside him and are still fighting knew.

He kissed the wedding ring on his finger and charge back towards the fray. Wrinkle on his face as all tears spewed out, as all memories and love recalled. “Father!” A voice is sounded. “Father! We’re here!” Another one came in tow, and just so Tymon’s heart furiously beat with angst and dismay.

No… He thought gravely. NO… NO, NO… and as he turns his head to see behind him, the figures of his sons came to light. Here they bring their sword, blunted as they are. With gambeson and half-plate upon their chest and arms, awkwardly equipped. “FATHER!” His eldest son spoke, “We are with you!”

It feels as if his soul has left his body entirely, Tymon look towards them as the background are filled with blood and corpses and fighting men all around them as they put on a fighting stance so green, a blade of grass would learn to envy. He hugged both of them tightly, rubbing their hair until they were almost disheveled. “My children…” He said, “My boys… why are you here…”

“To fight with you…” the youngest spoke, more confused to be asked such thing in the first place.

But then the world seems to stand still, as the walls of men are breached and the invaders start to march in a sprint towards him. With many words left unsaid, Tymon grabbed a sword and shield his sons from the vanguard. “Stay behind me! And watch each other’s back, you hear me!?” They nod with their aching fear, and within a second Tymon’s sword clashed with the wooden handle of an axe and pushes towards an Ironborn neck, killing him swiftly.

The anger still resides within, with a greater touch of desperation. Tunnels are the vision of sight as he ensured that any enemy going his way is to be felled as swiftly as they come. Lesser are the man that would battle with his children the better. Bodies start to pile on the road of both enemies and allies alike, warranting the aggressors to tumble as they come.

But then two came at him in the same moment, and as one sword was withheld, a fist came from the side to incapacitate him. He fell down to the floor, the scalp of his head hitting a lost steel helmet on the edge, stinging the fall greater than he expects. He blinks to see an old friend looking upon him with a lifeless eye.

Balder… Tymon thought, looking still to his friend mangled corpse What would I tell your wife… A shout came from the side, and with as quick as the wind, grabbed a dagger from his waist and stabbed his opponent on the ribs before the man could dive with his hammer. But his body struggled to move as his mind was still in a state of disorientation.

He turned to look for his children…

Only to find his eldest, coughing as he lay down on the street…

Above him is a man laughing… ready to plunge down to his throat with a knife…

The only thing Tymon can do is cry. He wished to bring his left arm towards his body, only to be reminded that he lost the limb in the Casterly Rock Library not a long while ago. His face twisted into the ugliest form with a sound of wail he can ever bring, for in due time the knife would enter his son’s body, yet the view pains him tremendously…

But he cannot in his life turn away from him… for he has raised him from the beginning of his life…

And the least he could do now is only watch as his life is ended so young as he is…

Their eyes met as both cry in the midst of the dastard moment…

And the Ironborn pierced down towards the son’s neck…

But then a swift sound came…

Like a wind exploding with numerous thunder.

The weather clouded the skies with gray clouds, but no water came from above. But on the ground of the street, a glow of azure blue moves with swiftness as they pass him from above. And just so within a blink of an eye… A figment of a blue sword pierced down from the heavens onto the Ironborn’s head, and he fell just beside Tymon’s son, his head is distorted in a way a venison is cut apart sluggishly.

“Balan!” the youngest son yelled to his elder brother. He kneeled to his body and raised him up with both hands before he gently push his younger brother away. “I’m… fine Addam…” The eldest shakes his head to find his gaze met with his father’s once more. “Father!”

They both leapt to his side, his body slowly regaining movement. “Boys…” Tymon blinks as he forced his body to a sit. “Help me up…” He whispered. The eldest takes the left whilst the youngest takes the right. As he found the feet to stand tall once again, he looked around the street and the skies for all the mystical glory of the century.

Hundreds of blue translucent swords flying with a pace that pierced the wind, falling and striking towards any Ironborn in sight. Raining down without end, they all colored the skies, betraying its bleak colors with its collected beings. There were more than two thousand men of the Iron Islands before, but by wind pass that quantity is decreasing.

One Ironborn is pierced through the torso, clean is the hit as it made a hole bigger than the size of the sword that has done the deed. Another is sliced in both arms, screaming in horror and pain as fountains of blood spewed from both stumps until one more sword came to decapitate him. Another one was pierced by many, skewering the body onto the nearby walls, yet as the swords leave the corpse to find another victim, the body stays in place as the force of the impact itself caked him to the stone.

What was once two-thousand man is now fifteen hundred.

“Father… what is happening…” the shouts of panic littered the streets. As Tymon motioned his sons to return to their house together, he manages to examine his surrounding to see the flying swords have made no way to pierced his allies. All the blades are aimed towards the raiders, with many of the Man of the Westerlands watching on with awe and fear.

Fifteen hundred man is now a thousand.

“We need to go back to your mother…” Tymon said with a calm yet raspy voice.

“But father…” His eldest, Balan, said, “We are winning!” An Ironborn sprint for his life, faster than a man should be possible, yet not quick enough on his feet as a drove of blades drove to him so intense that his body flew to the air higher and higher with each blow. Another Ironborn held unto a Westerlands for help, Tymon recognizes the man as Roy, another former guardsman of the Lannister whose hand is cut by the sorcerer’s blade.

Roy, however, only looks to the Ironborn in disgust until his features of revulsion are replaced with shock, as another sword of blue came to cut the raider in half. Though the torso held still to Roy’s chest, the legs and waist falls down onto the streets. Eventually, all life slowly dispersed from his being as the body fell down beside any other cadavers.

A thousand man is now half of a thousand.

Tymon and his son walk briskly towards their home, as each of their invaders falling down and down, one by one as they pace themselves. He looks to the left to see Yelon leaning to the nearby wall of his mother’s pot shop, his wooden left leg does not look worst for wear. “I can’t believe you’re still standing, Yelon…”

“Quite a miracle considering I have one leg remaining…” They laughed underneath the absurdity of the circumstances.

“How is your mother… is she well?”

“She is…” Yelon replied with a huff of relief. “She’s inside now… there was a group of them trying to get inside… they almost did, if not for… well… all of this.” He finished, just so an Ironborn fell from the roof In their surprise, pools of blood drained from above as they stream down from the walls. “Looks like they tried to make way through the rooftops as well…”

Half a thousand man is now two hundred.

AND THEN THE CHILL AIR OF DREAD CAME…

THE ATMOSPHERE OF PRESSURE ONE FELT ONCE BEFORE…

“F-father…” Tymon’s youngest son spoke, as the air turns both hot and cold. “What is happening…”

For Tymon, this feeling, as unnatural as it may be, is not an unfamiliar one. The same is said too many Westerland men around him, Yelon as well as their eyes met for them to affirm each other’s belief of what is occurring. But beside him is the one they call George, another former guard of Casterly rock with a limp right arm.

Unlike his compatriots, however, George dared to speak the words all men who were once a guard of the Casterly Rock Library feared to say.

“HE IS HERE…” He spoke.

And the gravitas sound of footsteps is heard. With it came a blue figure slightly glowing with a subtle hue. The fog dispersed to make way for a man, silver of hair with a coat of distinct blue. Striking patterns of silver curved blades upon it. A second last an eternity as the sensation of power slowly becoming heavier.

“Fath—”

“Be quiet…” Tymon said, his hand shielded both of his children’s mouth. Vergil’s figure is now clear for all to see. Blue lights are bursting behind him as with it droves of blue swords are flown. The man pace himself nonchalantly, as if war is just another day of his long life. He did not stoop to look upon the living men around him, eyes looking forward with a purpose, as his body is as straight as the highest pride.

He did not speak… Did not even lower himself to walk the streets properly…

Preferring to stomp any corpse on his way rather than trying to lift his foot higher to avoid it…

Yelon blessed the day that none of the corpses he trudges are of his old friends…

Once in a while, the swords that came from his being would pierce the bodies that were beset around the streets. For any Ironborn man that has faked his death, a grunt of slow death would come for them now and then, for the sword knows and sense any tint of life. No one can escape his senses. Before the two minutes end, there was no longer any Ironborn alive anywhere near Tommen’s Road.

For a glance, Tymon’s eyes and his are in contact, and within that second, he felt a pressure to bow his head on Vergil’s presence. For the sorcerer, however, it was merely a passing thing, he simply to continue his brisk pace towards the piers where the sounds of horrific shouts and death still sings through the hue of fires.

This is the very same man that has injured most and mutilated some in their old post of the Casterly Rock library and all they can do is watch; Tymon included. For what can the ordinary do against power that great? The battle is over for them. All the men of old and crippled can do now is go home and tell the news as it is. Even now Tymon mourned for what is lost, for many of the fallen are the very same who dreamt of the same future as he is.

In time, the Stone Keep and the village will rise in their name. He will make sure of it…

Eventually, the sorcerer’s being fades into the fog of war near the harbor…

But all who watch knew the battle is already won…

For it is not a matter of if, only when…

---XxxxxX---

It is a flaw of a man to have notions of greed and hunger and lust. Vergil recognizes such things, for he is also a man besotted by paths of power. But deep as he goes to the deepest reigns of weakness and the unrestrained, never has he fallen to his baser instinct as to relief himself with an act of debauchery.

In so far as he walks towards the harbor, he has seen self-proclaimed lords of the Iron islands scream out their noble stature and history only to discard any mind of dignity by doing unspeakable things to woman and children. It sickens him greatly to even find himself surrounded by these men, regardless if they are a corpse or otherwise.

He is a man of history, amongst other things, when he was in his home world. Books are truly are a window to another world. And just as well as he learned on the regards of the Ironborn through hearsay of Creylen and documents alike, many are the writings that speak of deeds appalling rooted deeply even now to their culture.

Multiple Millennia of their existence, and still none of them learn the merits of honor and clever crafts, acting still on debased acts of banditry and savagery. More so, he is baffled how the other kingdoms, numerous they are in number and great in power in comparison, would not lay a rough hand towards the braggarts.

Thus far, he did not see anything remarkable that speaks of their famed survival. All of them fought as meekly as any other man of mortal reigns, and in truth it is starting to bore him. All the battle is just pushing a drove of man to another drove of man, which are rarer still are they who fought in a well learned manner of war, most only flailed their steel in manic form.

The sooner victory is achieved, the better. As the son of Sparda thought… there are many things to do that are five hundred fold more essential.

He arrived at the fields of the harbor and the beach, greater number than before on the Tommen Road, but just as hectic. Vergil’s eyes are half opened, all lazy-like for the sluggish acts that surround the bloodied vista. Sickened by the view, he motioned his mind to summon a rain of swords once more. For there is no grace in such a vexing affair on civilized land.

 Each second passed as he strikes down thousands of men whilst sighing with mental exhaustion…

“How droll…” He exclaimed softly…

---XxxxxX---

He hears his heart beats faster and faster with each stomp of an Ironborn foot on Lannisport grounds, already there are overwhelming numbers against his few good men, with many more longships of the raiders awaiting the tip to be jagged onto the sandy shores for more adversaries to be fought against.

Whimpered grunts of his troops are beginning to become frequent as the vanguard starts to keel over against the push. Arrows upon arrows rained down on the raiders, but it has no discernible effects in slowing them down. For every dozens of man fallen by the fletchers call every minute, is a line lost against him.

Already they are quickly pushed towards the narrow streets of the port, where the walls would force the troops to reconfigure their formation. Yet it would lead to a better position where the Ironborn numbers would be less effective. “Archers!” Joran shouted, “Captain Daylen! Move the archers back towards the buildings between the street!”

“As you say, ser!” The ordered man immediately marches to position with his man. Falling back towards the narrow path would lead for effective shots from above, a prospect Damon and Joran recognized, but as the latter lord look to his companion in kind, he finds him looking back towards the rear of their positions, with the Ironborn as well having frozen in their place as they look up to the skies.

“HE IS HERE…” Damon Marbrand spoke, glancing towards Joran…

“What!?” Joran exclaimed, “Who?”

“The sorcerer…”

“…” Joran looked to him in disbelief, though he finds the rest of his man also look on to the same direction of awe, curiosity in tow he followed the crowd eyes to the skies, and find his eyes widened in incredulity. For in the roof of a structure stands a man with wings of azure glow, and as time came to pass, the wings became larger and larger that it even threatens to cover the northern skies.

Joran heard of the tale of the Valyrian sorcerer, who has been rumored in numerous hearsay throughout his days on preparing for the battle. Bollocks and imaginative ballad are what he considered such stories to be, nothing more than mythic falsehoods between commoners and peasants alike.

But then came Lord Damon and the Lord of Crakehall that spoke of the same kind of the creative tale, and just so he scoffed as they spoke of it with such fervor, one would presume them mad on first-hand accounts. But there is not one but many, as present knights and ladies that are present during the festival spoke of the same narrative as well.

A sorcerer of high bearing in favor of house Lannister, coming from the maw of old Valyrian itself.

Joran proceeds to think he has gone mad himself as he hears the outrageous tale all around him, focusing instead on the battle grounding to withhold all outrageous thoughts. But how could he find any course of doubts as now he sees the wings have expanded so large that it shadowed the fields? He questioned what is the purpose of such a splendor of a vista, to reveal such things during times of warfare.

But then the second comes to pass, and what is presumed to be wings becomes sharper in definition as they seem to come closer. Thus, he learned in sight in which that is not a pair of wings whatsoever, but cavalcades of swords raining down upon them.

Everything flashes before him, as if he is seeing the work and design of God coming into place. There are so many of them, the swords. Much more devastating in quantity than any hails of arrows could ever be, he cannot find within him to close his eyes as the blade becomes nearer and nearer. Eventually, they arrived just where they wanted themselves to be.

Dozens of sword flies pass him, like a thousand barbs moving as one, the sound of the wind vibrates his drums. One sword passes inches from his shoulder, another through the opening between his arm and left rib, another almost grazes his neck, and then comes another one that misses his legs barely. The poetry is sung again and again until Joran hears the screams and cries of pain from behind.

Only to see thousands of Ironborn having swords lodged into their bodies and some pierced through like a Valyrian spear. The longships that await the shores are sinking as the blades shattered the integrity of their boats, drowning and suffocating from the salt of the seas and their own blood alike. The fish would eat well for the coming days.

It is a story repeatedly told as the days go by… no different from the occurrence of the Tommen Road.

In due time, they would name the battle as appropriate and in accordance to what has happened.

THE STORM OF SWORDS

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

I was planning to describe the battle on the harbor, but since it would be more or less the same as the battle on Tommen road i just relent to stop this chapter there. I am half worried and excited to write this part of the story, naturally so, since this is another event where Vergil would exercise some of his powers. Hopefully i can release another update before the week ends.

Anyways, i have checked my grammar through online paragraph checker, in which i am thoroughly horrified in how many grammar problems i almost subjugate all of you to. Even after the grammar check, i can still find horrid sentence placements that the software is incapable to see. So please do tell me if there is a a problem as you read the story. For even one word wrongfully said could make or break the tale.

Thanks for reading. I'll recheck the chapter once in a while to see if there are any issues i could find after i post it, before moving to the next chap.

Chapter 8: Discussions Above the Corpses

Summary:

New Knowledge came in places unknown to Vergil, while the rest of the west world wonders in dread and interest.

Notes:

I deleted this chapter before because the Grammar check i use have BOTCHED many quotation marks, that i am forced to re-upload using pure documents. I apologize for the inconvenience.

---XxxxxX---

The Aftermath is a simple thing, though simple in concept only, for just as it is in many things, the hardships come from the procedure and due process. Cleaning the port and harbor from clutters of corpses of wooden boats and flesh alike would be an endeavor any one would find both macabre and tiring. Constant watch and lifting of dead carcasses would test the tenacity of men, self-reflection often comes in times and places of death, where one would be influenced by the notion of the unliving.

Though queries of introspection aside, these few weeks have been so close to be nothing but presumptions of the future and matters of the unknown. If not those, then the time of the day would be spent on silence and weariness. As many minds would try to comprehend the occurrences that are slowly becoming the norm of the day.

Lady Genna have met many councils of her present vassals, Lord Damon Marbrand have offered to aid in support on the dusting of the Lannisport, an aid the lady has accepted with utmost gratitude. Less are those men who would deign themselves to swipe the slate that they have sullied, in that Genna would someday stand in support of the house in the coming times.

Lord Joran Crakehall have proclaimed himself to be an investigator of the attack, many souls of the Ironborn have escaped the onslaught of the battle, though has not manage to escape the folly of their acts. The scream and cries of them can still be heard in the rung of the Lannisport dungeon, each day they bring new information of their actions.

Lord Farman, arriving only in the aftermath of the battle, profusely apologized to the Lord Lannister and Genna for his absence on the fray. Relenting instead on aiding and bolstering the defense of the port all the whilst giving complementary foot soldiers in helping Damon and his cleaning the streets of the carcasses of the braggarts.

If it was put into question before, it has been very much answered as these days have passed. Tywin Lannister was the name who have been acclaimed to be the true lord of the house, many have suspect he is the one that has make way to glue every part of their kingdom together as Lord Tytos drench himself with his failings.

Now in the time of war though no Lannister head can be found during the battle of the Lannisport, Genna is the one providing support of many kinds, whether through tactical accumulation and distribution of resources and a morale uplift to the people behind the sturdy walls of the sept. Either way, with the added works of the year, Genna is considered to be the De Facto head of the house. whilst Lord Tywin is off to war at the time being that is.

Thus instead, many notions and issues of the land would be reported to her. From the prospects of administration and even the chances of war, she would hear it all. With Creylen and her trusted Vassals at her side. Though at the time being after the recesses of war, there is always a calm that pervades the denizens of the west to time of peace and clarity of life.

For a few weeks the common men would rest and give time to life and family… Genna wouldn’t have it any other way, and in truth Damon, Joran and the other lords couldn’t care even less.

Though one constant of the year still retains his station on the library of the rock. And all topic of the times has been taken care of to avoid such matters of him, as priorities are set to aid in the integrity of the port and its purposes. For the quicker does the due process of Trade can be reimbursed, the quicker all things to return to what it once was, if not better for the crisis that they have averted. All men would think heavily these times to fortify the port defenses well than before.

But the weeks of consolidation has already passed, and Genna who is now resides in her father’s solar, called upon her Maester to discuss on the permeating major concern. Joanna is present also, being her right hand of her life, solemn with a smile as they await their families return from the way that are suffered on the step stones.

“My Lady Genna, My Lady Joanna…” Creylen spoke, as he entered the room with a more painful spine than usual. “You have called for me?”

“I did, Creylen. Go on, we save you a seat…” Genna said, motioning with a gesture to the soft chair near the desk, the comfort the bottom brings, elated the spirit slightly for the Maester. Often now his days are spent on sturdy wooden chairs, for the library seldom have its softer counterparts and Lord Vergil calls him often on recent times.

Though each prospect has its own Merits, Creylen supposed. The answered enquiries he has, far outweighs the discomfort it brings by proxy, as Lord Vergil is quite a trove of information of many unknown to the realms of man. So often does he forgot the sores and the pains for every time they spoke to each other, the sorcerer’s interest in learning also ignites some old fire once beset on the Citadel. A notion Creylen is fondly reminded.

“You have been in discussion with Vergil often, Creylen…” Genna said softly, a tad tint of worry in her voice.

“So I have My Lady…” He replied, “Lord Vergil have been very accommodating in relaying his own perception of the matters… I find his knowledge of many subjects bogglingly unreal and otherworldly… but dare I say that such outlook is to be given, considering the nature of the man himself.”

“He did not threaten you? Or any unrefined actions of any kind?”

“None… My lady… I mean…” Creylen breathes softly as he answers, “The man is subtly courteous, but I have to say that most times I do not know if I am trespassing in the conversation. The air around his presence is always heavy with dread regardless of the pleasantness of the topic, I would never know what implications would be brought out with every word I speak with him, the man is often as blunt as he is quiet.”

Genna look to her friend on the corner of the room, seated near the solar window, Joanna leaned on its edge as the wind caressed her hair. “Why don’t you tell us what topics you have discussed with him. We’ll see if what he told me have some semblance of truth in it.” Genna sighed, it is a terrible notion to ask of a man knowing that he is in a place under her house protection. But the aloofness of the sorcerer brings difficulties that demands substitution necessities. I hope this would change in time, Genna thought.

For ideas and schemes have made its place in the Ladies minds, and the existence of great power could aid in furthering their goals. Vergil have been provided profusely by her house, even going as far as to question her dignity and virtue whilst under her wings, Genna expect recompence for such an accommodation given by yours truly by any means at hand, and they are many.

“So many matters and subjects… I don’t know where to start…” Creylen spoke, eyes on the ground as he contemplates every words that have been bandied in his stay in the library. This time, Lady Joanna intervened with her own voice.

“Tell us of where he came from, his origin…” Joana spoke, “Surely that is a issue you would suggest first when you are of interest in knowing his background, it is a given…”

“Well…” Creylen blinks his eyes as he evoked the outrageous words that are calling on the edge of his tongue. “How do I say this…” He inhaled a breath and harden his eyes, ensuring utmost gravity of the circumstance. “He hailed from the land… A kingdom of Redgrave. A city that envelopes a whole island with construct taller than a mountain… he says that they are made out of steel that scraps the sky…” Joanna widened one of her brows with a small smirk as absorbs the tale.

“It even connects with another island with a bridge wider than the Frey’s twins, and with a length that slice the sea apart.” This time she laughed, covering her lips with her dainty hand.

“Joanna…” Genna said, a sigh of slight fatigue…

“Apologize Creylen…” Joanna said, “But are we not talking about his Origin… not the splendor of his Kingdom…” Just so Creylen leaned down his face, seemingly abashed to be outwitted by his own dreams in the discussion.

“It is alright, Creylen.” Genna replied, “Don’t go Crestfallen on me, I wish to hear everything… this includes the kingdom he ruled…”

“Oh! Of course, My lady!” Creylen said, spirit returned. Though the proper terms came onto his mind for the answer that is in pursuit. “He lived on the palace overlooking the same city… A green field from afar where his father would watch over the city as Sentinel… It is said its peak can see upon farther Horizon. From the city itself all the way to the Kingdom of Fortuna… Which Lord Sparda also have ruled.”

“Ruled? So, he is a lord—” Genna’s word were wedged on her throat as another implication came onto her thought. “A king?”

“I… I don’t know, my lady…” Creylen replied, face of intrigue and excitement. “It is what I wish to ask but so fearful to do so, his patience is thin, my lady. I can only take what he gave and move on to the next one, but he does gave many implication, some are less subtle than the rest…”

“That’s not quite right of him… Did you not say the man is as blunt as a Warhammer unused?” Joanna intervened.

“He has been thus far…” Genna replied, clicking her tongue with exasperation. “Perhaps it is entailed by circumstances?” She sighed, “No matter, we’ll get to that in time. Go on Creylen…”

“Oh! Yes well…” Creylen composed himself as he delivered the rest of the tale. “Lord Vergil has said that the people of his kingdom would convene to his father in all things, whether civil or war. He is considered to be a legend of his time, very much remembered and always recalled by his people in honor. He spoke that his home is a conflicted place, every day or moons, beast of all kind whether demon or man would attack in droves. If escalated greatly, Lord Sparda would intervene and end it as swiftly as they come.”

“So, a warrior too then…” Joana said, with a nod.

“You saw his son…” Genna retorted, “Where else could he gain such powers, I suspect consolidation of bloodline…”

“Yes, that is correct, my lady…” Creylen said in turn. “His prowess is said to be as legendary as his rule. Lord Vergil spoke that his father has eliminated a great evil that has enslaved humanity for… well, undisclosed amount of time. But it said he did so singlehandedly, an entire army and its leaders cast away with his might… or so he has told me…”

Both ladies are uncertain on the lore, yet with prior events so recent within time, perhaps the grandiose of the sorcerer’s history to be imaginatively mystical in nature is assumed. “That is quite close to what he told me…”

“He did not talk to you much, my lady?”

“Here and there…” Genna replied, “He kept looking at me with a bothersome look, I seem to catch him do so each time I caught his form... Gods be good, I won’t find a sword on my chest when I wake up these days…” She collected herself to reality. “What am I… I’m sorry Creylen, do go on…”

“Right…” The Maester equipped a worried look, doubly are his eyes turning back and forth towards her as the words are spoken. “It was a peaceful era, Lord Sparda is said to be a peaceful man with love of songs and magic and books alike. His wife, Lord Vergil’s mother is said to be of recent marriage when we consider the man’s age. Lord Vergil said that his father ruled his kingdom for a thousand years before he has gone missing.”

“What…” Genna said, with Joanna lifting her head from her leaned hand to voice the same query with her expression only. “You mean his ancestors have ruled Redgrave Kingdom for a thousand years?”

“It is Redgrave city to the Kingdom of Fortuna, my lady. Though there are various more cities and kingdoms in-between, though the lord sorcerer has not placed himself to invoke it to me” Creylen corrected, “And no… He said it in truth that his father has lived for a thousand years… His father not his ancestors…”

“That’s… colorful…” Joanna said, a little cackle of a chuckle subtly heard. “Seems he is becoming more outrageous by the second…”

“Creylen… he did not seem like he is lying?” Genna enquired, narrowed eyes of perplexity.

“No, my lady… truthfully, I could not tell. The first time I’ve seen a semblance of emotion from him is when he enquires me what would happen if he hypothetically conquered and take Iron Islands for himself… Other than so, he did seem to have a face of—"

“Pardon!?” Joanna intervened again, The Maester seems more exhausted for each time she did so. “He wished to invade the Iron Islands!?”

“A tone of suggestion, my lady…” Creylen said, “Though knowing the man and what he is capable of, mayhaps it is what he is devising.”

“By the gods…” Genna sighed, falling onto her seat, the discomfort of her spine briefly exposed a trace of relief. “There are so many things…”

“I know…” Creylen spoke, softly as he does. “Each word I spoke needing an elaboration, if we would go from one line to another, it will be overwhelming… I would suggest that we start from one term and tale before we go to another.”

“What did we get ourselves into…” Joanna spoke, a sly smirk on her.

---XxxxxX---

The beach seems to shine just the same as any other beautiful sunrise in preceding. Orange young light that colored the edge of the sea white like waving milk, it is a splendid and surreal sight for Damon Marbrand, especially so when he considered the notion that if he turn his head slightly to the right or the left it would be marred by sights of corpses, half-eaten and otherwise.

This not included the fallen ships where some would wonder on the waters like leaves carried by the waves, and once that are conjoined by the sands and crags, stuck as it is and adding to the vista of the ocean. The light of the day makes the shadow all the more graceful, from the ships that shows it edge rises upward to the skies and the healthy ones that are not capsized alike.

He quizzed himself in which direction would the winds take him now, many is the answer and the questions in his mind as it is. if not for more than a few moons ago, the worlds seem magical as it already was, with all the fishes and the unending seas and the huge plains that came from the Westerlands and the reach alike.

Who would’ve thought that the days would carry him onto a time where beings of ethereal nature would grace him with his presence through works of unyielding might. Where wings would scatter into a storm of swords that covered the skies with azure light, rivalling the sky-blue of the afternoon. He wishes to smile and frown alike as he thought of it. wherever he goes now, the legend would spread, and the works of lord would adapt with it.

“Damon…” The voice of Joran Crakehall called, Bull is his size granted by the bulk of strengthened limbs that rivalled a thick tree. Once Damon would found respect on such view, he still does, but when one is influenced by recent work of the mystic, it truly does make one wonder on each of their own paradigms.

“Lord Joran…” Damon answered, “You returned to quickly… My man is resting before they would clean the carcasses here… a toll on them these last weeks, handling life steel and dead flesh alike.” And it was a forcing work still. the cleaning of the fields are usually work given to the people of the locals, but he is an owed man, and one with a favorable view of the lion more than people think. For he to have history of positivity with such kins.

“An honorable task with a tint of vile prospect, I won’t blame you if you would not finish it.”

“Many acts we have done are vile, I won’t dissuade from this one, I owed the young lion much…”

“A story I would like to hear someday…” Joran said with a gentle smirk.

“Perhaps you will in time…”

Joran hand him a glass of silver, almost full of wine. Damon accepts it with a smile, as both contemplate how to approach the urgent question of the century. For how could one start in broaching the topic of that is far from the works of logic. Damon drank the wine vigorously, until the cup is half empty, he surmised that comes the end of the conversation, he would need the other half to ease his soul.

“Imagine for a day such as this to come…” Joran said, both lord looks towards the horizon, finding the vista calming their aching aftermath of war. “Where I would find my words thrown right on me through proof of action first hand.” He said, chuckling in-between. “I know there was a truth in the madness somehow… To see and hear you and lord Farman spoken so vehemently on the existence of a sorcerer… I thought at least it is an exaggerated tale, woe is me as I am proven falsely through the times of warfare…”

“No words need to be said of old discussion… it would frustrate us only.” Damon replied, sighing with a tiredness from within. “Still I would be awake at times wondering if I am in a dream, or if I took to many drinks than one man should have. But there we go… And here we are…”

“Here we are…” Joran quipped the same, both takes their sip of their own glass of wine. “And how do we approach this… Situation?” The man asked, the banner of Crakehall bellowed on his cape, nature itself spoke through the wind of the daring queries both men has considered. Each step they take will bring them too future uncertain.

“How do you see this situation, or perhaps at the start… How do we see this situation?” Damon asked, halfly rhetorical. “I was there with Lord Farman, when the sorcerer slash split the wind apart, and it gushes away in pain as it carried a field of man away from the field of the tourney. Half-a-Hundreds of them are soaring through the air that day, as he effectively dissolving half of the participants. It was a marvelous day… if not terrifying.”

“Imagine that…” Joran said.

“Imagine that… Well, not for me.” Damon spoke, for he was there. Just as agape as the other watchers of the glory. “Come what may then here comes the day of the Ironborn invasion… but you already know that part of the story…”

“So I believe… though I doubt I would know the full extent of understanding.” Joran replied, eyes still on Damon as he expects more incredulity. “I admit, that perhaps the Lady Genna knows more than she speaks…”

“So I’ve heard as well… as I heard the sorcerer are in favor of her…” Damon presumed, hands on his scuffled chin as he is in thought. “As the rumor goes, the sorcerer arrived one day not long ago and raided the Casterly Rock library. Many folks of the Tommen Road are victims of his onslaught. None have died but many are injured. Most fully recovered, but five or seven came out with mangled limbs, the gods help their souls.”

“So, the man came onto the library, take it as his domain, and won favor with Lady Genna?

“Ah I see you heard the same story as I did.” Damon affirmed with a nod, “Many servants and guardsman alike said the same, though each with their own embellishment as they are. But we already know what the man is proficient of so that is not a talk we need discussing.”

“But that is a talk we need discussing…” Joran interjected, voice of worry and reason. “He took down an army, a hundred man fell in half a minute of his magics. Is this not call for alarm?”

“Of course it does…” Damon replied, “Hearsay are coming and going as they are, one spoke of treachery whilst the other came from divine grounds, I know not where to start… but what I know now is that the man is seemingly on our side…”

“Our discussion seems to return to that question quite often…” Joran spoke, with forewarned question coming just as it was ordained. “How did Lady Genna acquire him?”

“We would meet with her in the coming moments, no question that would be the foremost topic at hand needing discussion. If such powers are under Lannister’s hand, then the coming moments of days would make way for a different world entirely for us. When it comes forth, I hope we will be ready for it.” Damon said, a twinkle of a worrying smile subtly concealed.

Joran still look on to him with a more baffled expression more so than before. “Are you not worried?”

“What?”

“Worried… Scared… frightened.” Joran said, “Do you not question how such a man would be so quick to kneel to earthly folks.” He suggested, he puts both of his hands to grip his glass as he delivered the words. “What makes you so sure that the sorcerer is at Genna’s whims? Why are you not considering the situation that it would be the otherwise?”

“I…” Damon wondered; it is a point to close to be a good surmising. “That is also true, and one I would come to thought often but… when I hear of the rumors of the visits Lady Genna and the sorcerer seemingly are amicable… and that the man seems to fight under her name, I cannot dare to think such thoughts.”

“Dare?” Joran scoffed lightly, “Perhaps you are right… it is a daring thought. What kind of future would come if house Lannister is conquered by such a man, you think? Tytos is… a frail one, and Lady Genna, loved as she is to her people and the Westerlands, is still a woman. If the sorcerer decides to connive the whole Lion’s throne to his hands, what does that mean for us you think…”

“It could mean many things…” Damon replied, wetting his lips with another sip of wine. “And If I could dare myself to be honest with you… I know not if it would be pleasant or terrible…”

“Would you accept another liege that came from a place unknown, Damon?” Joran asked; one brow raised in question. “Already we are in civil turmoil with the uncouth Reynes and the Tarbecks. More so still to the rest of the houses whose loyalty are turning towards the two more than their warden. I can tell you that I am concerned of the imminent conflict…”

“The other Lannister lords are still in war with Stepstones with my father…” Damon relayed, a slight quiver with him. “So, I’ve heard they have clashed on the bloodstones, though I don’t know how it has ended, if it has at all. It will be a while before they return, no doubt some entities have already put their pieces on move as it is. The sorcerer being here perhaps quakes the board fiercely so… I would say that the inevitable fight would be much more complex or simpler depending on what position the Lannisters and the sorcerer decide in compromise.”

“Then maybe you are correct in saying we should await to discuss this matter with Lady Genna. Acts of afront without proper knowledge of the situation is folly, many houses are extinct for such mentality. For now, we can only hope.”

“We are of the same mind… But before such meeting would occur, I do have another matter on hand…” Damon said, “I would even go as far as to say that the circumstances are more daring than what you expect…”

“How so?” Joran queried.

“I found this on an Ironborn’s pocket…” Damon said, he released a patchwork of a sigil. “We both know what this is…”

And know of it they do, for it is symbol of a powerful house of recent talks. Joran blink a few times, cleaning the hazes to ensure away all uncertainties, Damon does the same, so full of belief he may be, one can never be to sure. As their sight has come to pass onto satisfaction, both lifts their heads tall and make an respire so tiresome.

“Red Lion…” Joran said, “Reyne sigil… Where do you find it…”

“From a corpse of Tommen Road. Where the Veterans of old and Crippled guardsmen made their stand at the hour of the battle. They fought bravely, and with spirit possessed by the warrior. If not for them we would be overwhelmed sooner… Not bearing in mind the Sorcerer of course.” Damon said, hand removed from it extend back to pocket the sigil. “I did find a life Ironborn still in question, and he knows of the Reyne participation of the invasion. It was a long elaboration, so I will save it until we are in court with Lady Genna…”

“I see…” Joran said, sighing. “Reynard Reyne is dead, Ellyn Tarbeck should be on the hands of her husband as of now… it could be her still, she is still a Reyne by blood… or it could be Alastor and Tion…”

“Or it could be anyone who wanted to implicate any of those houses…”

“True…” Joran concurred, “Well then that would mean we have to many directions to go, I would advice Lady Genna to put both house honor in question then before moving on the assault…”

“We go that far?”

“It already has…”

“So, it is…” Damon affirmed, rubbing the Red Sigil on his hand, “So this is it then, civil war on the Westerlands. In the hour of the Ninepenny invasion we are beset by treachery, yet also I have heard the Frey’s name has been spoken in filth these last few moons, who is to say they would not make their way to pursue conflict in aiding our opponents.”

“To far I think.” Joran spoke his thoughts, “Powerful house if not weaselly, but it wouldn’t push them to make forceful choice against us… Stevron and his brothers, most of them at least are man of honor, on that I can say. It is their chief father we need to be worried about, if the man does not take his sons council well that is. Then again, what can an up jumped Sentinel could do against a whole realm.”

“Yet it is not whole as it should be… And Lady Genna is… dare I say, is quite a price. I presume losing the hand of an overlord’s daughter would be more than just a slight.”

“Fragments and pieces of a few, but we are still a big piece nonetheless. Let them be offended that they did not take our lady’s hand they did not deserve in the first place.” Joran said, “Besides, all it takes is one, for the twins are not a powerful folk in stature but of their wealth. And in that, the Lannisters have them shadowed.”

Not when they are in line with the Reynes and Tarbecks… Is what Damon thought, but he did not voice the claim in his mind, for it is farfetched still. The Frey’s are rat people, risky but not daring just as they are filthy and often without honor with a few exceptions. The eldest heirs are of a different sentiment, but come due time perhaps that will change for the worst as well, and that is an issue not of the Westerlands and if it does it will be considered in a later time…

For now, however…

“Come then…” Damon spoke, “It is time we take council, the day is young and discussion often takes time… I wish to get myself a mead before this day ends…”

“I applaud your priorities… you’ll find me the same mind.” Joran replied in concord, they walk with humor, for it dulls the distress for a moment in time.

---XxxxxX---

The ray of light shines once more under the stony tower of the library, gone are the bleak nature of the storm, whatever remains of the conflict are now only discarded corpses on the beach mostly. For now, the Son of Sparda paces quietly in the repository of books. Stacks of them around him which seems like a form of advisors in a form on knowledge.

“Hammer of the waters… Could be?... Though there are… Hmm… Isle of faces… Connected through the trees… Godswood…” Vergil often voiced his thoughts loudly as the passion of learning drove him onto a stupor of excitement. He did not show it in his features of course, one would surmised that he have lost his ability to express himself outward. Inward is a different tale entirely.

Though his sword hand is immaculate, the mind that came with the body is just as sharp. Heavily paralleled the scabbard that holds Yamato within…

The doors of the library flew open slowly to reveal the form of Lady Genna, a wary face but a gentle straight lip. Vergil as usual kept to his pace as he circles in his place in deep thought, and Genna look upon him contemplating is she should bother him in such course. Then she recalled whose castle they are both standing in, and make her choice rather quickly if not brashly.

As the lady arrived on a few feet before him, the Son of Sparda halted his pacing with his back turned against her.

“What…” Vergil asked, stone voiced and rude. Genna groaned as he did so.

“Must you always turn your back against me when we are speaking…” Genna said, exasperation setting in earlier then expected. “I have you know it is uncouth, and very much demeaning to me. Will you not indulge me at least and turn…” She finished; she spoke in a manner so softly than the stern voice often employed during times of the festival. But that day is far gone, and she has no reason nor want to be so.

He turns towards her, slowly, condescendingly, with his head tilted slightly to the side, whether for mocking or it is his usual state is unknown. At least he listens… that is slightly shocking… Genna thought, but she would take the gesture in good faith. For in her understanding, the man is short of patience.

They both looked to each other for a while, longer moments than both of them would like. Though Vergil kept his place whilst staring at her with long intervals of blinking, unsettling her somewhat. Genna look towards him and away in many turns, his fingers rub her own upper arms in her struggle to find the right words. Wishing to whisked away from the disturbing moment, she dared herself to speak bluntly.

“You saved the people of my city… My lands.” She spoke, delicately and in a manner of soothing. “I cannot tell the numbers we would have lost, the fathers, the mothers and children that would have been abandoned by death. In that you have my thanks…” She twirled her fingers in each hand individually. The sounds that came out of her mouth is true, but each that are spewed are delivered halfly ingenuine. True as they are, there is a sense of denial in it.

“If that is what you are here for, then you are wasting both of our time… Again.” Vergil replied, though no hint of threat, Genna is disturbed nonetheless. “It was a practice run… nothing more. Now leave me to my thinking and leave…” As he is done with his turn, Genna grumbled before him. Both are standing still as they are; none are deigned to leave each other as it is.

Vergil shakes his head slightly, this time the features of his expression are contorted with confusion, Genna widened her eyes slightly as she noticed, so there is a human in there after all… If not to some extent She thought. Straightening her composure and spine, she spoke the words. “I see that your pursuit of the arcane have been severely underestimated…” Just so she turned and tilted her head slightly beside and behind Vergil.

Tomes of dust and ancient is apparently seen, and they are easy to be spotted. Minimal there are of books with recent care and making, of neat and rare of crump as they are. As are the matters at hand, most of the parchments and repository of knowledge both of them sees around them are hardened ones with covers made out of scales, hides and other manner of ardent materials.

“What of it?” Vergil questioned; eyes narrowed slightly as his patience slowly thins. Genna walked towards the largest construct of books, seemingly a few inches taller than she is before turning back with a scoff towards him.

“These are all a well-documented information…” Genna said, with a brow raised slightly and a smirk. “But far from the most heresy as a pious man may seen it to be… that is to say, these are all uncreditable works of knowledge, as far as one who are deep in the mystic may believe…”

“What are you implying?” Vergil queried, “You know much about… magic?” The word sounds like an insult on his lips, for in his history on his life, to call such powers with such a simpleton term is an undermine towards its true power. Still, he humored on to the lady of the house, circling the surrounding mountains of books around him all predator like.

“I do know that these are accounts of presumptions and inference…” Genna said with a nod, “The Maesters who made them halfly find the pursuit boorish and unrefined. It led to many believing that these sources are ingenuine… just as they are questionable.” She finished, her blonde hair shines silver on the sun rays where she halted herself, it fell like waterfall on her shoulders. Vergil noticed it so before another question came.

“So, you know more than you speak?” Vergil implied, resting his hand on the pommel of Yamato. “Are you offering your council on the matter? I do find it very surprising that you would have such familiarity on such subject, given your… upbringing…” She scoffed again, this time she voiced it loudly for him to hear her disapproval.

“You think such interest is unnoble like?” Genna quipped, mocking face of sarcasm upon her. “What does that say of you? Lord Vergil?”

“Not so…” Vergil said, slightly amused. “Perhaps I have misjudged you to be a simple shrewd woman who thinks only on simple standing such as gold… dresses and useless etiquettes…”

“You have etiquettes of your own… I see the way you approach many things…”

“Those many things are approached with proprieties refined.” Vergil corrected, Genna could’ve sworn she spot a slight smirk. “My basis is on discipline, not false modesty…”

“As you say, My Lord…” Genna said with a sneer, one of minor wit than spite. “Then you can count the blessings of my Modesty, that I would show you a true fount where documents of magic are truly kept within this house…” She finished, walking towards a certain path within the library before gesturing towards the Son of Sparda.

“Follow me… wouldn’t want to Waste our time, don’t we.” She jeered. Halfly prideful that this time she is the one to end the discussion, petty the act may be. Vergil inwardly scoffed, finding the end of the argument juvenile… but a hint of entertainment lingers here and there…

As they walk, the internal structure becomes more so odd and refined, yet moldy and jagged on some edges. The books are becoming more outdated of time as they go, Vergil finds the place familiar, abandoned the section as they are, it is not a useless part to be ignored, though perhaps it is only useful for an entity of a certain kind. And he did find some semblance of lessons here, more so than the preceding well-kept of segments.

"Why did you do it?" Genna asked, her voice carried its way to the walls.

"What?"

"The gold i gave you... my father gave you. Why did you gave it away? to them of all people?"

"This is unknown to me..." Vergil replied, his face turned away from her.

"Guilt?"

"..."

"Compassion?"

"Be quiet and walk..."

She scoffed, A conversation for another time then, she thought. Eventually, they would reach a molded part of the wall, seemingly constructed with stones that are more pronounced than the rest of the castles. The texture of it is much darker and filled with green blossoms of leaves and plants, a sign of neglect due to lack of use or perhaps by another manifestation judging by what the lady of the house spoke of the nature of the section they keep within.

“Do you see that book shelve over there?” Genna said, pointing exactly at the side of the empty space that shown the wall.

“Hard to miss…” Vergil quipped, questioning the need to point.

“Well… Do me a favor and push it to the right will you.” She requested; Vergil done so with relative ease. One hand on a middle of the thick edge and push it as if it has no weight heavier than a paper chair. The sound of scrap beneath it would make anyone cringed, even the ones as far as the entrance of the library. “Well, that was not pleasant…” Genna said, though she looked amused. “Usually, we need three man to push that…”

“I am not the usual…”

“So you are not…” Genna replied, rolling her eyes. Just so at the second, the wall spread itself apart to show a solar of nature made. Though in detail it is a structure made with the hands of man, but due to the wanting of visit, nature has taken its root in its place. The shine of the sun has entered through the hole on the roof of it, shining the light to the whole room including the dark-colored desk on one corner.

In another end is a temple of books, though miniscule in size if compared with the rest of the library, for there are only four shelves, yet the thickness of each book rivals that of the history of a kingdom if one dares to exaggerate or compare. They are also made out of unnatural covers, some black in pitch, others are colorful yet odd to the touch. What is clear however, is the very thing that Vergil decides to voice.

“That hole up there has never been fixed?” He asked, more gently than usual.

“Never, even during my grandfathers time they said…” Genna answered, they both looked up for different reasons, she recalled memories of pleasant and curious childhood. “My forefathers think it is a place rarely used, if none at all. So why bother… though as I understand, you would find better use of it.”

“Rained often here?”

“Depending on the season…” Genna replied, “But yes this place is often barraged by minor flood. Fortunately, the wall kept it in…”

“Judging from the size of it, it would surely hit the books as well…” Vergil spoke of the hole, immediately walking towards the shelves and grasp one and opened it just as quick.

“Naturally…” Genna concurred, “What of it?”

A sound of a page is turned, and another after it. He did not waste time. “These are all still in good condition…” Vergil said, “What is it made of? the covers and the parchments…”

“All hearsays and legends spoke of the hide of mammoths, a white tree and a red leaf…” Genna answered, unsure of her own beliefs. “I do know that whatever it is made of, they really have done a great job. Most has been here for more than a thousand years… or so they say. But recent event considered, perhaps there are merit in believing in… sorceries. Usually, I just believed it was a lost knowledge of book making. War does tend to ensure a lot of lost and destruction. Sometimes these includes knowledge of… many things… And they come often.”

After she spoke the words, silent permeates once more. Vergil took a sit immediately, on a chair that looks to threatened anyone to fall with it. But it did not, and the sorcerer takes his place as he reads the first book he sees with widened eyes of shock and intense curiosity. Genna called upon him lightly a few times, and twice in a stern voice. Still, he did not relent to give attention to her in return, and thus in interest as well, Genna approaches him.

She leaned her hand just on the top of the chair he sits, and leaned down to see what he reads. The tome is elder, darker than the shadow of the night, with unnatural jagged shapes on the edge of its cover. Genna could not tell what it looks like in full, since it is in opened condition. But the language and words written within it confused her just as much.

“You know this language?” Genna queried, intrigued as well on the matters. Looking how Vergil’s hand wonders on the paper as his fingers makes caressing sound on its pages.

“This is ENOCHIAN.” Vergil spoke with a semblance of eagerness, tiny as it is. “Language of the fallen angels…”

---XxxxxX---

The main hall of the Casterly Rock is still as grand as it ever has, the touch of gold and grandiose is never lost on blind and deaf all the same if a Lannister would dare to make such prerogative. Though non sensical does the claim may be, everyone who sighted it would find it just as impressed in sentiment. Even a visitor would feel like a lord within it.

“Where is she?” Lord Farman queried, taking a seat on the chair on the table in waiting. Beside him is the very same Lord Crakehall and Damon, sitting in his front.

“The maid spoke that she is accommodating to the sorcerer.” Damon answered, a taste of wine still upon him. The steel mug twirled on his fingers as he leaned back on his chair. “She said that she could still be hours from now or it could be in the coming moments… it is unknown.”

“Accommodating?” Farman quipped, with a tone of implications. “You don’t mean she is…”

“Nothing crass if what the maid told me is true.” Damon replied, “Which I believe it is. They are in the library, I seldom think our stern and solemn lady would do anything dishonorably so…”

“Do we think the same of the sorcerer?” Farman said, a tint of accusation on the edge, “A powerful man are seldom restraint. Not including present company that is…”

“He is a man of pursuit as far as I’ve heard…” This time Crakehall chipped in, “Never leaving the library, some servants even said that he never sleeps. Tytos once tried to offer… Bed Mates, to him. And if not for Genna’s intervention, Tytos would be in the grave as well…”

“He tried to kill Lord Lannister!?” Farman said, broadened eyes of indignation.

“Embellishment of hearsay…” Damon intervened, rolling his eyes towards Joran Crakehall. “Most say that the lord offered such yes, but the sorcerer merely carried him away from the library and threatened him to destroy the castle if he does visit again. Spoken words of witnesses.”

They spend the time after the discussion in silence to rest their tongue, though in fairness they are in need of contemplation as well to comprehend and act in the unique situation. Farman looked beside the two lords in front of him to the Red Carpet on the middle of the hall, it is clean in his eyes with no taint of darkened bile.

“I still remember how it happened…” Farman said, eyes still lingers on the carper whilst both Damon and Joran stare at him in confusion. “It was a quick thing… I did not even blink to find him suddenly upon Reynard… His death was quick, but far from honorable…”

“That’s right…” Damon nodded, “You were there as well…”

“I see…” Joran said, his stare intensely upon the Farman. “How exactly did it happen?”

“There was a speech…” Farman said, breathing lightly as he recalled the day of the daring. “How the sorcerer proclaim that he is a man of his own believes. That he did not recognize the power of the Iron Throne… That he will not humor attention towards him in disturbance. Reynard did so for the latest part, and he paid it dearly.”

“Reynard bothered him once only…” Damon interjected, “In fact, Jon Connington and Arryn and other lords are the one keeping in pestering him until he retaliate with a threat… and this was before the speech. No… it was because of Ellyn Tarbeck, she persisted, and her brother’s life is the penalty.”

Farman ruffled his beard in thought. “He broke the laws of man and guess…” He said, frustration more than anger on his tone. “He killed a man within protected walls… And it was not just a man, it was a fellow lord”

“Genna said he did not break guest right, since he was not offered bread and salt…”

“Reynard?”

“The Sorcerer…”

“Then the fault would be In the Lannister’s hand.” Farman said, exhaling in exasperation. “This would not bode well in their name…”

“Let us not make way for semantics…” Joran said, a small smile on his face. “They were forewarned repeatedly, and still, they approach against the unknown. The Lannisters may be at fault in law, but in context measured, what exactly can they do?”

Damon nodded in agreement in Joran’s point, though his eyes still bore onto his steel mug. Farman is only convinced halfly, He heard of the prowess of the sorcerer, and the mass grave that littered the beaches and the seas of the Lannisport are prove with witnesses numbered thousands if not counting the credible voices of the lords who are just as well.

“I see It In your wrinkled cheeks…” Damon said, an easy smile on his features. “It is not right to kill in such circumstances. But see the day in full, Reynard harassed the sorcerer, he insults the lady of the house and he pissed on MY AUNT’S GRAVE!” He finished; head moves forward with his strong shout. Leaning back with a malice smirk upon him. Farman look to Joran in perplexity.

“Its true Sebastian…” Joran affirmed for him, “Guards and servants have seen it, to scared to intervened. I say it as it is.” In that Sebastian Farman nodded solemnly in kind, looking upon Damon with sympathy.

“Can’t say it is right or wrong…” Sebastian said, “But it is understandable… Perhaps I might’ve done something worse if it has been my aunt…”

“It was not just him…” Damon said, still vitriol in his tongue. “Garth the Gross done so as well… the fucking prick with a belted face…”

“Yes… he was there as well…” Joran concurred once more.

“But the due will come in due time…” Damon spoke, frustration make its way for anger to be replaced. “For now, we will speak of the sorcerer…”

“Just so, yes we will…” A soft voice spoke, the lords turns and tilts their head to see the forementioned lady of the house. “So passionate as we grow closer to the night, have you?”

“Apologize cousin…” Damon said, closing his eyes as his face lowered to see his lap. “I often spoke my passion to loudly.”

“We often share many similarities, Damon.” Genna said, taking her seat in the centre where her eyes can see all lords in one vision. “Must be in the blood…”

“Blood will tell…” Damon replied wittily and quickly.

“I won’t make and waste time…” Genna said, taking a breather as she does. “You are all wondering on where the Lannister will head as of the coming days…”

“And more my lady…” Joran said, “But we wish to hear any news from you first…”

“Right…” Genna avowed in agreement. “My Lord Father… is ill… I believe you know what that means…”

“We do…” This time Farman voiced himself.

“Very good…” Genna sighed in relief. “After the cleaning of Lannisport I will make to report the events that have occurred to kings landing. Do you still hold the nobles hostage, cousin?”

“I still do…”

“Good…” Genna nods, “Surnames…”

“Most of them are Goodbrothers…” Damon said, “And Blacktydes, The Botleys, Harlaws and Codd… There are many more. You wish me naming them all?”

“Those are many lord names…” Genna spoke, narrowed eyes with confused expression. “How did they avoid the storm of swords?”

“Most of them are still in their ships as the sorcerer makes his kills…” Joran evoked, “The Vanguard and front are filled with man of fodders and man at arms… only some daring ones would join them. I saw a few faces of the same named houses. Old and young alike. The ones who lived are the cowardly ones I bet.”

“The ship was toppled with the swords…” Genna proclaimed in confusion.

“They did, but just so the sorcerer aimed at the ships…”

“None of them held the Greyjoy’s name?”

“None…” Joran continued, “Damon and I pushed a name as much as we can to the hostages we have, lords and common men alike. The oldest one named Balon Greyjoy is five nameday, and he did not participate in this naturally, no overlords have partaken in this oversized raid.”

“Quaint…” Genna sighed, he knows what this means well. Lord Quellon Greyjoy is the head of the Iron Islands as they speak, and he is participating in the war on the step stones. Just as usual, the man would claim them dissidents of the rule, and would say that he knows nothing of the invasion. Innocence by proxy, the thought jittered her. “How many noble and lords exactly did we capture Damon?”

“Twelve…” Her cousin answered, with a humorous expression on him. “I know, a high number. Just know that half of them has died on that beach… Twelve is the remaining ones alive, is what i mean.”

“Good news all the same…” She spoke. “I would take two of those names, of course.  Damon… Lord Crakehall, you would both take four. And Lord Farman you can have the remaining two…”

Farman looked down in slight shame. Only less than a quarter of his ship is in line of defense when the attack happens, by all rights he should not take any ransom at all. Still the lady spoke, “So I’ve heard from Damon that your ships have made barricade to ease the combat on the shores. You were not there, but you have aid in mitigating the damages by resource… As I said… you can take two…”

“Thank you, My Lady…” Sebastian Farman said in gratitude, he would enjoy this pleasure as he could. Lord Tywin is the true ruler of the house, and he is not one with shame against heavy punishment. There wont be another mistake in another day if he could will it. He blessed the day that this war comes under the wings of a much pleasing lady.

“Hold the hostages you take as ransom as honor demands… it was you and most of your man that leads… I will not forget that.” She said, a gentle smile on her. “You all even aid in dusting the Lannisport, perhaps when all is clear, more recompense will come in due.”

“Unnecessary…” Joran said and it is said simply.

But as usual… the silence came again, and all lords look to each other in expectation of which one to spew the words. Genna look to each one in bewilderment, though his cousin more so than the rest. But as they all did, he also lick his lips in anxiousness if he should broach the topic. “Gods, it’s like I am in the children’s table once more… speak up men!” Genna said, with a smirk and a playful face.

“Its… Regarding the sorcerer…” Damon spoke, as in his prerogative. Family do come in merits of comfort. “Does he… is he a threat?” And just as well, Genna breathes out tiredly as she contemplates the question. As she finished, she stands and wonders from one place to another, though not far from the table. She turns back to face the lord in answer.

“I am… presumably in his favour…”

“Presumably…” Farman spoke first, worried.

“The man is one with a few words and less so taken in conversation.” Genna said, “Though in his silence, his actions speak more. Thus far he has done nothing against the house, and as recent memories suggest, he has helped more than he has otherwise… and the otherwise are mostly trivialities and insignificant. In him we should not be worried.”

“Yes, as you say but.” Joran interjected, quarterly wary. “His powers… it is not… it is overwhelming. It is to much for one man to hold… and yet here he is, in our lands, and in your house. If he is not against us, then what schemes does he play?”

“I am of the same mind with Lord Crakehall.” Sebastian concurred in turn. “I am relieved to hear he is in your favor. But the man is capable to topple structures of many kinds… His speech during the feast on your—” He did not dare to say the occasion, thus he paces it away. “He voices his intentions clearly… and now he is with you. What does this say to your position.” To our position, is what Crakehall did not dare to say. The memories of king of the Iron Throne is recent in comparison to the old high kings of fragmented kingdoms, but it is a rooted custom nonetheless…

And if there are entities compromising it, perhaps more war will come.

“It was words spoke in haste. And to add to that, his loyalty in me does not mean my house would share his sentiment in bearings… the Lannister will be always loyal to the throne. I would make sure of it and so does my brothers, who are now fighting on their behalf. We wont waver.” Genna spoke, a bit haughty but the spirit is acknowledged.

“He is still in your favor, cousin.” Damon said, “What he does, reflects to you and your lord father…”

“His schemes will not reflect us badly…”

“So he does scheme…” Joran queried, “And what does that mean for us?”

Genna wondered how outrageous such claim may be on another tongue, but with a smile, she finds the situation rather entertaining if not daringly gargantuan in scope. No man or lady have ever would speak the words that would in due time and believe would come true, and Genna in this day have such privileges.

“My lady… this is the direst and of the greatest events of history… perhaps rivalling the long night itself!”

“I wouldn’t go that far Joran…” Damon quipped.

“Regardless, the meaning is clear.” Joran spoke in conviction. “That man will change the game… His presence and the tale that would’ve spread with the Ironborn raid will be like fire on the grassfield, and Reynard’s death alone would spark another!”

“All the kingdoms would not take such things with good faith…” Farman spoke, “It is too unreal, there wouldn’t—”

“He just killed an entire army in front of us Farman…” Damon intervened. “No armors… No swords… We could be naked standing against him or with the strongest steel one could find… I think it would end all the same…”

“We have to acknowledge this…” Damon Continued. “It was not an hour, Farman. It was less than half of one. And five thousand dead in that short of time… Everyone will know, especially after the feast with Reynard’s death.”

“Everyone was THERE!” Joran said, and Damon acquiesced with a gesture. “Tyrells! Arryns! Connington and Frey! And other Vassals of other kingdoms! To many witnesses! To many lips will move! It will be promulgated and we must act accordingly! Lady Genna, you must tell us what you are planning, what he is planning…”

With a bated breath and grin, she proclaimed it…

“He intends to conquer Iron Islands for himself…”

All lords are stilled as the proclamation is delivered…

And the Sigil of house Reyne on Damon’s hand fall onto the floor in his shocked stupor…

And the lady of the Casterly Rock noticed it still…

“What is that?” She asked…

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

I deleted this chapter before because the Grammar check i use have BOTCHED many quotation marks and terms, in which now i am forced to re-upload using pure model from the original documents. I apologize for the inconvenience. Never would i use such things again.

Chapter 9: As above, so below

Summary:

Every move will create a reaction. Vergil and Genna grows frustrated as their movement does not equate to the reaction that they want...

---XxxxxX---

Some aspects of life have been considered mundane before the occurred incidents of these half a year. Another two weeks have passed after the discovery of the enclosed section of the library, yet the families have not made any actions of significance as the time slowly are spent. The Reyne’s are unknown in standing and disposition after such a reckless recent happening. But for the lady of house Lannister and her Vassals, careful preparation is virtue when pit against uncertainty.

Damon Marbrand stand guard on the post of the Lannisport. Letting his uncle Denys takes the temporary seat of power in his home and land of Ashemark, whilst Damon and his father are dispatched to duty. Though recent news comes to tell forth that Denys has joined his brother against the Ninepenny Kings, some has spoken that it is of a dire situation to have need of reinforcement in this long midst of war. In his place, the Castellan have taken point in sentinel.

To many things happening in a short time means greater chances of prominence, especially in such a unique time such as this. Whether it is Ironborn or Sorceries alike, most wondered what else would occur in the days to come.

Joran Crakehall, went back to his seat in Crakehall, The namesake of his land and family. Tasking himself on greater patrol on the Westerlands green plains against rising banditry in these dire times. He and most wondered regarding how spread out is the tale of the Valyrian Sorcerer, whether such lore would affect the intensity of raiders on the lands or something else to occur entirely… For him it is unknown, but he is not less intrigued.

Good or better, Joran wishes to be on the forefront of the new era, if he dared to claim it as so. Relatively of the same mind as his fellow lord of land. Perhaps that is why he and Damon find kinship so strongly, when prior they are only good in acquaintanceship.

Sebastian Farman, patrolled the sunset sea much more fiercely than his usual steadfast calm. Many is the ships that the man has felled on the history of his post on the ocean, but the raiding of the recent kind has put his capabilities into question. Though not all speak it loudly, he himself finds the truth to find the mistakes that led to such devastation. Now every ship that passes will see the red, yellow and blue color of his Banner…

The Wind Our Steed, is the words of the Farman’s. Many will come to realize that Sebastian will quicken the pace of his fleet twice fold. There will be no leniency, he will ensure of it. And he has proclaimed it so to overlord and the common men. And just so as he spoke, so to come half of his fleet numbered fifty War Ships of Galleys and Carracks, and a hundred and fifty of longships in complements. All will sail in the path against the Iron Islands.

Though with such crippling lost, the Ironborn would seldom strike again. Though they are not known for their smarts than false bravado, thus the wisdom in security and protection is at hand. At the very least, the act itself Is a virtue the Lannisters appreciate. 

The rest of the house however, either put their call to arms onto the war for the throne or have no bearings to be mentioned. Genna does not know if the latter is a splendid thing or otherwise, acts of treachery has been very often as of late and lack of movement seems like a very suspicious motion to her. The year does feel very long, considering the happenstance.

The Frey have not made themselves known on the annulment of the betrothal. Some half-a-mind thought they couldn’t careless, but Walder Frey is far from moronic. The hand of a daughter belonging to the overlord of the west is not a price to be scoffed at, far from it. One would be called a fool to ignore the slight. Regardless, the Westerlands do not bother in knowing of their fate. They are far and seldom to react in haste, and if they do, most doubt their efficacy.

Yet, not all eyes are sighted towards the narrow sea. Though the Ninepenny Kings are in motion on the stepstones, tall and grand rumors are on course as the times passes by. As most lords and otherwise has forewarned, the stories of magics of Old Valyrian has been proclaimed to be revived, as do the death of Reynard Reyne, the former often come with the latter.

Lady Genna have been slouched with letters of affirmation from many houses, the Arryns foremost than all. Connington as well spoke in words of worry, and the Tyrells flew to apologize in the dastard act of the aptly monikered gross member of their family. She of course scoffed at most and planted a bewildered thought in some. Attentions have been garnered, and naturally she is in perplexity on how to reply.

If she must at all…

“So, what comes next…” Genna asked, in her father’s solar where only her and Joanna resides under the shining reflection of the golden chandelier above. “I’ll be honest, I did not think to be this far on the ruling works…”

“How? You think your father would’ve taken the task magically after the festival?” Joanna queried rhetorically. “Far as I’ve heard, Tywin urged you to ensure all manners of beings in this place is in order, not your father. Even then in the best occasion he is well, he would most likely jest his days away on our house’s detriments… No offence to Lord Tytos.”

Genna sighed, an act rarely avoided these days. “I presumed that we just ensure manners of trade and mercantile would be in order?” She paces from one place to another as she whirled in thought. “And what of these letters I received. They are enquiring of Vergil vehemently; how would I answer in kind?”

“Why not bluntly as you usually do in all things you are not interested in…”

“And risk the relation of major lords, wardens and paramount?” Genna groaned, “Unwise…”

“So, it is…” Joanna concurred, she stands and caressed the edge of the high table of the room. “What can they possibly do, Genna. They did not ask for much, but it is not something we could just relay on frankly if at all. It is a thing one must see…”

“Many have…”

“Still, they've sent these letters…”

“Thus, my argument is concluded…” Joanna replied with a raised brow. “Am I correct in assuming that their next motion if you reply to them of the assertion regarding the sorcerer, is to alert the king in kind?” She scrunched up her mouth playfully. “Or perhaps they would order a visit to confirm with eyes of credible individuals… perhaps they would all come themselves…”

“Joanna don’t say that, this scares me…”

She laughed lightly as the idea makes way to be a common sense in Genna’s mind. “Reply the letters or not is irrelevant, me thinks.” Joanna replied with humor with peasant words on the end. “I advised to ignore them, after which there will be a chance of confrontation or not at all, as they think it’s a fluke. Or suffer the former's guarantee if you are steadfast in reply.”

“Very well…” Genna breathes out heavily, “We’ll speak nothing of this, we’ll not reply these letters of theirs, Vergil is now our issue…”

“Oh my? Is he?” Jenna said, tones of tease threatened on the edge. “Your visits are becoming often.”

“He is a guest of this house, with capabilities beyond the ordinary…” Genna replied, instantaneously though still with a tone still and a noble stride retained. “Of course, I would visit often, his knowledge could be beneficial to the family… mystical it may be…”

“So, I’ve known…” Joanna nods, with a little smirk subtly hidden. “How do you intend to realize this plan?”

“I don’t know…” Genna said, worried tone on her voice. “I already shown him that part of the library…”

“That is right, I know…” Joanna nods, “Is that the extent of what you will do?”

“I hope he is a slow reader…” Genna spoke her concern. “Though from what I’ve known, he is not one to rest on reading. Slow but unending would still make a quick work…”

“Is reading the only reason why he is here?” Joanna said, one brow raised, “What exactly is stopping him from going to the Hightowers citadel? Creylen already said that he knows on the wonders of each land, knowing the man thus far, one would think he would make pace towards the place.”

“I wouldn’t dare ask him.” Genna replied, “I swear, that I hold no interest in accommodating him in the coming days. But if he leaves… then what would happen to us?”

“He seems civilized unless provoke… recent incidence considered.” Joanna said, walking over to her cousin as her hand reaches Genna’s back in soothing going upwards and down like falling waters. “If there comes the time when he found himself much interest on the Citadel’s book shelves, then high chance he might just leave without even a farewell or a murder… which I assume the latter is what you worry about, correct?”

“It is a high chance of that yes, but still uncertain.” Genna lift herself up facing the wall where the golden shine still in glow. “Yet there are other worries… The Westerlands are now inclined to believe that he is on our favor. Losing him might mean more troubles for us.” She rests her head on Joanna’s shoulder. “Tarbecks and Reynes both would consolidate and raised against us with much fervor, the second they heard the sorcerer is not in our care…”

“Them and the rest of the vassals who question your father’s rule…”

“Oh gods…” Genna trembled, standing once more to pace around the room in quelling her anxiety. “I hold no mastery of war, Joanna. But I can make trade… I would need the logistics and information on our every stock and resources. How many men do we have and are they well equipped?”

“Genna!?” Joanna exclaimed with a smile. “Why are you asking me this? I know not of war as much as you are...”

“This is what we have to do!” Genna spoke, delivered with a harsh whisper. “We have Damon on Lannisport still standing guard, Joran on patrol with his men and Sebastian on the sea… perhaps we need to attack first, we already have proven the treason on their—”

 “Genna…” Joanna said, stopping her cousin on her pacing, holding both of the shoulders. “You are making to much haste…”

“What is stopping them to strike again? We are at our weakest! They will make for a preempti—”

“No, we are not!” Joanna exclaimed, a smug smile upon her. Though her words are reassurances. “Damon’s forces are now in full! So is Joran’s and Farman’s ships could pincer Castamere and Tarbeck Hall!” She stared onto her cousin’s eyes. They are unblinking, too much pressure burdening her under half a year. “You are scared… and that is sensible… but you make way for paranoia. They won’t attack us now, for we are truly not at our weakest, the opposite actually. You judge them too boldly.”

The silence permeates again, the couch on the near walls is where they lay on sit. Genna holds a bated breath as Joanna look to her in concern of the next obsessive outburst. The former decided to lean back to rest, closing her eyes in seconds of intervals before opening them again. She looked to the left and right frequently, an idea or thrice whirling to take control of her mind. Readying her to make a proper action.

“Genna?” Joanna called, mouth halfly agape as she stared towards her unblinking cousin.

“I have to go…” Genna said, she transitioned into a walk smoothly, as if she was an automaton. Just so in a second, Joanna is the only one in the solar, sighing in exhaustion just as her cousin was. Only for her, she let It take over her and rest. Whereas for Genna it could never be.

---XxxxxX---

There on the battlements of Casterly Rock is where he stood, the overseer of the green plains that hides the horizon with the miniscule number of trees that it has. He saw it every now and then, souls passing by through the roads and some braving the wilderness. Though one could be in an understandable position if they were to do such latter acts. The plains are not quite a forest, you can see from one edge to the next thus you seldom get lost unless you truly are a dupe.

Vergil senses it again, the powers that be, that awaits behind a gate. Is It time? He thought to himself, by the months he waited by pursuit of training to further immaculate his sword hand and by the scholarly endeavors. He is not one to wait for age to give him the power he needed, for one to surpass, walk one must be to the trials by fire.

It is time… he said again in mind. With a nod he summoned Yamato to his hand, unsheathing it he bore his eyes towards the steel, where the ripples of heat that once was in making it durable. Hands caressed its flat blade, nodding in respect and admiration. It has been a while since he done so, there was no adequate foe to give it the proper deference, this includes the bandit he once quelled.

But now perhaps he finally found the appropriate victim for it…

“What are you doing?” A voice said, a woman’s tone. Vergil turns towards the source, to find Lady Genna standing on her grace as usual. She equipped a weary look, a sad downtrodden droop on her eyes. “Not something destructive I hope…”

“I’ll be back…” He said, “Do not let anyone touch my collection on your library…”

“Wait…” Genna spoke, breathes haggard in anxiousness. “Where are you going? How long you’ll be gone?”

“Soon…” He simply answers, face as dead as prior. “I have hellish business to take care of…”

He notices the subtlety in her wake, the small steps and the clawing fingers above her hands. Her iris looks downward to the battlements floor, “Alright…” She said, despondent tone and barely a whisper. Now she taps the thigs with her nails, as if she awaits horrible news. “Safe travels then…” She continued, and her lips quivered to force a smile.

“I’ll be back in probably half an hour…” He said, brows raised in confusion.

“Oh…” Genna said, eyes widened slightly, “I thought… Never mind… Well, alright.”

Shaking his head lightly at the awkward vista of the host herself, he swings his katana on the air. And there one could claim a sort of gate appeared before them. Like a scar of reality, it wringed open like a wound, beyond it is the very same plains of green barely any different than the fight beyond the castle.

“What is that?” Genna asked in awe, all supposed sadness is quelled slightly as curiosity takes its place.  She hazily reaches out to touch the portal, only for Vergil’s hand to lowered hers onto safety.

“Don’t…” He said, cooly. “It is a gate to a land between the Sarsfield Road.”

“Sarsfield? East of here? Is that what this is?” Genna queried, and there is a glow in her eyes. “Am I correct to say, that if you walk through this…”

“You will be immediately be in Sarsfield Road, near it… to be exact.” Vergil said, humoring her. “A topic for another time.”

He steps through it, and the portal immediately closed, though the lines of scarring on the air persist and fading slightly by the second. She waved her hand around it, through the line and back, feeling the odd warmth from each passing. “Fascinating…” She whispered, and for a moment she forgot on all things intrigue and politics.

If we have only a fraction of what he could do… Genna thought, her palms resting on the light that eventually diminishes to nothingness where there should be a mystical shape of a peculiar door. Once there would be a time where such pursuit is folly and for the mind of the children only, but circumstances considered, perhaps a rework of her own paradigm of life is at hand.

She walks back towards the library, with a daring plan on her mind…

---XxxxxX---

There was a time when his journey to power is so in line and straight without any brief of respite to enjoy the pleasantries of life. It was long ago, however long one could consider in the mind of technically a teenager. Vergil by standards of body is only nineteen years of age, but with all the crisis he has endured, one would doubt if such age could be considered as a valid means to examine his stature and demeanor.

But as days pass, and multitudes of demon and their lords have been slain, confidence came to him to see what other things life has in store. Smiths has been scoured, foods have been tasted, and the libraries… thoroughly raided. In truth, the very reason how the tower of Temen-ni-gru itself has been resurrected is because Arkham manages to find him during his pleasant days on the library. Though he halfly also tries to find something about his father as well, work and fun conjoined as one is always pleasing.

Try to enjoy life as it is, son… There are many reasons I rebelled against hell, not only your mother.

Let’s go back to the weapon stores again, man. Your books are boring, and besides… it’s my turn to pick where to go… Mom said so… OH! WAIT! LET’S EAT PIZZA!

Oh, look at you. My little scholar… Do you want to be a writer when you grow up? Don’t worry, I’m sure your father will approve…

Read as many books as you want, as long as you remember your other obligations—

Don’t leave me! I don’t know where—

VERGIL! WHERE ARE YOU! COME HE—

IT’S THE TAINT OF SPARDA! KILL HIM!—

He opens his eyes to see him in the plains of his choosing, the area around him seems to not change at all since the last time he sees it a long while ago. Rivers are as far away from stalling and the road where the merchant that carries him to Lannisport is still at the same state as it was, trodden and cheaply made, though that is a fault of him for comparing the road to the ones on Redgrave city or any place on his world.

Often, he overlooked that the advancements in Westeros are lacking and dejected… The Casterly Rock interior heavily resembles his own home, sometimes he misremembered what kind of world this is. Still, everything remains as it is. Except for the bleak, bloodied black grotto where the portal to hell should be… The very same portal he arrived in this world.

Vergil approaches the gateway, and up close or faraway, it looks as contorted one would expect a demonic influence would be. It is wrangled and elongated unnaturally so, but the visions of the other side are clear for one to see. It is the place of his father’s home, where the laughter and cries of demonic pain can be heard.

Well, I guess this is it… Vergil thought. This gate should take him where he needs to be, where else one could find greater power if not in the place his father often yearns to return in solemn. Come due time, he would find a greater source of strength to finally take back his father’s power, but first and foremost his sword, that is now in the hand of his mirror.

His thought lingered towards Genna’s figure, eye catching and pleasant to see, fierce and protective of her family. She was an enjoyable and challenging companion in his stay in her home. She might not see it, but to him it was quite a playful interaction he had with her, odd the communications may be.

There are also those books regarding the fallen angels on her library… amongst other things of magic in this world…but what are those powers in comparison to his fathers’ path. It was good while it lasted… He thought, it would be a good quest if he were to be stuck in this world for a much longer while, but it seems plans changed.

It was an enjoyable run as it is… He would think of her pleasantly, it’s unfortunate that he could not make a farewell with her appropriately, but power waits for no one. He wishes Genna well from afar, whatever issues and conflict that would come to her, she is well protected, the rebellious part of the Westerlands are only a few. He is sure she would forget about him, comes time for a more pressing issue.

“Now is as good a time as any…” He said in a murmur. He walks towards the portal and placed his hands first upon it, the visions of hell becoming clearer as he goes nearer… his devilish form threatens to reveal itself in ecstasy…

But somethings are not meant to be…

As his fingers touches and halted on the skin of the gateway…

His face knotted into a bewildered expression, one hand turns to two, and he slightly tried to push himself in somewhat, with no less a force than an ordinary human is capable of. Then he realized that it was to no avail, and instead starts to force his way in with his outrageously unnatural strength in frustration, but all the same it was not to be.

He halted his advances when he senses the portal becoming weaker as he pushes, he shakes his head in perplexity as he stares daggers to the mocking view of hell that awaits beyond the gate. “What is this…” Vergil whispered, “What is missing!?”

Theory comes to mind, and he put it into practice immediately. He turned into his devil form, and approaches the gate once more, but unlike and much worse than before, the portal squeaked and retract itself against him before he can even touch it. quivering over the level of strength, Vergil demonstrate, unbeknownst to the man.

He turns himself back to his human form and in turn the portal goes back to its usual state. “This is not normal…” He whispered his thought loudly, circling the gateway for anything amiss. By technicality, the gate of hell is no norm occurrences. But for it to reject an entrance means a due process has been changed from its creator. “Am I not the one who made this gate?” He asked loudly.

He caressed his chin as he watches the portal, forming ideas after another for any coming solutions. Another come to mind, and he pictured the image behind the hell gate to be formed with a swing of Yamato. But as the Yamato’s gate opened and passing through it, Vergil only manages to move a few feet away from where he once was, not within hell where he wants to be.

He stands before it… closing his eyes as his head looks down on the ground. Folding his arms with Yamato on one of his hands as he contemplates. And he mused for a long while, that even the dead of night came to be. the stars shown itself above, twinkling and shining behind the cracks of the hellish portal as well.

Yet Vergil’s thought is disturbed as the very same gate vibrates and spasmed inside out. Pushing his thoughts away to make way for reality, eyes of focused equipped he look upon the portal. Quickly comes a line and march of inferno spewed itself out from fell and into the plains of the Westerlands. Therein comes the form of a demon lord. Body of horse and man alike, six limbs of four legs and two arms, with a torso of a humanoid.

Wings of fire blazes behind its back as his horns shines above his head. Cracks of volcanic fire all around his figure as a blade larger and longer than a longship resides on his hand and fingers. “Ahh… The fragment world…” The demon speaks. “It has been too long…”

The demon spotted a shape of a man before him, blue of coat and white of hair. He smirks with a malice twist as he strides forward confidently towards Vergil. “Daring are you… to be so closed to a gate of hell…” He said, looking downward with arrogance supreme. Vergil looks upwards unimpressed; expression did not change whatsoever. “Go on… Feel the glory of my might when you can… in due time, you will be my servant. And then you will only feel honor to be my minion instead!”

“How do I enter this gate?” Vergil enquired, voice in tone with calmness of an autumn. The demon bored his eyes towards him, amused and confounded. He lowered his head to meet Vergil closer to the ground before he speaks.

“My name is Belial.” The demon said with pride. “I am the conqueror of the FIRE HELL!” As he spoke so, the flame that makes his wings grew larger. “I have murdered demons and their children that each are worth a million of your kind—”

“I’m not asking for introductions…” Vergil spoke simply. “This is the last time I’ll ask with civility. How do I enter the gate?”

“YOU SCUM HUMAN! HOW DARE YO—”

Just so a semblance of a transparent blue blade appeared behind Vergil… and proceed to carry itself towards Belial’s eye. It engraved itself to his socket before disappearing as spew of magmatic blood discharged out from the wound. The demon lord grasps his head in disbelief, looking upon his fiery palm for the lava blood that is the leftover of his eye.

He looked back to Vergil, with the latter tilting his head slightly in mocking stare. “YOU WILL PAY!” Belial roared, lifting up his gargantuan blade and stabbed it towards the son of Sparda. Ashes and mist collared the part on which he destroyed with the tip of the searing heat of his sword, with the form of Vergil walking upwards with his feet on the flat blade of the demon. If it was an ordinary human being, they would’ve already melted.

Incredulity still continues as he sees Vergil jump up to land on his blazing nose, looking towards him with judgement eyes and an expressionless face. “If what you say about yourself is true… then Hell must be a very out of practice place these days…” Vergil said, slowly lifting his hand onto shoulder length and then swinging his fist onto one of the horns. Just so one of them cracked, and Belial find his horns asymmetrical.

Vergil shakes his head with disappointment, closing his eyes as he did so as he finds the demon lord to be unsatisfactory in contrast to his proclamation. Belial in rage to the humiliation, scream out all the hellfire he possibly could, the grasses and the trees around them fall on fire with Geysers of flame rising from the lands.

But even with all demonstration of prowess, Vergil still stand above his nose, immovable as much as he is dissatisfied. Belial cast his hand towards him, attempting to crush him beneath his fingers. Though he disappeared instantaneously. Appearing only below him again whilst pacing with his hands behind his back.

The demon lord makes a horizontal swing, on its wake the grasses lights on fire with fivefold greater heat than any flame a demon should’ve been capable to produce, for he is not the lord of hell without reason. Yet he finds Vergil nowhere but upwards to the flat blade of his own sword once more as it is aims towards the sky after the slash.

“Make a prediction…” Vergil dared. “Where am I going to attack?” And just as he spoke, the son of Sparda sprinted towards his face with Yamato at the ready. Belial with an expression of shock and fear, breathes out fatigued air of fire as he sees Vergil moving at speed unnatural even in the top echelon of demonic realms.

Even then he still has the reaction to try to use his other hand to shield his face, but just as he endeavored to do so, rains of blue blades come from behind him and above coiling both of his arms, tail and some of his legs to the ground. As Belial’s head and body follows suit to touch the soil in containment, Vergil jumped again to immaculately sliced away the other horn. It falls not far away from its partner, close enough for the demon lord to see.

“Looks like you don’t have the horns for it…” Vergil said coyly, smiling slightly on his work. “Still, that was a good warmup…”

“Warm… up…” Belial spoke, harshly and with a struggle as he tries to lift his body up from the hundreds of swords jutting in and out of his limbs. “You… You are not human…”

“Astute observation despite missing an eye…” Vergil said, “Who do you think I am?”

He spoke the query as if Belial should know the answer, He said the request as if Belial has made a mistake on his life, he spoke it as if it was a fight poorly chosen. The latter however, in consideration of his state, is far from a lie. Still his mind lingered on the query of the moment, his eyes still wonder from feet to head to answer the question in mind.

But then the scent came… and just as well with it, the memory…

Downward horns of purple aura with an insectoid structure.

There with a demonic curved blade that rivalled the kings of hell.

“This smell…” Belial said in recognition, “That aura…” He tried widening his eyes to affirm what he is seeing, spewing out his heated blood from his nose to ensure the validity. But there was no doubt to be had when one is below the figure of truth. “Sparda… has a child…” He said, now with scrunched forehead in confusion. “With a human… The rumors are true…”

“No less powerful than him…” Vergil said, walking above his head and onto the base of his body. “And perhaps in course to surpass him, you should remember that… but then again, your time is shorter than you think…” He grasps the hilt of Yamato; the shrill sound of unnatural steel is heard by all within radius of sight.

The demon lord made a speculation that his life is on the verge, he is not unfamiliar with the sound of sword and its coming edge. With his last breath of combat, he made his last call. With a scream he summoned the final bit of fire that was left, and henceforth the blades that confined him to the ground dispersed onto a blue haze, yet still it took too much from him.

The hell gate is to far for him to swiftly escaped to, and instead relent for one final blow in hope of death. Belial took his infernal blade and pierce it towards the son of Sparda, it was a true stab never before inflicted, fueled with desperation, anger and fear. But as it is against a higher power, it is not to be. Vergil’s form appeared from the smoke, his head tilted to the side to dodge the giant blade.

I missed… Belial thought, except… No, he dodged it…

Vergil appeared in a blur right in front of his face, and made a straight uncompromising punch right to his nose. Belial severely underestimated the force his opponent could bring, especially in a tangible human form as it is. But as soon that fist connects to his nose, Belial went flying in a flailing motion for a dozen meters. He crashed onto a giant rock, taking pain onto his back and right limbs.

Vergil looked to his hand in bafflement, the intensity he delivered is much more than he anticipated. He did not even bother to equip Beowolf when delivering the strike…

Has he become more powerful after the fated fight with his twin? Or perhaps this is the influence of hell being near him?

A question for another day…

Belial thought that every demon who closed his eyes to slumber would be followed by death, in his last vision before the darkness of dreams consumed him, the form of Vergil approaches closer to his vision. At least… it would be against the blood of Sparda… Belial thought There would be honor… in that.

He closed his eyes.

---XxxxxX---

When he opened them again, it is against the brightness of the sun. He had an odd relationship with such beings, the heat empowered him but the light made his skin crawl and itches. They say for every bit of strength there is a sacrifice, but even perpetual annoyance on his flesh is to much and would bring out the anger in him.

His vision returns not long after his awakening, his demonic blood demanded it. He remembered being bowled over towards a rock before his sight blurred away, and the figure of a man. Now he is close to the hell gate where he once spewed out, with Vergil before it looking in muse. His hand resting behind his back.

Vergil noticed the ruffled sound of grass and a demonic sluggish growl, then again, a giant demon the size of a small manor on fire moving its body is not a sight easily overlooked. “You slept for to long…” Vergil said. “Now you need to answer my questions…”

“I am alive…” Belial stated.

“Yes, you are alive…” Vergil acknowledged, “Humor me properly, and maybe you would leave this place in such a state as well…”

The fiery demon lord glared onto the son of Sparda, contemplating as much as he is judging the merit of his words. There would be no shame in fleeing, not against a demonkin who no doubt carries too much strength, demonic or no. Belial relent against his betters, “Very well… What do you wish to know…”

Vergil pace forward onto him, one step after another he approaches, yet his eyes did not sway away in contact with his. Belial felt everything, even in its most translucent state, the azure aura of the man before him is equal to the weight of a planet, and Vergil is not yet in his devil form, unbeknownst to Belial.

“I’ve tried everything to enter this gate…” Vergil finally spoke, a lecturing voice one would assume to establish an air of superiority. “Forcing my way, blood letting of yours and mine, empowered it with my strength… Yet it either will threatened to dissipate or have no effect whatsoever… Is there something missing? Or is this a one-way road?”

Belial look towards the gate, it is black with a dark hint of violet, the root of its corruption lingered on its edges, like a vine it spreads on the air. “The portal is an entity of its own.” The demon lord answered, “It is alive and take energy from what’s around it and what it has conquered. As its power grows so to is its capability to be an entrance…”

“Odd…” Vergil stated, “What does this have to do with its incapability.”

“The portal only make itself open for any figure lesser than it.” Belial admitted with a scuff. “It cannot accept something or someone more powerful than it…”

“That is… A very unreliable procedure.” Vergil specified, shaking his head lightly in disapproval. “Why would you even create and use this pathway?”

“I did not…” The demon assured. “It revealed itself, and no one claimed to be its sentinel. I’ve seen and overseer this one before any other demon would make claim upon it. I’ve left a mark, and so others would need to find another… or try to slay me…”

“Another?”

“There are many like it…” Belial continued. “Dozens, perhaps even hundreds. Each with its own lords and kings of hell awaiting its appropriate time to reveal themselves and for the Portal to reach its culminating strength to accept them. This one is far away from the others, a misfit among the rest. One would say I am fortunate.” He turns his head back to Vergil. “But reflecting upon the circumstances as I am now, perhaps it is to be the opposite.”

Vergil smirk with a grunt, the pride he acquitted and the humor of the comment amuses him. “How did these portals come to be?”

“Speculations have been thrown, but recently a natural portal to the human world has been erected… The Temen-ni-gru.” Belial spoke, “Many of my kin tried and despaired to enter it, but before it could happen, the portal was closed and the tower was destroyed… It did not take long after which for these… Remnants to appear.” He said, pointing towards the hell gate.

“I see…” Vergil nods, turning his back towards the demon. It was to be expected for there to be a collateral effect on such insurrection of power. Bearing in mind it all, portals cluttered such as these is an event most understandable when one considers the chaotic nature of the demonic realm, oxymoronic such thoughts may be.

“How long do I have to wait for this one to reach my level of power?” Vergil groaned, impatient as he taps his feet.

“I know not the peak of your power…” Belial relayed, eyeing Vergil’s form in expectation. Without voicing his advice even, a dullard could see the subtlety. The son of Sparda nods in understanding, walking away a few feet from the demon lord before he summoned his strength. An aura of azure blanketed his body, with a crimson glowing eye that delivered gravitas.

The portal before them spasmed as he does so, yet still he resides in the image of a human. Belial fidgeted as he senses the intensity that are increasing by the second, in this moment he realizes the folly of his endeavor. Overshadowed by a mountain in the color of blue, with a force of a falling star. He blessed the fact that his hand still held his sword that is plunged to the grassy soil, for if not, he would be kneeling as of this moment.

Vergil looks back towards the demon lord, awaiting his verdict. “Well?”

Belial needs to scratch his cheeks to reclaim any sense of reality, even his eyes are in slight discomfort for looking at Vergil. But even then, an honest pursue is the wisest choice and more so to the fact that he is curious of it, thus he explained forth. “The hell gate knows your true power even if you do not show it…” Belial said, bracing himself for the inevitable pressure. “If you want me to give you a proper judgement, you must show ALL…”

Vergil grunts in slight annoyance, but he conceded. “Fine…” He simply said.

With thunder that appears from within and dispersed to the surroundings, Vergil revealed his full power.

Four wings appeared on his back and horns that protrudes upwards and to the rear...

The devilish figure appears sleek and neat. Elegant like royalty…

It was both draconic and insectoid, the scales covered every part of his being, from coat to body.

The sun was covered by the clouds, hiding itself away from the power that be, that has revealed himself…

Belial’s sword cracked slightly from the heavy air, halfly in thought that the request was a mistake…

---XxxxxX---

In the land where wind carries the tundra and ice, beings of cold awakened themselves from their slumber. Around them are armies of thousands of blue skinned beings with swords and spears of ice. Their frost fallen eyes snapped towards the south, all of them, not only one pair but thousands. They felt the grounds and the air permeated with heat and chill.

Through the eyes of seers and wargs, they attempted to sense the quake on the atmosphere…

And they keel over instantly…

Their icy skin cracked to a touch, same as well to their armors and weapons of otherworldly makings…

Still, they persist in looking towards the south… But now with eyes of fear and dread…

They have marched expecting victory and solace… Now doom as well becomes a prospect…

In the days that would come, they are to halt their advances.

For whatever awaits on the south is clearly…

---XxxxxX---

…an entity of Godly proportion…

Is the presumption that has been made by the people of Asshai. Not a long moment ago, the day is as peculiar and normal one would expect for the land beyond the shadows. But then they sense the power in the air, and with it, insurmountable strength from its source. Far, far away is the land of Westeros, but the intensity of the strength that has been showed and for it to spread and reach as far to this place is telling of its great supremacy.

Every Sorcerer and workers of the mystical and arcane arts took to their knees towards the west. Prostrating themselves on the return of dark mane that was once ruled the kingdom of man with the maiden made of light beside him…

Unbeknownst to them however, that the truth…

---XxxxxX---

…Is more devastating than they know…

As whatever being could erupt such level of power is a threat to its rule over Qarth. Within the house of the Undying, in the centre of all the illusions and all that is tangible lies a chamber. Inside comes the shape that has taken no palpable form, it is ever changing and always on motion, a core that is filled with energy implacable and without equal… Until now…

For whatever is dwelling on the land of the sunset sea, dwarves every powers it holds…

For what is a small pond or a droplet of water to a sea or an ocean?

Even now its hairless servants of blue lips already doubt their allegiance to it…

It hastily thought of plans and schemes… but whatever plans it hopes to make against such all-mighty being in the west…

There can be no other end but…

---XxxxxX---

…Death…

In its truest form is an entity that cannot be denied, for all things fall to death. Even the very gods themselves who resides in the ice of the north or the fiery hells of Old Valyrian are blessed with the fate of the dead. A natural end for all things…

There within the confines of Braavos lies the house of black and white, where the retainers of demise take many appearances. Yet when the atmosphere revealed a power with no equal in the land of Westeros, all the faces that are kept within and shelved on pillars suddenly opened their eyes and screamed without lungs and body.

For once in many millennia, the voices of the dead revealed itself with a shriek that horrified the entire city…

“Vigilant in all things…” A voice spoke from the darkness. “Our God has stepped to the land of the living… And he wears only a single face…” He said with a soft whisper.

“Approach him with honor and respect… you are all his lesser…” He finished.

Just so, the assassins and mummers bowed towards the shadows… And departed towards Westeros…

---XxxxxX---

Belial thought that he would fall to the ground from the blurring pressure alone, but Vergil held him in place with gargantuan blue blades, holding him in place as Belial’s arms rest on the pommel of the illusions. The demon lord stares to the son of Sparda, widened eyes of glorious sight, as if he is seeing a painting come to life.

“I need an answer…” Vergil crashed him back to reality.

“You… You are rivalling Mundus…” Belial stated, and in that moment Vergil noticed how unblinking the demon lord’s eyes has become.

“You’ve seen Mundus?” Vergil asked intrigued, still in his Devil Trigger, with voice like a sculpted sound of spirits.

“No…” Belial answered, “But I felt his powers often… I thought no one could reached such greatness, but you…” His face scrunched into confusion. “Why have you not returned? Every second Mundus has insulted your father without end, all of your sire supporters have gone weary of him… some have preferred death in combat than serving him…”

“There’s…. There are others supporting my father?” Vergil enquired with incredulity, rare are the times he finds traits of honor within the demonic echelon, but to hear there are circles where his father is in high regards… It is news most unheard of. “Then answer my very first question then! So, we can return and put Mundus dead to rights!”

Belial looked down in trodden face, he sighed before he delivered the ill news. “You cannot… Not with this one.” He replied, “This portal is almost on the edge of its existence, there is a reason why I entered it as soon as I did. Every portal has a limit until it eventually breaks apart, and I seldom think that there would be a gate that could accommodate your power.”

Vergil scoffed and grunted on the proclamation, another frustration building over. “Where can I find one that can—”

“There are none…” Belial interjected, “I won’t waste our time… there are no Portals that can hold you. There is only one way to go onward to our home… And it is to resurrect Temen-ni-gru again…”

Vergil hummed at the suggestion, the proper rituals and ingredients are not in reach, and he has only one amulet of the two needed to open the proper gate, notwithstanding his father’s sword as well. “That tower holds the only gate that can withstand every source of strength. There can be no other way…”

“Then there are no means for me to return…” Vergil said, “For the time being, I am trapped here…”

Belial groaned at the declaration, leaning his head down in meditating the situation. “Then I am of no help to you…”

Their eyes met once again, this time however there are semblance of respect from one demon to another. In Belial’s sight, Vergil is much more accepted after being defeated by him and more so after his devil trigger has been shown. In that, the demon lord found a mutual likeness to him. They spent the time in silence for a while, wondering what comes next for them both.

“So, I’ve heard you were a lieutenant long ago…” Vergil made small talk. “A demon in employ of Lucifer, my father said you were too weak to meet Mundus and him, but he always noticed your passion on the cause…”

“He… said that?” Belial look to the gate, musing of recall upon him as he sees the reflection of his fledgling self. Strong to the lesser demons, but mediocre to the ringed echelon. “The last I’ve seen of your father was two thousand years ago… and I was weak. But things changed, and now I rule the rings of hell. Under Mundus’s whims…”

“Good position…”

“One I intend to leave for a better one…” Belial said, the moon now in the midst of the skies. Vergil simply nods in acknowledgement, far he is from an uncivilized demonic figure, Belial holds a better ethics than one would believe. In that, Vergil can honor.

“This is not the human world as we know it, isn’t it?” Vergil said, “You said this is a fragment world…”

“It is…”

“Tell me of it…”

---XxxxxX---

It was a silent night, though many children await on the balcony of many houses, some awaits on the road in front of the sept. For how could they not when the stars are shining brightly these days, guards await at the entrance and patrol. Greater numbers than before, vigilant as they are after the Ironborn raid.

For Genna however, she stays within the library arcane section in the Casterly Rock. Where it is hidden behind the walls from the ordinary world, books of old wisdom cluttered around the desk. There the papers spoke in writing no longer eligible to the eyes of current times, but it does not stop the lady of the house to try.

Though all things will take away the spirit and the vigor, with the time spent in research she has fallen to torpor. And that is when Vergil finds her, fallen asleep on the desk beneath the shines of the moon, from the roof that has never been repaired. He nudges her awake, her disheveled hair brings out the refinement in her as it falls gently to her shoulder.

She gently opened her eyes to see him standing in his usual marked face of stone, though his brow raised slightly in confusion. “I thought you beat any interest of magic out of you…” He said, halfly amused on her state. She looks to her surroundings as she recollects the pursuit she has done, the books she strived to understand still opened around her.

The suddenness of realization however, came as well. As her gaze returned to the man beside her in confusion of his presence. “You said you would only be gone for half an hour…” She said, uneasy tone still on her lips. “It has been one full day…”

“Unplanned event arises…” Vergil spoke simply. “It took me longer than I expect…”

“I see…” Genna said, soft voice with her eyes droopy and only a quarterly opened from exhaustion. “Do you need to use this room, or are you going to sleep standing on the library balcony again?” She asked, sharp green eyes gave a dim glow within behind her lashes. Vergil stares to her confounded, in interval he would look to the books around her.

“I’ll take your silent as a yes to the former then…” She said, standing up and almost falling from the sudden rush of blood. Vergil took her hand in time, pulling her and let her rest on his shoulder. She breathes out a stunned air, the fall brings her out to reality instantly with the shock. Revelation came when she senses her head leaning upon him, and then softly removes herself away. “Apologize… I should leave. Take care.”

She spoke it in a very unceremonious style, striding away with a look of despondency. When she arrived at the wall, she even struggled to find the mechanism to open it again, caressing the wall to sense through her skin rather than using her tired eyes to find it. “Why are you here? What are you trying to find in these books?” Vergil ask, tone softer than he usually furnished.

Genna make a gesture with her hands pointing towards the book, shaking her head as if to churn out the words from her lungs. “I thought I could find something…” She said in a doubtful delivery. “I thought I could acquire anything magical… is that the right words to say it?” She laughed lightly as she speaks it, strands of her hair falling over her left eye.

“Why?” Vergil asked.

She stood there looking at him and eventually onto the wall, she leaned and scratches her hand lightly and awkwardly, until in due course she finds the proper terms to speak. She exhaled weightily, bringing back a modicum of her noble grace to put her fingers back behind her waist. Vergil is a man of an educated background, but often he thinks of the redundancy of noble upbringing.

“You never lied.” She spoke. “Except for this one when you returned way beyond the expected time. Though as I understand it you have your reasons… And I assume they are valid.” She continued, standing under the shadows outside of the moon light coming from the roof. “I know… You are not beholden to this place norms. You could leave right now and no one could’ve stopped you…”

She put her hand on the wall beside her, leaning to ensure she did not fall from exhaustion. “But you’ve made actions that reflects upon my family. I admit some of them are due to my allowance, but for the rest comes consequences that would be fallen onto my own blood.” She nods, as she recalled the instant of the incidents. “You killed Reynard Reyne, you stopped the Ironborn singlehandedly, and that tournament deal we had against the Frey’s… Which you must admit that may have gone overboard.”

“They got what was coming for them…” Vergil Interjects.

“May be…” Genna said, a solemn smile on her lips. “Still… They made their claim against me, my own family that is. Regardless of your intentions or prerogative of independence.” She coughed lightly as she accidentally inhaled a hue of dust. “As all believe you are in my favor, so to your actions reflects upon me…”

“What does this have to do with—”

“You will leave sooner or later!” Genna intervened, the croak on her throat threatened a wound. “I know not when… but it will happen. Mayhaps you find another source or another place that beckons you, or perhaps you find mine or my family presence abhorrent beyond the limit of patience… it’ll happen comes time.”

Desperation revealed on the little haze of tears on the eye lids, she looked away to the side but Vergil could still see no matter how much she intends to hide. “And when you do, then there come the consequences mowing its way to this castle. Intending to make vengeance or justice for what has happened.” She inhaled a breath, before she persists. “I believe we are beyond who to blame… All I can do now is to prepare, as I always did.”

Vergil smirks, but he did not show it, as his back is turned towards her now. “And what did you intend to find with these books? Think you can match my capabilities?” He said, turning a page from one of the tomes on the desk.

“Gods forbid me for trying to even have a fraction of what you can do…” She said, Halfly chuckling for the words she has spoken. “If I even have a semblance, a shadow of it. Perhaps I could quell away the coming threat that would compromise my family… however small it is in your eyes.” This time she leaned her shoulders to the wall, her hand finding the current time to be apt to reveal its soreness.

“It takes time…” Vergil stated.

“I would assume it is, everything has a reaction. Or so my brother says… powers that immense needs just as sizeable sacrifice. Here I hoped that time is enough for it.” She said, almost but a murmur now. “We do what we can to see our family safe, no?”

Just then a vibration of chill stops every motion in Vergil’s body. In a moment of recall he saw the painting on his old home, where his father did not even smile, but the gesture of the eyes is enough to see the contentment. Hands on his shoulder and his twin from a mother that lives on love and care in the abode of a demonic warlord

He wondered where his brother is now, and if he does still remember their calling. Questions came if he as well, remember the manor of their home fondly, where memories of death also resides in corruption against the pleasant recollection. “Yes…” Vergil answered. “That we do…”

He felt Genna’s eyes drilling on his back again, perhaps in his mind he assumed that she is contemplating his small statement, small words that hides a giant impact. “Well…” Genna spoke. “It’s good you understand…”

She opened the walls to reveal the library, her hands stopped on the crevice where the wall is being hidden when it is opened before speaking again to the son of Sparda. “I would request for you to teach me some things of what you are capable of… if you can. But, if you can’t… when the time comes for you to leave this place and never return, please do tell me in turn. It would only take a second for you, but I would appreciate it greatly.”

“Is that the reason why you’ve expanded the armory on Lannisport and ordered plate armors for your men?” Vergil said, playfully and soft. “Seems like an exaggerated effort… considering how expensive such venture is…”

“It is, among other things…” Genna said, “But since my father spend such wealth in… trivial pursuit, wasting a few to save lives shouldn’t be a lost.”

“Hmm…” Vergil grunted. Facing her again.

She walks outside of the hidden chamber; the wall has not yet closed. “I have so many uncertainty in life, and in these times where danger is on every corner I would ask for one thing of you, that Is all. I… do appreciate what you have done these past months, regardless of the conundrum you’ve given me… So please, let me know when it happens, so I can prepare for the worst when you are gone. I can only take so much… and all I can do is just as little; I hope you understand.”

The wall closed with the dust falling from its top shadowed Genna’s figure as she is walking away…

Vergil stared at it for more than a minute as old memories of a time before a life of conflict came back to him…

For a moment, he saw his mother’s hair before the wall closed fully...

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

I needed to create a foundation of "Something" before i moved on the story, else the actions the characters made in the coming chapter would be lacking, all things needs momentum to be impactful.

I am doubly sure, this chapter has MINIMAL grammar issues, at least than the prior ones. I checked to make sure my prose is correct and my wording proper. But as i am merely a simple human, i assume there would still be mistakes along the way. Please do tell if you see one or ten.

Chapter 10: Revolution of Belief

Summary:

Fingers are pointed to the sky and to each other. Voices are exchanged, with ideals of magic and strength to one and another. Cultures and traditions are challenged, and just so does the realm are delved in conflict regarding issues of belief.

---XxxxxX---

A FRAGMENT OF CONVERSATION BETWEEN VERGIL AND BELIAL, PRIOR TO VERGIL’S RETURN TO CASTERLY ROCK.

“Do you sense them near us right now?”

“No, other than the portal behind us that is… though I feel a fickle in the air. That means they exist, but far from where we stand.”

“So, they exist but not close to us, can you make a guess?”

“I feel one on the far north, on a lone island where semblance of power still resides where others have lost it. Another also can be sense in the North-western part of the sea, there the salt is large in magnitude, with just as great of a call to sin… And it is not one of honor or pride…”

“I know the place that you speak of… what of the south and east…”

“I cannot tell you… As the power spreads so does its efficacy dispersed. I know there are more, but their distance makes it difficult to derive a direction…”

“…Safe to say, there would be more demons touching this realm as it is.”

“That is correct, and most are taken by a demon of noble bearings. Their strength would be as equal as their place in the hierarchy…”

“How long until they arrive here?”

“Uncertain… Each portal is inimitable on its own. Some are older and awaits their opening, usually after an event of great power such as the Temen-ni-gru. Some are just birthed recently, due to an implosion of power. It could be seconds from now or a thousand years, we can never tell…”

“Yet with this portal in comparison, some seems to be more stable… and much younger.”

“The more balanced they are, the greater is their capability of growth and potential. Most likely they are guarded by demons much more… Powerful than I, though I despise to admit. Make no mistake, while they would take longer to be erected as an entrance, the youngness of them would make it easier for more demons to enter…”

“This one differs?”

“This one is older than the rest, and thus less constant… it would need rest after being used. If I enter it right now, I have to wait a year or half of one before I can enter it again…”

“Very well then… Go on, I’ll honor the trade, you can leave.”

“Live and die well, Son of Sparda…”

---XxxxxX---

Young is the day when Genna look upon the letter she is holding, she cannot educe how many times she has read it on reprise. The quality of it is immaculate, white as snow and silky as a thin dress made by the hands of fae. There will be a time when she could admire such makings, but the written words it has beholden bears a much more dire circumstance that needs to be considered.

“Is everything well, Lady Genna?” Creylen spoke, his hands rested on the thighs whilst awaiting her reply. In truth he knows what lies in the writing, for a Maester’s duty is to handle any documentaries of any type. Just so he gave the letter to her with a worried expression, features of emotion Genna has come to understand in seeing often.

“It would take time for the king to arrive here, even more so when we consider that he is not in good health.” Creylen said in assurance. “This give us more than ample time to make ready for any queries and expected decorum, there is no need for us to be wary.” The words that came from his mouth are heeded, but they are taken with doubtful contentions. In Genna’s mind it will never be as simple as etiquettes and propriety, royalty visit often came with dubiousness in tow.

Genna put the letter on the left side of the desk, the golden reflection of the solar hurts her eyes even as she looked down in thinking. She rested her hands as they coil together on top of it, above the wooden texture. Images of ideas and plans followed suit in her head. “Creylen, make the usual groundwork for the royal party. I know the reason why they are coming here; I need to make preparation of my own.”

She gave a written parchment to Creylen’s hand. “Give this to the guard with a falcon feather on his helmet, he is posted on the courtyard, he knows what to do with it.” Creylen bowed to her and softly walks towards the doorway, though before departing completely he makes a remark.

“Young Lord Gerion is in the library right now with him, Lady Genna. So, I assumed the sorcerer is in a sensible mood, this would be a good time to broach the matter.” He said, “I thought you must know before I leave. I wished to tell you earlier, but you seem to be in a world of your own.” He bowed again and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. But as soon as she realizes the implication of what is occurring, she rolled her eyes and stride towards the proclaimed destination.

Her journey towards her library is uneventful, a show of respect from her servants and a bow from the guards, as is the routine. It is when she saw the table the sorcerer sits and her young brother flying around that she perked up with worried perplexity.

---XxxxxX---

The silence of the Lannisport has no longer persist. The winds have carried away the smell of corpses, and any memories of evil and savagery are cornered onto the obscurest corner of the mind. A very much fortunate news for the children, to most of them all they remember are the flight of fires and swords. Rare are those who see the midst of fighting, hidden beneath the sept and houses as they are when their elders brought steel to cast away the conflict.

The welding above the heat and the fall of the hammer of the smith, to the sounds of cooks and potters and carpenters creating their arts and furnish below the comforting shades of the port’s architecture. All have gone onward to continue their calling in life, hard times come and go, it is in due time the good times arrive to make way for pleasantries.

Joanna Lannister walks down to the centre where the sept resides, in the place where she recalls to hide in the times of the raiding of the Ironborn. It is a surreal thing to see the silver glow of its walls gleaming freshly as it is repaired by Genna’s authority, a necessary act for such a sacred ground. Seldom there would be anyone around that would like their eyes to perceive bloodied walls and decrepit works where the divines would come to hear the prayers.

Horrid is the memory alone, having a perceptible view to be reminded of them is unhealthy to the mind… Especially if it is sacrilege…

Moving forward until she can see the light brown large door of the entrance, Joanna spotted a man with hands held high as he attempts to reach the clouds. His voice is true and mighty in conveyance, loud to ensure that every soul that passes would at least turn to him even for a moment. And in time perhaps enough to take them in full interest.

“Recall to the voices that has besmirch upon the good lord Tytos Lannister!” The Septon spoke, with face of sureness and robust. “See upon the bodies and the losses that has happen as this year slowly pass. All the lords that have arrived at the tourney, the very same ones that has spew profanity to the late compassionate lady Jeyne. And all the Ironborn that has come here in thought of savagery and barbarism!”

The names peaked Joanna’s curiosity, here is a man of unknown bearing shouting aloud without care of the lordly reprisal. She stood not far from the crowd, beneath a stand that shaded her from the sun, yet near enough to hear the man speak. Though with the loud baritone he has equipped, the distance may be farther than one would believe.

“See the retribution that has come to them! The dishonor they bring in life has followed them on their wake to strike them down to death in a manner just as vile!” The Septon continued to speak, confident of the divine will he is delivering. “The Ironborn are skewed! Put down like an animal just is the way they live!... Reynard Reyne! A lordly name of an old house! BLEED to death above the red halls of the Lannisters! And in the coming moons the corpse is found above manures of beasts! Just as he deserved for dishonoring our lord who has graciously welcomed them!”

“The due will come!” The front crowd shouted with glee and delight.

“The due will come!” The Septon replied in agreement. “It has been spoken! It has been known! And just as well the warrior has come in the form of a man! Lordlier and more grace than the legends and heroes of old!” Joanna expressed a face of wariness, narrowed brow going upwards with a mouth halfly agape as she listens. She looked to her surroundings to see man and woman both wearing smiles and joyful eyes as they listen to the glory in his voice.

“Coat of blue and silver hair that comes with the light of the sun!” The Septon said, recognition came upon Joanna as she listens to the sermon. “With him came the storm of swords!”

“The storm of swords!” The crowd chorused with the Septon.

“Flew down with heroic light to strike down upon the evils that be!” He continued to speak. Pointing down to the cleanly cracked ground, where once held the corpses and azure swords of the sorcerer. “Every steel has fell towards them who are not righteous! NO ONE survived, safe for the few under the confines of the bleak iron bars! None here could claim that they have seen the swords fly towards the people of the Lannisport! NONE! By the end of the battle, all who stands are the innocent and the knights of oath! All underneath the light of the SEVEN!”

The crowd affirmed the speech, nods and proclamation of concord alike.

“Who else deserved such powerful blessing if not Lord Tytos himself, who has given much and has taken less…” The Septon continued, with a tone softer like a plead of a beggar. “Who else but the man who has taken every slap, every word of insult and every act of mockery that has befallen the house that rules us with empathy befitting of late King Aegon and his blessed predecessors!”

Glancing to the side, Joanna saw Damon approaching her slowly. Just so like she, his eyes and ears would perk up towards the Septon. He stopped just beside her, though not relegating to speak until he hears the end of the speech.

“All the kindness that has been given, the debt that has left unpaid and the crimes that has gone unpunished, has infuriated the powers above.” The Septon said, pointing above the clouds that halfly hides the sun. “With great anger they sent down their agent, to further bless the house that has bestowed us with fortunate days. To see justice be done… And look upon the seconds that will come…”

The Septon pointed to the north, his still expressed a stern and angered feature…

“The Reynes! The Tarbecks! They have consolidated with the raiders!” He shouted aloud, just so the gasps and the exclaim comes forth until they slowly dispersed to make way for hardly restraint fury from the people. “Spoken are the truth, that they have come as well to plunder sins upon their heavy burdens! Their frivolities and evil are beyond counting! Though the same could not be said of their lives for they are NUMBERED!”

“DEATH!” The crowd spoke in tandem. “DEATH TO THE TARBECKS! DEATH TO THE REYNES!”

“NO MORE INJUSTICE!”

“LET THEM BE JUDGED IN HELL!!”

“SCUM UPON THE EARTH!”

Damon and Joanna look to each other in slight worry, fanaticism in great numbers and intensity against their enemies is a godsend. Yet if they arise to passionately, uncouth behavior may come in hordes as well. Such is the irony of holy pursuit, a punishment that came from a verdict of anger that may lead to outrageously monstrous acts, regardless of the righteous milieu.

Both see it in a different light. Where Joanna could see this worrying passion to be of use, Damon doubts and that this may escalate to the unnatural, united front of peasant could present a threat when the days slowly passes. One could turn into twenty and into a thousand fairly quickly when they are not controlled.

In time perhaps they can be quelled, but Damon question why should one waits for such rotten core to spread so far…

Both thought as well of what Tywin would have done. Though knowing the young man and his fierceness, his acts are both ingenious and unpredictable. Events came from the past through memories of his hidden acts behind Tytos’s sight, many are acts one should not speak.

Will he use the crowd as fodder against the traitors? Or would he quell them in show of power? Joanna contemplates, Tywin is a being of enigma to her, just as much as the sorcerer. She somewhat wondered how such individuals could come from and towards the house of Lannister. Truly there is no middle ground, either you are a lion or a whimpering feline in the family.

Though the great lion complexity in planning is usually from the process… not the concept itself. In that, she always admired in Tywin. She lets her thoughts wondered to the man, wondering when he will come home. War brings out the greats and the worst of a man, question came to her of what kind of man Tywin would be the next time she sees him.

Then came another voice, returning Joanna from her dream and Damon from his thoughts. A Septon that brings a holy crowd of his own. His eyes are narrow, disapproval presented openly for all to see on his face. He stood upon a higher ground in opposition to the Septon that present itself in front of the sept.

“Who is that?” Joanna asked.

“The one that just came is Septon Davan. He just came from Hightower, in dutiful pilgrimage to aid and blessed the seas away from sin, after the Ironborn invasion… or so he said…” Damon answered, pointing towards a clean robed man of white hair. Though there are manners of dirt and grime on his lower cloth, of sand and dust alike.

“The one that just delivered the speech is a wandering Septon, his name is Logan… He’s been here since the tourney of… Well, you know.” Damon said, gesturing towards the one on a high podium. A man of mid in age though his wrinkles spoke of stress came from burden of the spirit. Black of hair and light tan skin that came from hardship.

“Yes… But I did not see him during my refuge in the sept. Septon Logan that is…”

“That is because he was somewhere else.” Damon said, amused by the coming words he would speak. “When the Ironborn came he was fighting with the cripples and the old, on Tommen’s roar. He saw firsthand of Lord Vergil’s march…”

“A Septon who fights with his devotee, what a sight that must’ve been…” Joanna said as she smiled in delight. She noticed Septon Davan is speaking, though not in a shout. He seems to be in a converse with the one called Logan. The apprehensive look they sternly gave to each other indicates that it is not a civil one.

“I know not if they are as faithful as one would assume.” Damon continues to speak, despite his eyes still looking towards the holy pair, expecting a dispute in any second. “Though he believes it, and it is enough for him to make a stand. I wouldn’t dare to disparage one so close to divine will, especially one who fights on our behalf. He made his stand in our defense that is more than what I expect from his like. No need to bother him and his sermons.”

“Effective inaction…” Joanna said, staring as the Septons starts to fidget. One would indicate it to be a feeling fury barely restraint.

“Common sense really…” Damon said, viewing just the same spectacle. He notices Septon Davan’s pack, their hands are on their sword already. “This would be my first holy dispute if it escalates… pray it does not.” He ended; the irony is palpable.

Septon Logan however, disregards the hands on the sword hilt and the anger on his fellow Septon’s face and continued on his speech. Just so, Septon Davan interjected with a voice of his own, louder and with greater indignation that his opposing compatriot. “Have you all lost your wits!?” He screamed. “Magic appeared from the annals of history onto life, and you welcome the devilry with tributes and opened hearts!? Did you choose to ignore the teachings of your forefathers to appease to well veiled treachery!?”

Septon Logan wishes to interject, but his colleague would not give him the high ground. “Here the deceiver comes in a seductive mold! The very lordly looks of a Valyrian, much noted to hail from Valyria itself! If the magic is not a sure sign of it already!” Davan spoke, unflinching as he delivers it. “So quick are you to discount some of his actions!... Did you not recall of his maiming in the library!? Of the same crimes he has done on the tourney!?”

“Speak to much and know so little!” Septon logan intervened, clashing his voice towards his opponent of belief. “The guards proclaim of his visit, and most have spoken they are the one who strikes first! See upon the guardians of Tommen’s Road who has defended you from the raiders! All of them are alive still and they are all the very same sentinel of the Casterly Rock library, a proof of his mercy!... All of you have seen the devastation he can cause against the Ironborn. the only ones alive are those who see sense in their last moments and ran away!”

“There is no mercy to be found in such savage acts of—”

“Recall also to the golden dragons that came in tens of thousands to the hands of the said guards!” Septon Logan continued, unwilling to give even a moment to the disagreement. “All the families of Tommen’s Road are compensated beyond their station. Delivered by a name and alias of the unknown! The Seven Sees the injustice despite their hostility towards their agent, and recompense follows… All are events of a higher power, there are no ashes of the vile!”

“As for the act on the tourney…” Septon Logan continued, softer voice than before. “It is an act that is foreseeable… when one aimed their sharp edge against an opponent, one must realize the acceptance of the entailed risks!... This is the reality of war, even in a play of the such!”

“Sad is this day when many speaks so little on the disaster that follows!” Septon Davan spoke, pushing his way on to a higher podium. “See upon the acts that came after the acts! Evil beckons evil! As above, so below!” Packs of murmur is sounded as the Septon speak, confusion and revelation both.

“How did such Ironborn came to be here to pillage and rape!? How will the man that has been maimed will live as they are now!? With no hands to arise the crops and no feet to stand tall to pull their weights!? This does not include the ills that would come for them because of weakness apparent! How will they fight knowing that they are far in capability! As they are in spirit when they look upon themselves!”

What was once a prejudiced voices now have been tipped as new found beliefs are unearthed. Septon Davan smiled softly, as doubt scurried over to the people. Believing that sensibilities are returning to the psyche of those around him.

“Would the Reynes and Tarbecks be so treasonous if the vile sorcerer did not mutilate lady Ellyn? If he did not murder lord Reynard Reyne and in the same course betraying your liege lord in guest rights!? Did Reynard Reyne not have been given such expected etiquettes? Did the sorcerer not has been given the favors of lady Genna!?” Septon Davan pointed to the throng of people. “Deceived! All of them! Vows was given and has been immediately tarnished!”

Within all the words of self-proclaimed will of the higher powers, Damon and Joanna whirled their thoughts on many newfound knowledge of their current predicament. “Damon… How did they know about the library.” Joanna queried exhaustingly bewildered. “It seems one layer of secret has been broken one after the other.”

“Someone will speak of it my lady.” Damon said. Straight-faced still onto the Septon’s debate. “More than three dozen of guards and a handful of servants have witnessed it. Not all lips have such constancy you expect. Someone will spill eventually.” He sighed. “Still, I did not expect the people would know already of the Reynes betrayal… But then again, it has been sometime.”

Both of them look again towards the sacred argument.

“Forewarned words have never been made into reality as it is now!” Septon Logan interjects once again, pointing his finger in accusation towards Davan. “You are correct on the frustration of when acts of vileness has been spoken so little… Than why have you not mention the malice deeds of those you are trying to support!” He turned his face to the crowd, now with his finger aimed towards Casterly Rock.

“The late lady Jeyne Lannister, the gods bless her diligent soul!” Septon Logan said, passionately. “Her grave has been desecrated by those Septon Davan has spoken!” He turned his fingers once more towards the mentioned man. “Reynard Reyne and Garth Tyrell both! Has pissed upon her grave! The very same grave that belong to a lady that has given donation to all the orphanages in the Westerland! The very same grave that belongs to the lady that proclaim support of the law that begets the protection of US SMALLFOLKS!” He shouted with innate furor.

And all recall the commandment in which the late king Aegon the fifth has declared, to protect the rights of basic human decency and the limitation of taxes for all small folks of the seven kingdoms. Many have subtly whispered dissident for such acts, as it is proclaimed to be travesty by many noble bloods, but just as well the very same king dissuades them on his path to benevolence.

The people now look to each other, and they themselves delve into arguments with lesser articulacy then the Septon has. Though this does not halt the holy wills from delivering their voices until the very end of the other’s acquiescence. All voices of farmers, merchant, priests and even some guards themselves are conjoined into an amalgamation of sounds.

“You spoke of evil that begets evil!” Logan continued. “I do not incline to agree! For evil has its end! And when a man has no practice of restrain on debased acts! Then let death be upon him to make way for righteousness! Surely it is a horrifying world to be in, when it protects the malicious more than it does to the innocent!?”

“Still, you ignore the malevolent!” Davan said, vitriol raising.

“And you disregard the virtue!” Logan replied, with a hiss of a viper.

in this event Joanna has learned many courses of information, and in so little time as it as well comes many plans in tow. Unlike her however, Damon stood in vigilance. Ready to intervene if swords are unsheathed or fists are thrown. An abysmal end he is not looking forward to.

Traitors are now known and are awaiting their judgement. Joanna wonders her eyes. The guardsmen around Lannisport are equipped with two set of swords long and small. Their armors are thicker, plated and layered. Some are even stationed on the roof, despite the towers that overlooks the surrounding city. They are so close, close enough for their tip of the spear to reach any dissenting souls.

Merchant came from the north they say, Oxcross and the villages in the midst between the crag and Tarbeck halls is where they come from. The patrols and the people around can see their badges of origin, and just so eyes of apprehension and wary hands accepted them in. So does those that came from the south, specifically so the ones that wore green of Tyrells.

And now the people are establishing a unity before her and her family, war and battles are not uncommon to beckon godly pursuit, many turn to higher power as death looms close. But when a divine being has been presumed, and so near to be touched by hand. How can there be any doubt for anyone to consolidate around him.

“My gods…” Damon thought loudly, in curiosity Joanna turns her eyes towards the point of interest his cousin is seeing.

There on the side of the sept of Lannisport, is a new statue on its way inside it. Silver marble with a golden sign below its feet carved in tone. It is as tall as five men and clean as a sharp whistle. The expression and feature of its face and the design of the body is no doubt of the man of the subject. “What in the damned hell is that!?” Joanna questioned the crowd.

Their voices are dimmed immediately, giving due respect to the blood of their liege before them with a bow. “Good day to you, milady, with seven blessings.” Septon Logan said. “The people of the Lannisport have made tribute for the seven who are one. And have created this statue to renew the figure of the warrior.”

Not even awaiting the next breeze to pass, the old statue of the warrior, head of falcon wings and sword that is broad, is being carried out of the sept. it looks old yet sturdy, the robust work of a well-renowned smith. The collective dispatch expressions of diversity, some look upon It with shock and even disdain. While others with pride and awe as the exchange is happening.

“Damon. Davan’s and Logan’s followers are becoming bold.” Joanna said, looking still to the statues. “Please stop this before there are more blood on the grounds…” We have enough war as it is, Joanna thought in kind.

As Damon and his men moved in to disperse of the hostile parties. Joanna moved onwards to the back entrance of the sept. A large opening, enough for Vergil’s statue to make entry is on its left side. She wondered how could his likeness could be replicated whilst he rarely wanders to the port, if not for sword work training on the beach.

True are the stories that the son of Sparda uncommonly trains using the sands of the coast and its morning serenity. Though none have dared to approach him so brazenly to know of his features so intimately. None that I know of… Joanna thought. Even the slicked back white hair of him is faultlessly imitated to the statue…

If it were any other man, swords would already unsheathe to claim such acts heresy. But twisted face of indignation are the only acts of disapproval for those who diverge can do. For what truly can a pack of men prepare, when thousands of corpses have been made as evidence through presumed divined retribution?

The game is changing… She spoke in thought. The air she feels around her seems both lighter and menacing, for all the joy the days recently have brought despite the war, there is a space of awkward silence in between. Boys used to play in the fountain, now they are wielding wooden swords, yet choose to discuss in front of it waters rather than play.

The coast where lovers used to meet with drunken minds, are now silent with the sound of the seas and the winds pervading it. Most decides to stroll rather than stay. And the sept has more devotees than expected, touching and grasping upon the new statue as if it would bless them with strength and courage.

There she looks upon Septon Logan again, eyes widened unnaturally and mouth agape. His arms dangled on the sides as if it is unlived, and the spine twist backwards to accommodate his upwards stare. “He’s insane…” Joanna spoke, but with a low tone of a whisper…

But then the Septon turns his head towards her, a face of confusion with narrowed brows complementing it. but it lasted for merely a moment until he looks up to the statue entering the sept again, and Joanna swore she sees a tear falling to his cheeks. A thought creeps it way to her thinking he actually heard her; despite the long distance they have…

The people still have their common sense at least, more than enough to realize their humanity, if Joanna dared to exaggerate. Smith still made their weapons, fletchers the arrows, and families still smile and laugh with their children. A hopeful thought that hope is not lost, but she wonders what is truly the enemy she so cautious for.

Leaving Damon to make peace on the sept, she took her leave towards the Lannisport main gate…

It would seem there are more issues than talks of treasons of vassals and the barbarism of the Ironborn…

---XxxxxX---

To ascertain concentration and focus on the works of the unnatural is a difficult effort, more so as the voice of young Lord Gerion flail away on the library balcony with his blue transparent sword. The breeze that came from the open gaps soothe and assists in her learning of the arcane, the hard pages of the book gave a sensation that the history of its time is etched within.

The Manipulation of reality through acts of believe, is the book she is reading. Of unknown author and even more indefinite time of origin. Wherever Vergil hailed from, she assumed it is a place filled with documentaries of magic more profound than what she has. But then she saw him put the knowledge of her repository into practice, and there comes the revelation that all that is needed for one to see to the path of the mystic is barred behind technicalities.

He has gone invisible for more than a moment, and as the seconds pass by, his figure though still transparent, becomes a vibration in the air. Slowly does the magic fade away to reveal his form once again. “Manipulating ones being through control of the aspects of a body…” She recalled him saying. “Body, soul and mind working as one to change its properties…”

With a click of his finger, he has done it again. As if it is a natural work like breathing, becoming invisible to the naked eye. “Two days it took me to master it…” He said before, pacing around the room to aid his own thought, whilst spewing theories. “Simply by conforming to the environment around me, my skin can change colors to make it seem like I am invisible. When I use it, you perceive it as if you see through me. What actually occurs is that the magic painted me to seem like my background.”

Such a simple explanation of concept, but such a difficult procedure of actions. “Even then there is a limit, however change you intend to make, the body and soul knows it core values. It will not retain your will; in the end you will revert to your true form.” He relayed a while ago, so sure and confident in his elaboration. “Leonora of the green leaf is a prominent entity on Old Valyria. She attempted to retain an infernal exterior of her body, with flames burning blue on each pore of her skin. She only manages for a week, and then she became temporarily incapable to perform that specific spell… Or so it is written here.”

“Why?” Genna asked simply.

“The body adapt to the changes, and just like a poison, she became immune to the magic. It took her a year before her body forgets the adaptation and she can cast it again…” She recalled how Vergil stares at her with hidden excitement, deadpan though his face may be. “Everything has established rules… No matter how strong you cast your spell there is always a reaction… Your body and yourself remember who and what you are. In the end, blood will tell. No magic can disperse that, only mitigate it… And even then, it is impermanent.”

She tried to cast the same magic to herself, the same way Vergil has. She experimented and it almost took her life. A tint of her blood made her finger invisible, a whole cup of it put her wholly translucent, but never as fully invisible as Vergil has. And he only needs a speck of dust worth of blood to do so. In time he does not even need to make such sacrifices.

This does not mention the other materials needed to make such casting. For a mortal form, Genna needed more than just her own blood, ingredients that are rare and some even unknown in origin or extinct.

How can ones blood can be more powerful than the other. Vergil spoke that his father ruled his realm for a thousand years. Is it due to magic? Or perhaps because he is a being of otherworldly entirely? One who has blood as solid and thick as steel… perhaps even more. With each words spoken, Vergil seems less human and more ethereal. But he smiled like a human should, rarer than Valyrian steel such occurrences are. And he ate food and drink like a human ought, though rare and far in-between as some would expect.

She wondered if he would live as long as he proclaims his sire has. “Vergil…” She called; he glances towards her as he stopped looking towards the horizon. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen…”

“Eighteen…” Genna breathes out… Only two years her elder. So young and yet holds so much power.

Thoughts wondered to the kingdom the sorcerer meant to lord, does Redgrave and Fortuna city holds structures that are dependent on sorcery? To be on lands and waters flying with the clouds and weapons designed to put down beast greater and much worst than a man could imagine? The Targaryen court would pay a worth of a kingdom to obtain even a smidgen of that kind of knowledge.

But for now, here she sat, to do minor and mediocre magic that even a toddler could have done, if one could assume from the unimpressed outlook her mentor deigns to wear. But then again, the only time she spots him in a smile is during an amusing conundrum. The man reacts on failings more than achievements.

“I would need to sacrifice costly resources to cast even one of your magic ineffectively…”

“Of course, it does.” He answered cooly. “You’re willing against the unnatural, it will cost you.” Not a word spoken in tone that gave arrogance or modesty. The man speaks only in ascertained facts and believes it as well.

“How long do I need?”

“That depends on how determined you are…”

“How long until I can reach your prowess?”

She sees the smirk, it was there… Vergil turns his head to ensure that she can only see the edge of his jawline. “Try to have a grounded expectation…” He said, “Or you’ll find yourself frustrated as you go.”

“Then… what other magic can I learn?” Genna exclaimed. “Surely there’s more…”

“If you can’t even make stable on what you are learning now. Don’t try to push.” He said, directing himself towards her. His head is slightly tilted upwards, the bright sun ray defined his sharp features. “Many tried, it cost them… And you don’t want to know the specifics…”

She assumed she will learn of such particular history as time goes by. In such a short time, though middling in aptitude, she believed to have performed an act no longer possible for thousands of years. She wrapped the tint of glee from showing, that comes due course, she will be more useful to the family than a price to be won or a doubtful voice to be heard.

Her brothers wield swords to battle with figures made for them, perhaps she is the complement that comes from an arcane realm. When Tywin returns from the war, he will see her in greater light than what is expected. He is always the pillar that shields the family from courses of disgrace, it is in due time she joined him in battle.

“This would be dangerous knowledge if someone were to promulgate it…” She noted out loud, eyes still on the pages.

“Little are those who are capable of it.” Vergil replied. “Everyone can in technicality, but some easier than others…”

“Meaning?”

“You have mystical ancestors…” Vergil said. “Lann the clever is Leonora’s bastard brother. That’s why it only took you less than half a month to make progress, if you were a baser ancestry, you would’ve taken more time. Of a mediocre spell work mind you… Don’t let it get to your head.”

Genna feels the tingle of wonder upon her, knowing that there is semblance of truth in the family’s history. The bold ancestor of the Lannister, Lann the clever, is said to conquer the old house of Casterly through methods of cunning and deception.  In the age of heroes when tales of sorcery is propagated relentlessly, it is no wonder the Lannister’s would hold some means of the esoteric.

For how else the name could implant itself strongly to the seat it has now? to be undisputed for so long against lieges of the Westerlands and unite them against the other kingdoms as well…

And all of it is barred within language lost to time, with only one man holding the knowledge to traverse the words. Language of the fallen angels… Genna recalled Vergil have said, for however else could the hands of man would acquire such powers, if not from the agents of the supernatural…

How is it such knowledge could be unsaid, more so lost in time that passed. Does the Andal that destroyed all forms of arcane demand it to be? Could the power of the blood become diluted to each generation? It could not have been when Genna herself can cast such small magic, trivial it may be, though with cost very much steep. Couldn’t the Lannisters of old, dissuade away the Andal with such knowledge of the Arcane? Instead of surrendering and welcoming them to their abode.

How weak were her forefathers… When Vergil himself can topple an army with not a single movement other than the legion of flying swords summoned so easily.

Waking up to greet the dawn have never been so anticipated for Genna, to reacquaint herself to knowledge of the family once honored in times of old. Months to years, regardless of the time at hand. To have even a touch of capability to exploit reality is a path to power unquestioned, for this is no chaotic factor of the hearts of man…

Uncontrollable if not handled masterfully, yes. But power that belongs to one self, then reliance of another with interest of their own. Not an army, not a guardsman trained to follow order. But a strength that comes from within… Regardless how weak in comparison to the being before her in blue, power is power.

This almost took her life, but no great power comes without cost…

“Forgive me for being overwhelmed…” Genna said. Apologetically as she looks down with her arms resting on the table. “As you know, magic has been considered dead by public knowledge…”

Vergil makes no reply in that, in his language it is a sign of acceptance… or disapproval. Though she is to exhausted to care…

Though other issues are still at hand… Thus, the magical pathways need to be shelved for now…

“News came from Kings landing.” Genna spoke, Vergil halts his pacing. “The king… is due to arrive here in a short while… Together with the other lords. Most likely the very same ones you’ve slighted.”

The coat bellowed slightly as he whipped his hands to his back. “What about them…”

“Have you heard of the tale of the king?”

“He is sick…”

“The other one…”

“He is mad with prophecy…”

“That’s…” Genna gulped, “… A slight exaggeration.” Words of profane against the king however true or lightly put, is treasonous. But delicate conditions need to be handled tolerantly and in fairness, Vergil have sworn no fealty but to himself.

“The Dynasty that have ruled for more than two and a half centuries. The Targaryens used to be the most concrete evidence of wizardry even after the death of dragons.” Genna said, standing and pacing alike to her azure counterpart. The movement of her feet helps in fueling her thoughts. “All history now… except for petrified dragon eggs long abandoned and madness that appear through each generation… But now you are here, In practice of magic that I… I don’t even know…”

She leans her head, looking to see if Gerion is playing safely, the young boy striking down helpless wooden chair on the balcony, with a smile. “I think you know what this means for you…” She finished, gentle hands conjoined below her and in front of her waist. The sun shadowed parts of her features, defining those that are in light.

“I have no interest in their plight of fancy…” Vergil said, gravely with coursed voice. “Your king has nothing to offer me…”

In truth, so am I… Genna thought, so fearful in voicing it loudly. Terrified to be abandoned to her fight against treachery hidden underneath the horizon. Though the king has come with his trusted retinue, which comes also voice of reason to request upon aid against betrayers. Yet, the memory of Reynard’s corpse and Ellyn’s maimed hand came to her. Action that echoes upon her family made by not their hands.

It will not be as simple as quelling of dissidents; compromise would be demanded. Such is the fair court of the king.

But just as well she could plead over the Ironborn invasion, with the seemingly Reyne’s treasonous contribution. Though just as well could they spoke of mutiny, to say that such proof of the Red Lion’s is a dissident of their own and in no control of their hands. Slowly does her justice becoming smaller as she judges the vision of the coming times.

“I could ease you through it.” Genna said, smiling with ease and assurance. “Death knell is but a routine to you, I understand. Swipe your hand and your enemies will begone. But as I see it, I don’t think you want any more conflict that you already have.” She continued. Grasping for breath in the moment.

“There will be war, many will die, even more will suffer, orphans with uncertain purpose will wander. I won’t venture to even doubt of your ability of great destruction and to win. All I suggest is that you could waste little time and dare I say gain so much more if you would be civil for more than a speck of your life.” She finished. Then they made contact through the eyes, and hence consideration is made in a short while.

Birds flew that made fleeting shadows to both of their figures, slightly returning them from their worries and thought. For the moment, the grunts and cries of Gerion is the most prominent sound of all, with his hazy shadowed shape flailing around on the balcony of the library. Vergil inhaled a breath, grasping the hilt of Yamato with both hands as his contemplations are finished.

Genna felt herself growing firmer and stern in throat and back, seemingly terrified on his rebuttal. She hazed an image of an executioner blade, awaiting her neck and would fall as soon he spoke the words of refusal. With corpses of her brothers and the king stacked upon the carcasses of their lesser. Then the words came from his voice…

“What do you suggest?”

Genna let herself sense a tint of relief, to know that diplomatic pursuit is still on the table, and a weapon of mass destruction given form is willing to listen. In times of war, when negotiations are at hand, often the parties would use individuals of mediations. A king would send an emissary just would his opponent.

And there are so many eyes of witness already on the prestige of the sorcerer, though granted that most are speculation that are wildly proclaimed, the works of his sorcery cannot be refuted. Most lords have seen to his work on the Ironborn invasion, even more on the tourney and the death of Reynard Reyne. convincing the king of Vergil’s tolerance and the thin ice all are now standing on, should be an undemanding effort.

Though complexity could still arise… The king though benevolent and generous if judged through hearsay, royal parties still bears their own pride and expected prostration…

In Genna’s believe, no matter the event, The sorcerer and the king must never interact…

“I will be your representative. Everything the king wants of you; he would deliver it to me and so on I will do the same for you to him.” Genna said. Ease of smile upon her face. “I know all the expected duties, etiquettes and task of the position. You however, I know fully unwilling to lower yourself to… unsworn authorities…”

“Correct…” Vergil said. With only his lips moving, the man looks more still than a wall.

“Right…” Genna nods. “So, I understand it that you have interest on the magical objects of the continent, yes? The dragon bones of the red keep? The isle of faces? The wall of the north and so on and so on?” Genna said, awaiting affirmation. He did not give it to her, she continued anyway. “And the king! Would most likely have an interest on the knowledge you’ve acquired… and naturally would request a fair share of bounty on such information… No?”

“Logical…”

“Just so…” Genna takes a breath before persisting. “Therefore, as you translate and learn all that you have. I, of course would relay all the information that you no longer need or free to share. Let us endeavor make it simple, yes? Surely as well with your… recent prominent actions, him and his vassals would take sensible care on our discussion. No need for all of us to make all things harder than it should…”

Vergil smirked, amused. “Such a basic approach…”

“No need for complexity sir, tangling the procedure only baits further issues…” Genna sighed. “And you are already enough trouble for me as you are…”

She heard his humph, whilst noticing the thin smile still persisting on his face. “You are very… prudent… disciplined, understand of your own limitations. And most of all you know your place and venture to exceed expectations if possible…” Vergil said, he coiled his arms. “That’s right… I think you’ll do just fine…”

“I… would guess that we are in agreement?” Genna asked, awaiting avowal with restlessness.

“Yes…” Vergil said. “And… No, as well.”

“What…”

“I agree…” He continued. “You are smart, resourceful… Without question much more diplomatic than I am… I accept that you would be my envoy, considering your resume thus far…”

“Your envoy and the king… In task only, you know—”

“No…” Vergil sternly said. “You’ll be my envoy, only.”

“But…” Genna narrowed her brows, her hands moving in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“We are going to the Iron islands now…” Vergil spoke, the weight of the room swiftly becomes heavier as enthusiasm returns to the son of Sparda. “Pack your necessities. Time is short and I have even less patience…”

“But… But the king!”

“Let your subjects or your cousin handle that mess… Its not as important as you think. Or at the very least, I couldn’t care less about.”

“It would!—”

“Let’s go.”

---XxxxxX---

As one passes through the crowds, it is difficult to ignore the haze of mesmerism on all the passing eyes. Peace is a young phenomenon on the perception of the known majority, with banditry though rampant on idle hands, war of gargantuan scope is a fading prospect. The few last wars are fought on borders, with the fourth Blackfyre rebellion, the usurpers call before this current one is fought on coasts of the narrow sea.

Just as this one is pincered on the step stones, not even on home ground of the people here of Westeros…

The Ironborn attempted pillaging of Lannisport was the most devastating the hearts of men of the Westerlands thus far. guards that are often sat on the battlements of the city port are now on vigilant stand with both hands on the spear, anger and fear included on their breathes. Young boys who play on field running rampant with laughter are now swinging wooden blades with shouting of their elder betters on the sides.

Joanna’s journey back to her carriage serves to reveal the despondency of war’s aftermath, they look to hope on better days than believing they are in one. There on the busy streets of the market place and the stables, the people bowed and gave her the due of respect. The apparent protection from her house now appreciated greatly than recent memories.

A convenient servitude feels less meaningful in her mindset, she begins to appreciate Genna’s outlook on faithful servants more. No need for a brilliant mind to see that when the scales tip, the very same subjects would turn against them in heave…

The north seems a warmer place as Joanna think of such ideas. When there are enemies all around, whether they are man or the works of nature, it is so easy for them to seek help from one another. But then by default, it is still a conditional support…

There on her stupor of contemplation she spotted a pair walking with the awestruck eyes of the people bearing towards them. Joanna froze as they become closer and closer until they are a hair breadth away from her shadow.

“Genna!?” She asked, pacing with her cousin as she as well calls for her through a gesture of hand. “Where are you going? Why is lord Vergil with you?”

The sorcerer ignored her ramblings as usual, just as he does to the people around them as they take a knee in prayers. “I underestimate the situation…” Genna said with a whisper, grasping Joanna’s hand as they walk in pairs behind Vergil. “We are on our way to the harbor, so I have to make this as brief as I possibly can…”

“Harbor? Where are you going?” Joanna enquired; brows narrowed outward with her lips as well frowning in despair. “Genna, there are many matters here that needs you accounting it! The days have become daring, why are you telling me this now!?”

“Everything is in motion beyond my control Joanna, please listen!” Genna replied, being silent briefly as she effortlessly bypasses through the crowds to keep up with Vergil. “You have to be the one to welcome the royal fold in my absent. Everything has been prepared, all decorum and furnishing to receive them are relayed onto their respective task force. I gave the specifics to Creylen and Dylarr, ensure they are executed immaculately.”

“You can’t!” Joanna said, frustrated as she goes. “You are expected, Genna! And your father…”

“Be patient with him, love!” Genna said, slightly tiring. “He knows what to expect, this isn’t the first time he would welcome a king.”

“But… where—”

“The Iron Islands.”

It all became very light, her limbs becoming weightless very akin to a doll being drag gently through a pack of toys. “So, this is it then…” Joanna sighed. “He actually will do this…” Image of construct made of corpse that has been taken summarily in a moment came to her, the way the dead is lined neatly and the hearsay on how easy and swift their death came on the sorcerer’s hand is difficult to dissolve.

“Why you…” Joanna whispered to her cousin’s ear, holding onto her shoulders. “Why did he need to take you?”

“I’ve told Creylen of that…” Genna said. “If you must know, ask him.”

As the waters and the piers becoming larger in their sight, both ladies spoke of the prerequisites of the coming times, all tasks of logistics and propriety as it is anticipated. Joanna endeavored to take all in stride, this was more than she was expected to receive, making audience with a king is no small commission.

Silent came, as all directives are relayed. With the exception of the clamors the public around them are making, Joanna takes this chance to speak. “Genna… there were developments on the sept.” She said, as the road they walked becomes wider and lessen in populace as they step closer to the harbor. “Septon Logan changed the statue of the warrior with another one that has the same likeness to Vergil…”

“Pardon?” Genna asked. Though her fingers are still wrapped around Joanna’s wrist, there were no souls in her front demanding her attention as she look to her cousins eyes.

“They believed Vergil to be the Warriors image of the seven who are one.” Joanna spoke. “They are worshipping him as a god…”

“What…” Vergil’s voiced himself. Halting his stride and turning towards her. This would mark the second moment he recognized Joanna’s existence, other than the event of Reynard’s death when she took Genna away. Now his interest peaked on her claim.

“A Septon from the Starry Sept came, his name is Septon Davan. Arguing against your image to Septon logan.” She explained. Catching her breathe as she does. “There were dispute regarding your existence, lord Vergil. Audacious enough of an argument to escalate to a skirmish in front of the holy place proclaimed.”

“Death toll!?” Genna queried, now both hands on Joanna’s in comfort.

“None… Damon disbanded the riot before it could spiral to bloodletting.” Joanna answered. “Now the sept has your resemblance in them, perfectly so. As if the sculptor known you for centuries…”

“I have no part in this…” Vergil said, Joanna looks away with doubt coloring her cheeks. “Fascinating…” He spoke.

Genna turns to him. Noticing the language of pride and arrogance blanketing his figure, a knell of poise surging him beyond the necessary. “Does this change your plans?” She asked, tone of chary with her.

“No…” He quipped surely. “An event for another time… I’ll wait on the ship, make your discussion with her quick.” He strides away quickly until he disappears into a blur of blue. The eyes around them in wonder, as some has for the first hand and time sees the work of magic. Though for Genna and her cousin, this is already a routine.

“There is nothing I can do… Other than giving you the authority of my position.” She said, cuddling Joanna’s cheek. “You are right to think that the sept needs our house’s permission to do so, but I am delved in other troubles so deep I can only do so much. Whatever decision that needs my or my own father’s accounting, I leave to you Joanna. Please be strong…”

“The king will make issue of this.” Joanna replied. “Such a sudden show of recognized power for Vergil will take his attention, whether it is for the good or bad I know not… Now he would take you with his invasion of the Iron islands. And that is a problem that would be impossible to deny. A fair king Jaeherys is, but some matters are too much…”

“The Iron islands is a matter I leave to Creylen on further instructions, the same is said of yours when the time comes, you can ask him of that. Believe me, when you know of it and told his grace accordingly, he will do no act other than to point to Vergil in due course.” Genna sighed. “As for the statue… I’m sorry sweet heart… I have to leave that implications to you…”

“I understand…” Joanna said. Beautiful shades underneath them, with the orange dim light of the sun aggrandizing their splendor.

Words were not said as the bell tolls for Genna’s ship to depart, they part their hands as they make for their departure.

“If only I have the chance to show it to you, Joanna…” Genna spoke, music in her voice. “His powers can be replicated… if only for a moment and a fraction.”

“What…”

“I’ve done it…” Genna continued. “I’ve casted a spell… it worked… if only for a little while…”

“Genna…”

“When we see each other again… I will show you everything. And perhaps we will become more than just a tool…” She kissed her on the cheek before walking quickly to the ships deck. “Please, be strong!”

There Joanna stood on the edge of the port, the waves barely touch the faint colors of her dress. Half a mind to think that her cousin’s departure is the work of providence, as the seas turns to a golden hue when she watched her disappearing to the Horizon.

The gawks of pelicans soothe and the chill wind sway away the thin sweat of worries and fatigue. Still she stands tall though, the wide berth of the road to the pier and the small numbers of the denizens around her creates a sensation of grandiose. The world to her have never felt so large, discounting of course of the vista she learned of books and lessons.

Therein came a pair of Marbrand guard whom offered to escort her back to the castle. She walked with the breeze as schemes of intrigue spun onto her in both solution and troubles. She intended to pray to the gods, but the new edition of an idol would discomfort her more than it would comfort…

---XxxxxX---

Everything came with its due, changes no matter how drastically little must always have a price. Genna would often enquire advice and share her ideas on matters of provisions and administration. She took the position well, but it is far from the truth if she spoke that all things adapted smoothly.

Begone are her wonderments on the despair the first daughter of Casterly Rock often employ to her features. Joanna realizes through hard ship entailed first hand, that after each problem is dissuaded, two more would take its place. She has seen it happen of course, works of support means she is the first to see Genna’s trouble in view.

But to take it by hand is another prospect entirely…

Now the equipment of the local infantries is nothing less than spick-and-span. Would it be any other occasions, there would be words of complaint unrelenting from the masses of the extra work, in time they would be quelled by words of demands or threat of authority. The war and the Invasion have discouraged that step of the procedure away, which means less grievances for all men at labor. More so to Joanna.

Now with the forces of the Lannisport properly stationed and trained, Damon Marbrand and his forces would return to his seat of Ashemark in vigilance against the two traitor houses. Smack dab above the Sarsfield, in between the Reyne’s of Castamere and Tarbeck hall. His return is due to worry of treasonous influence to his people.

The sept and its Septon Logan are questioned on where he has the prerogative to make drastic changes on Lannisport, regardless of his position in holy grounds. Unknown to the due process of authority, he pleads for a pursuit of the sacred trail. Believing that the sept has the authority to make proper changes demanded by the Seven who are one.

In the end it means nothing to Joanna, regardless of religious believe, there must be words of permission on any effort of change to Lannisport from the Lannister. This results on demands of recompense through work and gold, a price the Septon graciously accepts with apologetic words that came after. He meant every word, with his fellow priestly subordinates aiding in the repair of Lannisport.

The insanity of the Septon still pervades her worry, fanaticism could bring a devoted blessing or worst matters otherwise…

Everything else trivial Joanna handed to her kin on the very same place. To the Lannys, Lannets and the Lantells. Houses of lower nobles under her and the main command… A branch of the Lannister’s house in charge of the Lannisport under her.

Then the day came…

And the voices of the yard and the halls become silent…

Joanna would often let the servants and the guards and all the hand maidens to take a relief on their work, as many tasks are often done before their time. Genna would’ve done the same, regardless of their position they are still human. And one who has low morale in turn would make low quality results. No harm will be done on letting them take a breather on their duties.

These often leads to loud noises, but they are of the noble kind. Not barbaric in tone and loud akin to the northern flocks. Her servants know their limits… And just so, it would not hinder her work.

But even now the quietness is abrupt…

As if their voices are taken away so suddenly…

A knock came from the door with Joanna giving its due welcome…

Creylen entered, and thus he spoke. “They are back… With the king with them…”

Joanna attempted to clean the desk of the solar, though not swiftly enough as another have entered the room…

There he stands shoulders broad still with armor, and golden of hair neatly combed by the wind that sharpened his chin and the pale green eyes flecked with gold…

There is no weakness in his stance. As In Joanna’s eyes, he looks even taller than before, and slender that emphasized his upper torso…

What stands before her is a man of war that returns to take his place as overlord…

“Where is she?” The man spoke. “Where is my sister?”

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

Worldbuilding is such an essential and important aspect of a story for me. How else could you know the effect of an event or to be specific, an existence of a character if not through the aftermath and the effects to the environment around them. I hope this chapter shows what kind of quake to the status quo of Westeros, a continent that heavily relies on preservations of power through intrigue, war capabilities and land.

Imagine what kind of steps and actions the lords and ladies of politics would need to make, to ensure an entity of overwhelming power to be in their circle. How they would try to consolidate their resources and skills to make sure such powers are their ally... or daring to put it on their hands. aren't you all excited to know?

As i understand it and i hope as you know or realize. This chapter has been given more prose than the usual chapters, or so i believed. So please do tell me if i have done wrong on its grammar (Blessed are those who descend from the blood of Sparda, for i am not.) As i oftenly said, a paragraph, statement or word poorly spoken could make or break a story.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter 11: Call of the Kingdoms and the Messenger of Death

Summary:

Intrigue came upon the house of Lannister, whilst death are looming upon the Iron Islands.

---XxxxxX---

The fanfare of the great lion’s return is a grandiose occasion, fantastic in nature even, as the ceremony of the receiving is as well worthy of a monarch criterion. Naturally so, as Tywin Lannister and his brothers make their way unto Lannisport and Casterly Rock with the king of the seven kingdoms at the forefront.

No noise other than the cheer of the folks of grand nobles and modest alike pervaded the air. With well-equipped sentinels on all the gaps of the expanse covered with their vigilance. Yet only the great lion’s brother, Kevan and Tygett bears the smile of a returning triumphant youth. Even now on the precipice of joy, not even a twitch came to the thin lips of Tywin.

“We will make our way to the Sept first, lord Tywin.” King Jaeherys spoke, pale in skin as he is in hair. But far he is from fatigue to be incapable to send a smile. “I hope that is alright with you.”

“Of course, your grace.” Tywin spoke, bowing slightly with no change in his stern face. Easy for them to speak, as the horses they mount knows the way. “Everything will be accommodated accordingly to your needs…”

“Thank you…” The king replied. Barely managing to withheld a cough. “I would need the blessing of the seven now more than ever, I think my own strength is failing me.” A cough went through, painful enough for his throat to almost slouch his back. Tywin snap towards him, arms at the ready for the worst of events. Their horses close enough for both to speak lightly. “Moreover… I wish to see this new statue of the seven here, all these images in my mind I am sure would not be comparable.”

Tywin merely grunted sharply in agreement. Under Genna’s care the Westerlands seems to be in order, when one considers the invasion of a pack of savages numbered thousands against an ill-equip city, better to close one’s eyes and start planning for retaliation rather than in defend. Yet other forces are at work, and what is to be expected is to be discarded for a fancy tale of magic.

Tywin have a vision, all concepts of grand plan, designed to improve upon the west fold of Westeros into a realm that would rival a monarch’s claim. Revolution of tributes, laws and trade works. Establishing routes of sea travel with the deal he has made with the house of Baratheon and the Step Stones Triage.

The culling of Banditry, and most of all… the many debts that must be paid… Amongst the technical qualities of the Westerlands industry. It is a vision vehemently clear; he sees it everytime he closed his eyes above the hard grounds of war, a vision he shares with his brothers in blood and arms. Even he convinced and founded a mutual ground to the heir apparent of the royal court. The will to make it a reality has bridged the way to it, all Tywin needs to do is to walk it.

But then an outrageous tale of a sorcerer came. And with him, came also the works of just as dreadful hearsay of power unprecedented. To many voices of grand standing have made it impossible for such a fancy tale to be considered as such, A contemptable work of a drunk imagination.

And now there as well exist a solid foundation of his resemblance, placed on the divine seat of the warrior of the seven. The very same man who has maimed his guards on his castle’s library, the very same man who has killed a vassal of house Lannister underneath the protection of the house. A prerogative that should only be reserved only to the hands of the lion and no one else.

Tywin breathes out an air of fury. Even within the sept, his breath spewed in a mist. On other inferiors’ eye, one would see a fiendish likeness to him.

There beside him, stand also the king. Looking upon the immaculate work of a statue, recently made with marbles of white color, lacking of cracks and mold like its other six compatriots. It sported a harsh face of thin lips and piercing eyes, with a jawline and chin that of a charming gentleman, sharp and clean-cut.

Even then the king still smiled, hands in front of his waist as he blinks slowly. Kevan and Tygett has a worried face upon looking to the point of interest. The new warrior’s statue perceived to be more intimidating to them than assuring.

“He must’ve made such a presentation… To acquire such a bold loyalty from the people…” The king spoke. “Often does a tale of embellishment would come from the Smallfolks. They would speak much of the prowess and fame of their lords and knights. The hammer of the warrior is with them they said… or the father of the seven have shown them the way, amongst other things… But have all of you have seen a deed so great, that the eyes of men would call such marvels true divine intervention?”

The king asked… The listeners of both Kingsguard and Lannisters are unsure if it is rhetorical in nature, so too does the other retinue of other great houses after them. Still the king persisted. “Baelor the blessed, aptly name that he is. in his honor, a sept is built… yet no one would proclaim him godhood. Despite all of his miracles, the simple folks would proclaim him more man than divine.”

“My forefather… Aegon and his grandson whom I have been named. Dragons they wield, ever conquering and merciful respectively. With such a short time the dispute of the kingdoms is quelled, with the saying that the Targaryens are closer to the gods then man… despite all of those, there they are… And here I am… Just a simple man.” The king finished, taking a knee on the center of statues. Putting his fingers in conjoined prayer.

Some lords followed suit in invocation. Tywin of course makes no similar move, only his own action and orders would he account. There are no other beings other than the king could overrule in him in his mind. And even then, it is because of the royal position. Not at all due to the gods chosen proclamation of old.

As they all are finished with their prayers, the grace’s eyes wander again to the sorcerer’s statue. “They say he looked as Valyrian as the Dragonlords of old.” He spoke, hands behind his back as he sighed. “Its… peculiar is it not? For incidence to happen due to happenstance beyond our control…”

“Most are your grace…” Tywin spoke. Behind him, his brothers wore an uncertain demeanor. Kevan looked forward in worry, his eyes wandering to the newly made warrior’s statue in heart of threadbare frustration and confusion. Tygett, the one who often equipped a stern face as strong as his castle forged armor, sneered at the very same figurine. Utter disbelief in rumors spoken true.

“Smallfolks plight of farms and banditry… Border disputes of new and old. I’m sure one would also recall the occasional night’s watch request here and there.” The king continued; his stare still stays on the grandiose of the seven sculptures. “Unique, each of them are, coming in times very much unexpected as well. But far to be beyond reparation. Sometimes it needed a unique solution, but it is always within reach…”

The king look to Vergil’s stony likeness once more, chuckling as he did. “How do you think we should approach this, lord Tywin?” He asked. “Even the people expected me to welcome the man in joyous accolade… Such is the thought of a simple life, no? they see the merit yet disregard the issue…”

“Whoever this person believed to be or believed himself to be is irrelevant, your grace.” Tywin said, cold eyes to the plaque of the stranger and the father. Unwilling to move his sight to the new addition. “He walks like a man, and he talks just the same as well. When the time comes for us to confront him on his transgressions… we will follow the usual procedures… unless you have other suggestions, your grace…”

Thoughts came to the king in silence, and time feels short beneath the shadows of the seven. Light came from the window after them, shadows hide the features of all the lordly faces of the maiden all the way onto the crone. “I am still uncertain…” The king spoke. “Your father and your sister would know more on this than the people here I suppose. Even more than the other lords who shared the halls recently.” The green flag and the blue bird flapped on all the thoughts. The plight of Tyrells and Arryn spoken loudly once before.

“Yes…” The king continued. “Let us depart to your castle, Lord Tywin. I am anticipating further explanation; your sister is in favor with him after all.” A lion’s grunt is heard, one could even see a semblance of a growl of mist. All the name of the Lannisters present take leave of the Sept. Kevan and Tygett however, look behind them as they depart. The Warrior’s statue shining brighter than the rest.

Outside within the protection of four Kingsguard, the people greet the monarch once more.

---XxxxxX---

“Where is she?” Tywin asked. Deep baritone of the ocean. “Where is my sister?”

A breath escape Joanna. For Tywin left as a man before, and now he returns with sharper eyes and lips than expected. Taller as well, unknown if it is the work of the steel boots, or the clash of battle augment his standing prominently. In her eyes, war becomes him. “A long moment to late Tywin.” She replied, a soft smile upon her. “She is here no longer.”

“Why?” He simply asked, ice cold green eyes unblinking.

“Because she left…” Joanna smirked, amused on her own work. Tywin however shares not the same sentiment, glaring with narrowed eyes with patience slowly ripped apart. The fair lady lets the awkward moment seasoned a while longer, until chuckling before the answer came. “She left with the sorcerer… Apparently he is fond of her, and made her his envoy… or close to such kind, I think.”

“The farce took Genna…” He stated, even voice yet it vibrates as it spews.

“So, I’ve said. And so, it is.” Joanna affirmed. Hands conjoined whilst pacing onto the side of the table. Joanna glances to the main chair behind the desk of the solar and back to Tywin. The guidance upon her smirk widened, Awaiting the great lion to take his place as liege lord. The man however, stood his ground, glare of a thousand daggers still upon her.

“And what have you done to retaliate against this?” He asked, still standing tall. The golden light reflected with his armor, lightening the room than it was.

“Nothing…” Joanna said, shaking her head. “There was nothing I can do then, nor now…” Now she stands before him, closer to his chin and looking up and down with a beam. “Powerful man… with control of the unnatural… defeated an army singlehandedly, you’ve heard of it on the way here naturally. Why wouldn’t you?” She sighed as the word goes on. “Here I should say that Genna left willingly. And left the charge up to me.”

“You did not stop her…”

“She is adamant on it.” Joanna replied. “When she returns perhaps, she will tell us both why…”

“When?”

“Uncertain… To many things, happening to fast.”

“…Is what will happen when one is too languid on her or his position.” Tywin said. He closes his eyes momentarily, opening it again to find he is sitting on the chair of the overlord with Joanna sharing the desk with him. “… The people are worshipping the new statue of the warrior…”

“Yes, they are…”

“A statue of the such, should be reported to the authority… for approval.” Tywin said, resting his hands on the armrest. “An individual under the favor of the house, who his state of being is being questioned right at this moment and before, should not be given a prerogative above his station…” He ended with a scowl look. “Did Genna gave permission for the statue?”

“No…”

“No…” He spoke again, unwilling of the alternative words. “Eat within our castle, sleep within our library and have murdered right within our halls…” Tywin breathed out the words with a slight roar of disapproval. “Which one of those do you think beckons the thought of divine indication?”

“Not by my hand…” Joanna simply relayed, shoulders slouch as her hand rubs the other arm. “And neither it is her fault…”

“She has been given the position and therefore with it the responsibility.”

“This is beyond human reasoning… Just so above her capabilities! The man is no farce…”

“Yes…” Tywin said, licking his lips as it dried. “So, I’ve been told… A Valyrian sorcerer come again with strength of a thousand dragons.” There were no features of a sneer, but the breathing hardened in haggard fury. “The truth… From you…” He poured a drink of the wine sitting peacefully on the edge of the desk. “Did you see it happen?”

“Yes…”

“Tell me…” He puts the cup before him. Letting it rest before drinking as she stared again to Joanna. “From the beginning to end.”

Therein she voiced the story, from the entrance in the midst of the night, when the parchment of old and new within the library flies in the waking of magic. All to the rain of swords that came from above beckoned by the sounds of thunder. Abnormal, ridiculous and severely outrageous from one terms of tale to the next.

But Tywin did not show any remark of emotion as he hears it all…

---XxxxxX---

Blue skies above with the clouds hiding the sun, the waves shake the ship slightly, the motion of the waters and the wooden galley is a new sensation to Lady Genna. There she rested her hand on the railings on the side of the ship, watching the vista of endless blue. The edge of it is vague as if the skies and the seas are one.

Stern shouts and nodding heads are heard before her, sailors of healthy repute ensuring the avoidance of ill news from the vessel they hold. Turns they would take; some holds the line while the rest are in reprieve with either a game of dice or with eyes in lay. None is an ambiance of dread or lone desperation, for this is a soothing day with the breeze to prove it.

She did not count the days on the travel through the waters, leaving the news of the time to the captain of the ship, when the time comes for her to know, then she will know then. Honor bound is the leader and the vessel, red flag does it bear, with a roar of a lion on its middle and the garments of the men in its employ.

Often, she would forget the profane tale on how these whole sections of event has started, for as the very first moment of her life, she is away on a venture so far from her house, farther than she would expect to leave unless of the circumstances of marriage which she managed to avoid. She could not tell which is more macabre, either towards the invasion of the Iron islands or the marriage and her stay on the twins.

But in this, with great heart she knows it would result in an adventure most ridiculous just so it would be historical. Once she puts the notion of magic to the grave, only for it to resurrect beyond the anticipated through an implosion from one man. She practiced the very same arcane once in a while above the waters. The wavy motion of the ship makes it difficult to awakened her concentration.

In the end, with no aid from the coils of blood, she only manages to make one finger invisible… A chuckling happenstance, but it is a joyful one still, to be reminded that magic is not dead…

The captain is watchful in both the waters and the deck, the presence of an entity past human reason halved his focus of vigilance. Before the sailing through the open waters, heavy is his claim to lack the ability to sail towards the Iron islands. Yet after a sword nearing his neck he relented, and a claim proven mistaken as he employs a seasoned skill of seafaring.

Whatever honor one could have in traveling with an overlord’s daughter, severely overwritten by the fear of a presumed god on earth with a color of blue…

There he stood on the center edge of the ship’s deck; the wavy shift of the vessel does not threaten his poise and stature whatsoever. Vergil’s coat bellowed strongly from the sea wind, his hair flows just as much, waving backwards that accentuates its spiky plume. Genna halted her game in counting the long seconds of each time he blinks, it truly seems as if the man strives hard to be as inhuman as he possibly can.

She stands and decided to approach him, her body fail to recall the motion of the ship, stumbling slightly as she goes. And on the way, still she saw him still like a statue, unmoving and disregarding the forces of nature around him. The other ship mates saw the same as well, making spaces away from the sorcerer to take care against his ire.

Thus far on their journey, the conversations they have made has been minimal and brief. Though when compared to prior, it is with more longevity and lesser vitriol. Notwithstanding of course the sessions of magical learning, but that was of course a discussion with concept of uniqueness from profound ancient knowledge.  Naturally, longer discussion is a natural happenstance. Despite the unnatural topic.

Eventually she arrived beside him, her dress carried by the wind with his coat together with red and blue coloring the wooden surface. They are close in distance, if the ship would blunder slightly against a stronger wave she would’ve fallen to his shoulder and arm. From all the days they share, not once has he relented the forceful and sharp concentration from his eyes.

Where Tywin is cold and full of lordly judgment, Vergil is wrought with concerted fury and fierceness unrivaled…

Rare are the times he let his shield away, once in a while they only dissuade during reading and conversation, but none other than those.

In his eyes, every side that he sees and hears are enemies he awaits to counter. So full of himself to fight against the world.

Genna was lost in the strength his eye holds, seconds seems to pass in her view, whilst actually a few minutes passed. “What…” Vergil queried, still staring towards the horizon. Genna shakes her head slightly in blinking. Scoffing her face away to share his view towards the distance as she smiles, they stood there as their colors clashed, before Genna enquires further…

“When we arrive to Pyke, what do you intend to do?” She asked, the fair wind blows their hair north, accelerating the pace of the ship. The curls on Genna’s hair straightened and clashed to Vergil’s shoulder as it flown by the breeze.

“You will enter as my emissary, elaborate my intention to them, and proceed to ascertain the event as peacefully as possible.” Vergil said, tilting his head slightly, still looking upon the vista of the sea. “Let them know what I am capable of, and make sure they know the alternatives… Which is being alive and in servitude.”

“You intend to make me a messenger…”

“To simple…” He replied. “You will make them see reason and strive in ensuring them to fall through diplomacy. Make no mistake, I will be their new overlord…”

“You do know your infamy on the dubbed storm of sword has been taken by all in a very dubious manner…” Genna said. “One ship against hundreds of theirs, with only the wind words of your deeds, doubt they will take us earnestly.”

“Pyke will be put as an example.” He spoke. “You will try to convince as many as you could, and the rest will be taken care of by yours truly…”

She sighed, gazing back to his sharp face. “Should’ve told me your schemes at the beginning. We could’ve brought some prisoners of the Isles with us, that would lay more credit on our claim.”

Vergil merely humph, a point that is neither here nor there to him…

“What makes you think they will listen to me?”

“You are Genna Lannister… A paramount daughter. I’ve seen and heard your ways before, and I am a man with little patience, nor do I have the skill... At least in your equal. Just so you know, my time of day is more precious than any gold you have, and I won’t waste it on discussions of peace when I can rip them apart.”

She gulped an anxiety and dare to ask the question. “So why don’t you...?”

“I have no intention on entering the battlefield against variables of innocence or those who are incapable to fight.” Vergil said. “My practice hands make quick work, but it would be counterproductive when it leads to longer issues. I have no interest in fighting against the rest of the kingdoms claiming vengeance and justice on my indiscriminate killing when I could’ve done something more important…”

Genna nodded, licking her lips. Considering all the path they could take.

“Or perhaps I am mistaken in bringing you here and the king and his kingdoms could not careless on my acts of massacre.” Vergil quipped. “Perhaps I should just proceed straight to slaughter…”

“NO!” Genna quickly answered. Distressed jarring her face. “You are correct… battle against willing combatants is more preferrable than beckoning a royal issue. Still, I wonder why you would need me… Considering you were quite immaculate in discriminating which is which before.”

“Quite…” Vergil said, tilting his head upward cockily. “I wonder how many of those invaders would survive, if they had known who they are up against… Do you wish me to tell you how many of them are barely grown boys?”

Genna exhaled. “That is another point…”

“I won’t stain myself with blood of those who are not in the heart of battle. If after your act most or all are still stubborn in their folly, then that is their blunder to make. Young or old, if they get in the way, then I won’t hesitate.”

She pictured it, A young boy holding a short sword, bleeding on the ground with face of confusion and fear on why it has come to such a thing. A sensation of retching on her throat, as a youth not even in understanding of their position, being left to slaughter under orders of their uncaring betters. But such is the nature of war.

“Would you… Would you at least try to avoid the childre—”

“Yes…”

Just so an exhale of relief came, to know that in due development, blood of the babes and young unknown to the choices their elders have made would be deterred away from the grip of death. The sharp stung of the distress of war though still lingers on heart, Genna still have another query on the edge of her tongue.

“After the taking of Pyke… After your conquest, what happens then…?”

“Sea Wyk… That’s where I need to go…”

“Sea Wyk? The Ironborn temple? Why?”

Vergil now turns towards her, sharp eyes that hovers upon the knell of death, gazing to hers. Halfly, she thought she enquired the wrong query. But the sorcerer decides to grace her with an answer nonetheless.

“The corpse and bone of Naga is alive… it’s just hibernating.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s all I could say… The rest you will see for yourself.” He said, his back towards her. “Go back to rest, I need to practice…”

"Wait!" Genna called, though the other man held no notion to stop himself. "You made a gate to Sarsfield using your sword before! Why are we taking this ship!?"

"I've never been to the Iron Islands." Vergil answered. A slight shout as he disappeared into the cabin.

---XxxxxX---

The Casterly Rock’s solar is wide, huge enough to accommodate twice dozen pack of souls. And even then, there are still more space for each to make their claim in comfort. All the notable Lannister name and the few royal retinue accompanying the king spread neatly within the room, all are silent except for the fairer voice that attracts their ears.

Joanna tells the tale as fancy as the olden stories of heroes, of legends accounted by a thousand years hearsay in intensity, yet that occurred in recent time. Sensible is her quality, mending logic and ambition that results in advantage, even in her form as fae as it is delicate. Yet the words that has been spewed are far from that of common sense, and with each of them she delivers, the more her frame becomes fatigue and concerned. 

A thousand times has the people of the Westerland spoke of the majestic fall of blue steel upon the evil, yet still the higher power of the kingdom look on with doubt… Here she hopes she would not be awakened within the chamber of the citadel mad house. Even though her house would not let such prospect come in true.

From the beginning to end, Joanna watch over all the listeners of her account. Expanded and aided by the reliable Maester Creylen that lies not far from the desk as well. The king’s intensity of attentiveness far outmatches Tywin’s interest, and the rest of his brothers and the monarch’s Kingsguard narrowed their eyes and look upon each other with bewilderment.

They queried all the expected requests. Place of origin, the source of such powers and the reason for the sorcerer’s stay. All are answered with replies just as baffling as one another, Joanna struggled to withheld a chuckle and a smirk as she saw their expression ranging to all emotions a human can possibly have. But not for the king and Tywin… They are stilled with the same features all the ways.

Cold and inflexible for the latter…

Fascination and Glee for the former…

As she ended her voice with the end of the recount, she took a respite. Her vision wonders again towards the great lion sitting on his great station. There was no change on him, very unlike his brothers, who has equipped faces of skepticism on the account. Even turning their heads towards each other and the walls as the story goes.

“A thousand-year rule of a single individual…” The king spoke, leaning in rest on the couch. “Of a nation entirely outside of this realm…”

“Far away yes…”

“How far?”

Joanna shrugged politely. “He did not say. I told you everything he has relayed. Anything else unknown is information that he did not share…”

The king stands upright quickly, with vigor unassumed when his closest think him sickly, underneath all the pale skin once again lies an old flame of ambition long have been abandoned by presumed reality of life. Then came news of the Lannisport, and the world seems to come alive again to him. He shakes his head, but the smile he wore is genuine that betrays any suggestion of doubt.

Tywin remains unimpressed… At least on face value…

“Let me see the results of his pursuit…” The king requested.

Joanna looked to Creylen ad then nods. The man’s eyes widened with understanding, raised to his full figure and walk towards a cart carrying books and tomes of queer makings. King Jaeherys deigns to not even wait for the collection to reach his hand, with a quick pace he strode towards them. Almost slipped if not for the fast hand of a Kingsguard nearest to him. Ser Gerold Hightower is his name, a man rivalling a white bull of great strength with just the skill and speed to overwhelm his enemies against his full prowess.

“I know these works…” Tygett spoke, caressing the one with a brown cover with furs on its sturdy edge. “These are from the arcane collection on the library.” Kevan stood beside him as well, the look of recognition that rivals his other brother. Tywin released the seat from himself and approach the pack of tomes as well, his head roaming upwards as he looks upon them.

“Years long since I lay my eyes on them…” He spoke.

“Lord Tywin… I did not know your house is an avid pursuer of the medium as well…” The king said, spoken whilst his eyes did not escape from the assortment.

“Relics and trinkets of long since passed…” Tywin replied. “I humored the study with my brothers and sister when I am younger… The little time I use for trivialities… nothing more…”

“I see…” The king spoke, nodding. But there was a glint of a shadow on the bags of his eyes, he exhaled haggardly as well, but there was no sign of sickness, Joanna gaze to him and assumed frustration, though the reasons remain unknown if not for dubious presumptions. “Well then, lady Joanna… What say you in these old parchments… What has he done?”

“I believe the Maester holds more claim to this knowledge more than I…” Joanna said, looking to the scholar. Creylen approaches the group before he conveyed every claim of unnatural information. “Here above are the translated works by lord Vergil himself, written by his hands and magic. The ones below of the cart are the untranslated works.”

“Translated… by magic?” The king questioned.

“I meant in technicalities, your grace.” The Maester answered. “Often he would employ a doppelganger of himself with various numbers as he read the works… they would write the common language whilst the sorcerer would read the records…” The eyes tapering upon him, except for the king who broadened his eyes and gestured his hand in a circle to quell his own confusion.

“Doppelgangers, your grace… They are a replication of him. He is capable to multiply his own body using magic. Unknown are the numbers in which he is proficient enough to produce. He never shown any kind of fatigue.” Creylen continued. “Many servants are in fear to approach the library due to the blatant show. But they’ve all seen it occurred, more than a dozen witnesses your grace…”

“Amazing…” The king grinned. “This is outrageously amazing…. Did he show you how he had done so?”

“The magic?” Creylen queried, the king nods. “He… he doesn’t show any formalities or procedures, your grace. He simply willed it and it is revealed and casted.”

“Remarkable.” The king said once again, looking to ser Gerold with glee. “They say every act of magic needed a form of payment… it says much about the man to be so free in act of powers such as those…”

“That we know of, your grace.” Ser Gerold intervened. “There is always time for any eyes to be blinded and for him to be in the shadow, who’s to say he did not do so behind closed curtains… This is of course, if any merit of the account actually has a measure of truth.”

“If it were an isolated occurrence, I would’ve taken your word, ser.” The king said. “But there we claim the majority of the Westerlands, including its lords to be insane? This is notwithstanding the Tyrell’s and Arryn’s representative? And Connington’s as well?”

The king sighed and nodded. “But you are correct… I am sure there are times when this… Vergil, is to be alone with his own affair, no? Perhaps during such he would make use of it for… uncouth rituals?” He nods excitedly. “Regardless, to show even a glimpse of mysticism is a legendary performance indeed. But lord Vergil has done so on an even more immeasurably act…”

Tywin’s eyes sharped as he heard the decorum, so too does the Kingsguards. To affirm the sorcerer’s position of power is no small enactment. The King’s attention returns to the book, bold to raise one with his hand as he opened it. “Illusionary Cantrips of the body…” He read out loud. “Written by Magister Helam the disciple of Enoch…”

“That came from this book, your grace.” Creylen revealed the tome of jet-black cover with the grandiose symbol of a chained eyes with iron. For a moment it’s as if it is staring at them. “According to lord Vergil, the original accounts from this book are written with the language of the fallen angels…”

It is nothing less than an extraordinarily unfathomable declaration, boldened are those who state they are capable to be in league with the agents of the gods through language alone. The spaces around the books are now minimal and seldom does air can escape from the gathering. Only Joanna stands far from them, amused in amazement on their curiosity. She already known what each of those tomes represents, though she did not practice it. For the unknowns of reality is a fabric she does not dare to manipulate.

“And what does this book entail?” Kevan enquired, whether it is a spoken word that gainsay the king, the king himself does not care. Only endeavoring to read further on the decoded opuses.

“Lady Genna—” Creylen spoke, but Joanna sharply gestured towards Creylen with gritted teeth.

“Apologies, the sorcerer I mean, elaborated that this particular book is a written text that spoke of various form of illusionary magic. In his other words, the mean to create a lie of reality.”

“What does that mean…”

“Your grace…” Ser Gerold interjected the convening. “The collections will not sally anywhere. Should we not discuss on lady Genna’s plight and lord Quellon’s departure?”

There as he is, shadowing the books with his frame, the king exhaled a bated breath of irritation. Still, he finds in him the sense and stature of duty. “You are right… This could be discussed in the later hours…” Whilst he closed the books with his fingers still lies on its cover, he lifted his head to gaze upon the wall shining with gold of the chandelier. Freezing inanimately, before turning back to the gatherings around him.

“After the Ninepenny kings has been thwarted, lord Quellon immediately makes his way to his Kingdom.” He said, grave voice though thin as he speaks it. All signs of endurance dispersed as the topic changes to the worldly subject. “The news of the invasion of your city, lord Tywin. Is a shock for him, he believes he charged the Iron islands with someone who is a steady hand. Considering recent events, it seems it is an overestimation on his part.”

An ordinary man would’ve openly scoffed to an Ironborn’s claim. Regardless of Quellon’s endeavor to change the Island’s way of raiding to a more civilized society. Tywin however, already schemed against the lot. Images of salted blood beneath the rocks of Pyke and Wyk. “How will he put this to rights?” He questioned.

“Unknown… We’ve brought him the news of Lannisport after we arrived at Oldtown’s port.” The king replied. “I gave him time for contemplation, but the next I heard of him is his fleet sailing away from the harbor. The only sight I caught is his vessel, disappearing on to the seas.”

Tywin stands and walk towards his brother, Kevan in his upright stature wore a hard face, after the elder whispered the task upon his ears, the younger brother departs immediately. The king’s interest however, has been taken away as Joanna decided to relay her view. “This won’t end well…” She spoke. “Genna accompanied him to establish mediation. More civilized Quellon may be compared to his compatriots, he still will not let a foreign power budge any Islanders standing.”

“Is that what he said?” The king enquired. “He… wishes for a peaceful attempt against them?”

Joanna looks away with eyes closed as she searches the proper words. All things have been given in libretti, but the purpose of the Iron Island visitation is less than a refined undertaking. Genna serves as a mitigating force to kept the blood from swelling the seas, whilst Vergil would shred the drags away. She wishes to kept this knowledge for family only, thus she spoke in slight omission.

Fortunate for her Tywin interjected the query. “Kevan is currently preparing a small fleet for quick departure. Apologies for taking a stand beyond your behest, your grace. But a blood of the family is in threat, hence I will take the due to dissuade this issue.” He bowed on the monarch’s presence, yet no semblance of serene appeared on him. One Kingsguard scoffed at the insolence, unknown which act has an impression of such. “I will stay to keep the peace. Tygett, accompany Kevan.”

The warrior Lannister bowed and left the solar.

“All is well, lord Tywin. But should you not await your father’s voice?”

“He is of the same mind your grace.” Tywin spoke. “Genna is dear to us. I and the rest of my blood cannot simply stand by on the disgrace…”

“Lady Joanna and your Maester suggested she willingly depart with him.”

“I cannot accept a simple hearsay, your grace. With respect.” Joanna turns squeamish, to find her words utterly gainsaid so simply.

“Very well then… Lead the way” The king spoke. “Maester Creylen, please relay the servants to prepare my belongings. I shall accompany the young lord.”

---XxxxxX---

There the horizon is becoming to a close, replaced instead by edged rocky crags and pillars of the islands of Pyke. It is a jagged vista, appearing like a gargantuan draconic fang jutting out from the ground to make place for the Greyjoy’s to make their castle. the tower of Castle Pyke is connected with bridges above the salty waters, as each one is standing above the pillars of the crag with no land in between. Truthfully in Genna’s eyes, they seem to be a wind away from toppling.

They arrived in time of dawn; the sands of the shores gave away the color of sunny orange hue permeating the sea waters. This is beautiful… Genna thought, unfortunate also in kind when one realizes that comes time, the ocean would be further salted by the bile of corpses. That is if her schemes have fallen to the worst of state.

The harbor of Lordsport has claimed many places for a hundred of ships of various kinds, Yet the people walking about at its peers are fewer by a margin then one would find in Lannisport with lesser vessels. Even before the men of war returns from the war, there are enough floating woods here to deliver another fleet.

The crumpled and cranked sound of wood is bellowed as they succeeded in docking the ship, as the sailors are finished placing the unassumingly sturdy plank of wood, Genna immediately strides towards the embrace of the land. There Lord Sebastian Farman awaits, nodding and standing towards her with noblesse upbringing even in act of standing.

“You are well lady Genna.”

“Thank goodness for that.” She answered. “And more so am I blessed that you actually gotten my letter.”

“Quick wind, quick work.” Sebastian replied. “The second my Castellan saw the urgency of your message; he did not wait for better wind.”

“Is that right? How did you arrive here faster than my own?”

“The wind our steed…”

Genna simply nods, rolling her eyes in amusement. “Of course.”

Just so, the sight and sound of a blur appeared beside them, and with lesser time than a blink, Vergil stands before them, walking towards the port disregarding both entities. He looks straight with his usual neutral scowl, even the nearer peasants already bowing as they pass him. “Not one to waste time is he…” Sebastian said, the strong breeze did not dissuade Vergil’s pace as they watch him and his coat yowl to the west.

“Believe it or otherwise, this is his more amiable mood.” Genna said. “Well… shall we walk and talk then? We have much to discuss.”

“That we are…”

As they stride towards the castle, figments of confusion surround them. Here in this place where the weather and sands and lands are more so bleak than pretty, so to does it denizens rely on hardened hands in lonesome. Ironborn is a collection of those who does not reap, as they in mind of both Genna and Sebastian through osmosis of knowledge and experience, relies on ravaging of others wealth than cultivating such. No different than the Dothraki of Essos.

Therein the people look upon the lordly retinue with peculiarity more than prostration, expecting combat as their hands slighting closer to their sword hilts and axes…

“I would say the flock of this glorified bandits are better off dead, why are we choosing to give them an alternative…”

“It is not my plan…” Genna answered. “In honesty, I did not even plan to be here in the first place. But future interest forced my hand in this…”

“You are not planning on these savages’ survival?” Sebastian looked in confusion, wrinkled skin on his cheeks and forehead. “This is him?”

“He intends to use me for diplomatic resolutions… He spoke in a confusingly subtle manner, but I believe he has needs for… servants…”

“An employ littered by these people!?” Sebastian looks away to the sea as he shakes his head. “This would not lead to further conundrum—”

“I hope not, my lord. But even I whirled and dozed to faint when I thought of his schemes.” Genna said. “He speaks less, yet conveyed so much, it is difficult to see where this will all lead.”

“These are no honorable flocks…” Sebastian said with a curled strained. “If it would be for a fairer venture, he should find better men in our lands…”

“Whatever plans we think he is trying to do with these people, I do not think we could make an assumption.” Genna said. “But I know what we can do… And you are imperative in its success…”

---XxxxxX---

In these solar there are only two, gone are those of other kinship to their own interest around under the accommodation of the Lannisters. Whilst the Lannisport are now heaved with task of preparation of another venture towards seafaring under the lead of the loyal brothers, Joanna and Tywin stayed within the golden room. Scheming still against forces that are against the family interest… Amongst other things…

“One would think you would join your brothers and the king towards the Iron islands…” Joanna assumed. “But I do recall your glorious plan for our house before your departure to the war… Not even a moon to take a rest, love?”

“I rested on my way here…”

“On camps surrounded by wilderness and grasses as your beds?”

“twenty percent equity from a Volantis Silk merchant guild for a loan of twenty hundred gold dragons…” Tywin said, reading the parchments of any issues of the house. “How?”

“That wasn’t me, that was Genna…” Joanna replied, rolling her eyes in being ignored. “Wish I could tell you how she done so, but she needed to tackle one conflict after the other, when there is freedom for us to discuss… better subjects were in need of debate…”

“Exemption for tariffs with an added protection… given by Farman’s ships… with the Farman’s having ten percent of the share from the deal… that leads to fifty thousand gold honors annually…. Which in conversion to Westerosi… One hundred and twenty thousand golden dragons…” Tywin whispered his thoughts out loud as he clicked his tongue. “That also in total… twelve thousand gold dragons for the Farmans…”

He is impressed… Joanna thought. Few are those that could see the joy on the Great Lion’s features.

The way he let the brows rises upward whilst the others are still stone cold in expression…

“Sales of ship materials…” He took another document. “twenty sales for over a twenty one hundred gold dragons for each transaction… Trade of… Steel… Is this Genna as well?”

“Yes… Worry not, those are trade using leftovers from the Ironborn invasion.” Joanna said. Recognizing the papers, and recalling the wandering ships with no man to captain it. All died under the sharp edges of the spectral sorcerer’s sword.

“She orders the recollection of the Ironborn ships, and commanded the Lannisport carpenter and the smiths to repurpose it… some in general, whilst others for specific trades… it is noted in the one with the red ribbon.” Joanna said, pointing to the paper of interest. “Certainly, the Iron islanders won’t use it, might as well…”

“You have no part in all this?”

“Oh, I aid her in cultivating the festival whilst you are gone, with maester Creylen. But many of those are all her.”

“All her?” Tywin quipped. “These are your writing on these papers regarding the northern section of the Westerlands trade?” He placed it plainly on the desk. “I know your hand…”

“I… refined some…” Joanna said, but Tywin spotted the twitch of deceit already. “There are many issues needs attention, she knows the works and I write it all—”

“To improve and escalate production of oneself or other aspects, it all starts by recognizing the truth.” Tywin said, words given with no humor to trivialize the matter. “She has done well, and you as well… If you put her in a pedestal very much undeserving of her work it would overwhelm her. If I recognized this as her work and ignore your contribution on the matter. Would it be fair?”

“No…”

“No…” He spoke. “One of these days if you keep lying and I do not notice it, it may lead to my designation and delegating works towards entities who might not actually have the temperament nor the skill to do so. What do you think would happen if I command Genna to do all these works I assume he is capable of and you I send towards other prospects.”

“She would be crushed…”

“Just so…” He spoke. “Make no mistake… You’ve done well. You and her… This is above my expectation.” Though the praise came, there was no smile nor other indication of joy as he said it.

“Try to blink once in a while, Tywin. Its not good for the heart to play the great lion all day.” Joanna said in humor.

Tywin ignored her… Turning the chair towards the light to read the parchments better. “I can’t believe I say this, but the back of this chair looks more appealing than you are…”

For once, Tywin rolled his eyes towards her. “Must you bother me this crassly…”

“Why don’t we discard this pretense…” Joanna spoke. “I know we did a swell work, you know it, all of us know it. So why not speak of matters that are actually of merit—”

“Twenty five percent increase of taxes from the sept and the southern Lannisport Sculptors. I would assume this includes the donations made by—” A daring thing to gainsay an overlord, but it is another thing entirely to done so to Tywin Lannister. Within him are temperaments of a hundred bile of pride and stone, congealing into a cunning mind.

It meant much to Joanna, but it matters little when in her thought he decided to push on subjects that are not vital to the subtle cause unsaid. She took the parchments from his hand entirely, swiftly as if the wind has taken it from idle hands. She put it with a righteous drop and look upon him with a small smile, hands behind her back.

Tywin glared from the throne of reflected gold he sits, patience threatening to concentratedly explode…

“They don’t matter… because that is not the true goal. Not when we have a better purpose in tow.” Joanna said, Tywin stands menacingly. Slowly as he rises, with his eyes unrelenting upon her. She approaches him brazenly, until their nose is barely touching. “We have all the gold that we need, and our mines showing no hint of being emptied for a thousand years before and a thousand years more. There are greater powers that could be in our hands… And you pay your time on fripperies.”

“The economy is no trivial notion.” Tywin said, gravely with a hint of threat. “Show one soul leniency, and it’ll spread all plague like… our family demands retribution, in ALL things.”

“We have it in droves and you know it.” Joanna replied, her head tilted down in respect yet her eyes look up to him in delight. “Once… They see you and they fear, even before the war. Now they look at this castle with greater honors than any family could have for centuries. And I know you know why it has been so.”

Tywin walked towards the open window of the solar, letting Joanna’s hand fall from his chest temptingly. There more pilgrims, farmers and smiths and other trades came with faces of hope, the streets and the houses and the stores are filled with expectant souls, ready to give way for tributes and gifts.

“To many eyes have seen him…” Joanna continued. “More than a dozen of thousands… Your sister has made use of him well. She annulled the marriage between her and the Frey, a pact you and i know too well is a steal against us. She utilize him to bring an image of power to our house through the tournament, She uses him as a weapon against the Ironborn… She gave us Magic.”

The last whisper caught the air, and Tywin tense as he considered the prospect. Of a means of power beyond the human limit, a venture only given to the Targaryen of old with dubious uses. He turns back to see Joanna holding a spectral sword, the very same sword Gerion has been given to, the same sword that is gleaming, unbroken and as evidence of greater power…

The young boy gives it to his elder with a gleeful smile, stating that he is bored in playing with the toy. Very much like a child to found mystical arts to be a droll if when using such things extensively. “This is a figment of what he can do… And he has done more than you can possibly believe with little payment… We are powerful enough through wealth, blood and loyalty… And even then, the latter is being put into question…” Joanna spewed the last bit with vitriol. Enjoying as she recalls the blood of Reyne falling to the red carpet of the main hall.

“…Imagine this power in our hands.”

“There are lapses that needs handling …” Tywin stated.

“And there has been reparations… do not think otherwise just because you were not present.” Joanna replied, slyly. “Have it been any other way, perhaps you would find yourself talking to my corpse above a desecrated port…”

“The Reynes and Tarbecks needed to be quelled first… We will resolve issues that are within our hands”

“Correct… we will reach for somethings near our arms. But…” Joanna continued. “Do not prepare for war against the sorcerer, prepare for mediation… Negotiation. The sorcerer is not our enemy… He is our uncontrolled asset.”

Tywin’s face relented, but he did not speak. The gleaming gold above them creates a shadow that veiled his eyes if not for the golden green fleck of his. But still even now there were no show of expression other than contemplating aloofness. Joanna considered the surreal of the circumstances.

Vergil and Tywin are more alike than one would think.

“Temperance…” Joanna whispered. “That sword is sharp and shown magical qualities, prove enough of his prowess and his use for you. And he did that to appease Gerion… Imagine a higher calling…"

He walks away, out of the office. With no words of affirmation or decline. Joanna stood there smiling softly, for she knew the man’s boldness well. He is considering it… She thought.

As she looked back towards the place of the spectral sword, she find it disappeared from her sight. For every interval of moment, it always returns to Gerion’s hand. “The nuances of magic…” Jenna spoke out loud with a chuckle.

---XxxxxX---

Long has there been any visitor not of the salt of iron in the great keep of Pyke, convenes of war and raid are the most common words that are flown from one’s mouth to many ears on this main hall. Bleak, black and sturdy is the foundation of the castle. Even the pillars, that was once a part of a full land long since faltered onto the sea, still stands below the blackened rocks and walls.

There upon the hall is the throne where the heir apparent sits, Balon Greyjoy awaits as his bosom warmth the cushion. Beside him are various lord from various houses, from Myre, Goodbrothers, Sparrs and many others that begins with good or stones. Though there prominently with Balon’s shoulder on his hand is Harkan Harlaw. The advisor of the court and the heir as the overlord Quellon departs to war.

They all wore a furious expression, frustration as well as they accept their visitors onto their shadowy hall. Genna Lannister walks proudly towards the midst of the ravenous lot, uttering a look of tedium and arrogance as she strides towards the middle end until she is certain her words can be spoken and listened well.

“We accepted you to our court, Genna Lannister.” Harkan spoke purposely withholding decorum, his barely concealed fury shown well on his fist. “Speak your words and make it quick. We will see how swift we would deny your demands of reparation.” The other flock of his shared the anger, giving no interest to hide their bitterness for her.

“Quick to judge, Harlaw…” Genna spoke, brief in patience and words. “I believe this is the part where you would claim those who strike upon my land as mutineers rather than associates, is it not?”

“So, I judged you coming here correctly then?” He sneered. “What tricks will you employ here? Other than the false works of magic most have spoken…”

“False?” Genna said. “I could tell you the mistake you have made on these days in your preparation to meet me. All the words you prepare and all the sword you’ve sharpened to retaliate against my doings… but I know you savages are not one of procedures… and less so of patience…”

“Southern bitches have grown bold Harkan…” An Iron noble spoke on the right side beneath the sleuth of a pillar, the emblazoned on his chest pictured a bare stone tree. “You’ve quelled an invader through farce and you think you can do the same here!?”

Genna smirked maliciously on the remark, in her thoughts, she already imagined him coiling above a crag of rock bleeding out against power that is beyond him. Though her eyes do wonder from one jagged edge of the hall to another. There are more hesitant ilk’s than they are of angered spirits, no difficulties to surmise that some are in appeal to Quellon’s civilized path than the old raiding pursuit.

“That is right, Stonetree…” Genna replied to the very same crass folk. “But perhaps a voice from kin would merit far more than an outsider.” She gestured with a nod to the guard that is accompanying her, red of lines in his brigandine shows his of Lannister flock. The guard departed to the gate of the hall much to the bewilderments of the audience.  

“We have no interest in subtleties and tricks, Lannister…” Harkan spoke, beside him is Balon Greyjoy still unspeaking as he watches all unfold. “If you would only present us with a useless show, perhaps we should go to the part where we have our way with you…”

“You are a man of your own kingdom’s history Harlaw… You and your man who followed you.” Genna affirmed, no less stern than before. “But I see not all share your eyes… Some seems to share my sentiments in a more refined engagement.” Her sight looks back to the gatherings of undecided onlooker again. Lords that share the same noble name and house yet pervaded by doubt…

The rest however, holds no bearings to change for a better day…

Even in the outfit and stature Genna could see it. Some that even bears the Harlaw’s banner are garbed with modesty and honor even in the way they carry themselves, high of head and close of feet. Very unlike the head of the same family with viper eyes against her, Harkan outfitted himself with a savage look, axe dangling and rusted armor above a shredded leather clothes underneath.

The contrast is bizarre…

There is a divide here… Genna thought. Once again looking upon her surroundings, some readying their weapons, whilst the rest are looking to the floor in weariness.

“Is it true that magic destroyed my father’s flee—”

“BALON!” Harkan scolded to late, as the words are emitted.

Genna notices the child on the throne of Pyke, no older than five names day by her eyes. “I would say yes, My lord.” Genna said, more refined than her exchanged with the Harlaw. Music of fae on her tone. “I’ve seen it all you know… the bleak black skies, the thunder than came from the ground up onto the clouds… they say the storm god is the nemesis of the deity you and your people worship, young lord. Would you want me to tell you—”

“Enough of this!” Harkan spoke. “Do you actually believe I would let you spew poison upon a fellow Ironborn’s ears!?” He gestured towards the nearest Iron guards. “Seize her! We have no interest in hearing her plight in the first place! Take her to my chamber so I can have my way with her—”

“Judging from your face Harkan Harlaw, I see you hump the craggy rocks more with your tongue rather than hips.” Genna spits. “I see less of a man in you than the nearest squid with a tinier prick than most.”

The man immediately unsheathed his blade in fury… intending to approach her with ferocity to carve away her skin…

The hall exploded with merriment of barbarity and gaiety; calloused hands of sins risen above as they saw Harkan’s anger approaching Genna…

Then the gate of the hall opened once more…

And with it, entered a cavalcade of soldiers carrying dozens of men tied and locked by rope all over their body. They are all wearing Lannisters color, except for the captured ones whose are emblazoned with various skins of the Ironborn…

“What is this…” One man whispered behind the shade.

Genna gestured for one of her men-at-arms towards her, bringing one prisoner with him as he dropped him onto the floor unceremoniously. The prisoner took a knee immediately as he touches the solid ground, though he fumbled and struggled along the way with grunts of furious pain as he tries.

All the voices are stilled to what they saw, Harkan stopped on the stairs in front of the throne in perplexity as well. Genna walks delicately behind the prisoner’s figure on his knees, and lifted the veil of sack away from his head. The Ironborn prisoner cringed as she done so, even the faded light of the hall is still a luminous to much for his eyes.

“Does this one look familiar, lord Stonetree?” Genna spoke softly, done so with a tint of conceit.

“Victan…” The Stonetree lord whispered, expression of indignation slowly creeping onto every crevice of his features. The other Lannister guards also done the same to the rest of the prisoners. All familiar faces of fellow raiders come to light as their eyes, ears and lips are bruised and bloodied from the penal harshness.

“What are you—”

Genna lifted a finger before speaking the question. “Victan Stonetree…” Genna said, her hand on the kneeling Ironborn captive. “Tell them everything… everything that happen on your invasion of the Lannisport… Worry not on the credit of your words, I am sure your fellow captive will speak the same claim as well to support your statements…”

She took a dagger from beneath her dress, and cut away the cuffs of rope that entangled his hands and knees. Victan rises with a stumble to his full figure… eyes half opened with a bleeding fall from the forehead…

“Its true…” Victan said. “All of it…”

---XxxxxX---

There he stands on the east of the castle of Pyke, above the cliff that overlooks the stony construct. From there Vergil wonders on the materials that made such structure, there is a shine upon its walls, oily and slimy and as black as a night without a hint of a star. From afar he could still sense its presence, weak and petty caressing the stony texture as it glides down and up again on the stockades.

There is a sign of an energy on it, not demonic nor human in magic as well. Something weaker, yet far away to be called inefficient. As the black stones produces such pastes it also uses it to fortified it somehow. Putrid work that hides beneath the crevices, regenerating and fixing any holes and gaps upon its foundations.

To him it matters not… His hand has felled greater demons, some even overshadowed devils that overshadowed the lesser demons which in turn overshadowed these walls…

It will fall just like any other…

He rested his hand on the pommel of Yamato as its scabbard is pierced onto the sandy ground, awaiting the indication to begin the work of death. Only the wind accompanied him on top of the precipice, soothing him slightly away from thoughts of impatience. Though he has shown no expression of the such.

Then came the sound of a pair of feet, slightly struggling to reach the peak on where he stands…

“Hail to you, sorcerer.” Sebastian Farman said, a cloak around him that hides every nook and sign of his loyalties. “I am here to brief you on Lady Joanna’s Plan…”

Vergil stares at Sebastian as he works his way beside him, not even a second to blink. “I’ll keep the main notion simple… You are not to touch the main hall; all you must strike down are the towers that permeates the eastern part of the castle. Which are the constructs nearest to our sight right now. There are several towers and small keeps before one would notice the large hall after them."

"Some of these structures are held by a collection of crags below them, whilst the rest are on land. Though they are not far from each other, with bridges connecting one tower and keep to the other. “The four towers that lies above the crag are where the soldiers loyal to Greyjoy and Harlaw are stationed. They are numbered two to three thousand” Sebastian continued. “The three keeps on land are actually where most of the men-at-arms is stationed. Vassals of the overlord here that intends to overwhelm you through numbers…”

“Though I am sure that is irrelevant to you…” Sebastian continued, with a playful rise of a brow. “Just it is the same to know they are using mostly crossbows on the towers higher level and foot soldiers below them. Intending to shred large numbers as an invading army tries to take some leverages within them.”

“They are prepared to tackle a larger force?” Vergil queried with a lazy tone. “Wise…”

“Perhaps… We might as well call you an army of your own.” Sebastian replied. “Then again, their tactics are as basic as they come… they are not well known for their minds.”

“What else…”

“The keeps on land only harbored raiders… No range weaponry of the likes… that’s all I’ve gathered on their forces against you…”

Vergil pulled Yamato away from the land easily, holding it on the scabbard with his left hand. “Genna?”

“Taken prisoner on the main hall.” Sebastian answered with a sigh. “Though she is protected by Lannister guardsman I’ve brought. She made a deal to the acting overlord to keep herself with the protection of her retinue within the hall with them as you would… Slaughter… the eastern part of the castle.”

“Why would she do that…?” Vergil questioned, even voice.

“An honest act.” Sebastian answered. “She persuaded the lord of your… capabilities…”

Vergil stayed as his place; his coat bellowed still by the wind as he awaits the Farman lord’s further elaboration.

“She made a deal with lord Harkan, the acting lord that advices Balon Greyjoy, Quellon’s son, on all the lordly tasks… Whatever lordly tasks they actually have.” Sebastian said, doubtful of the last bit. “They did not believe in your penchant for devastation… thus they’ve made an agreement that if we were to brought an army instead of you against them… they would kill her.”

Vergil did not deign to express anything show of emotion on the news, only relieving himself from glaring the Farman. “She spoke that not all Iron Islanders agreed with the old ways of the Iron born. Some are in line with Quellon’s dream of a civilized path… These foes you will be facing, is a three quarter of their full force. The rest are in the main keep… And the ones that are in the main keep…”

“Are the ones who does not follow the old way…” Vergil finished. “How did she convinced them to stay their hand against their overlord…”

“Their loyalties are more divided than you might think…” Sebastian said. “Some lords do not agree in continuing the Iron Price. The reaving and banditry has given them less as time goes by, ships are becoming well equipped and hardy. Adapt or die as they say… Or perhaps they have another reason entirely, who knows.”

Vergil closed his eyes as critical thoughts came to him. “They would not listen to her in face value…” He spoke. “That is what the prisoners are for… A fellow Iron Islanders acting as witnesses from my massacre… to further put credit on her words.”

“Precisely… You would be battling against the raiders… Thus, whatever is left, are the ones that would kneel to you.” Sebastian said. A gleam on his face, the dream of the seas with a lack of reaving is pleasing. “Slay the pests… Retain the resources… and they will see you as superior. Lady Genna has ensured that path for you.”

“I see…” There was a modicum of respect on him, in heart and mind, Vergil acknowledges the proper distribution within her strategy.

“Best of luck to you sorcerer…” Sebastian said. “I look forward to you bringing justice for the Westerlands… Also, Lady Genna wishes for me to tell you the library is in the main hall.”

“And?”

“She wishes you be mindful on your desolation…”

He smirks. “Noted…”

Vergil vanishes from his sight; Sebastian exhaled a breath as he does….

And a few seconds pass… The scream and the explosions of the walls of Pyke pervaded the atmosphere immediately…

“This is one for the history book…” Sebastian said to himself, as he hears all the screams of pain and anguish.

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

The holidays have taken so much of my time. Even more of my energy. Here's hoping that wouldnt be the case next time. Especially for this chapter, i struggled on jumbling the politics of all the lords and the king. Each has goals of their own so i have to take account of each of these chars background.

Anyways, you know the usual. Grammar and Prose. Let me know if you see anything wrong.

Thanks.

Chapter 12: Salty Meatgrinder

Summary:

Stormy thunder came from above, unbeknownst to the Ironborn army... it also came from their front as well...

---XxxxxX---

Discipline in life is a necessity for one in pursuit of a goal, greater amount would be needed the higher ones calling became. But when one is pushed against an entity beyond one is expected, naturally any ambitious soul would need discipline of extraordinary quantity. Even then, only a few can manage to survive such tests… Fewer still, for those who would succeed.

One legend for every ten million they say…

But then again, what happened when one faced an opposition, that is even beyond fancy of fear… beyond what a human could even be capable to expect and even imagine…

Rolf of house Kenning is a simple raider and lord, once his house bears animosity against the great Ironborn house of Harlaw. But now they share the same overlord, and here as well they share the same enemy. Powerful and well-trained he is, greater than the common lord’s and Raider’s, with heavy hardships underneath his shoulders… He would prevail and take his rewards after this battle is over, just as it has always been…

And just as well as the other screaming victims of bloodletting becoming harsher and louder… The revelation came too late for Rolf…

Where he expects to find an enemy… he found himself within a stone tower turned meatgrinder…

And the smell of corpses is intensifying by the second…

“Lord Rolf…” A man beside him spoke, stuttering as a pack of Ironborn bodies are flew to the air. “Should we… Should we retreat?” He didn’t bother to answer, his eyes wide open with the shine of tears against the vista of red. His face grows numb as a greater power came closer and closer to his position. All memories and lessons of war and arms slowly dissolved as his terror grows in heart.

A cavalcade of blue translucent swords flies with blurring speed, piercing dozens of archers above his head…

Multiple domes that penetrate sound is summoned in his distanced front, packs of his men turning into pieces of meats that are sliced apart with immaculate precision. There was no blood on their mangled corpses… As if the liquid has disappeared from their dead bodies.

He pulled his mind back to reality with a sense of dazzling detachment as he perceived the view of crimson before him. What was once a position held by a thousand man, now is just a pack of less than a hundred terrified cravens… And very unlike before when they are eager to slice any that comes forth against them, now they are paralyzed against a sight of the unbelievable…

Rolf felt fear many times, none has he ever voiced it loudly. Once only in training against his own father that he ever cried, when a fall of his father’s wooden hammer struck his legs. And with a few words and a threat from his sire, he swore to never show such weakness again. But when one is losing control of his own capability to express… The first mien against the unknown would always be dread.

And when instinct comes to conquer Rolf’s mind, he did as a human being should…

Run…

“Lord Rolf!...” An arms man called, jittery and full of fear. “Wh-Where are you going!”

“Hold the line here, men!” Rolf spoke, summoning a stern voice as much as he could. “I have a plan! I need you to stay here and hold the position until it is time!”

“But! M-My Lord! The Sorce—”

“Be quiet and do as I say!” He replied, A shout full of hysteria than a man of a plan should have. “If you leave this position! You will die! Do you understand!? I will kill you myself!”

The arms man gave no answer but an indication of tearful sadness and disbelief. They stare at each other, awaiting a reply or any sounds of words that would appease either of them in these circumstances of hellish proportions. Yet only a sensation of fainting came to the arms man as he stood like a statue with his hand on his spear shaking uncontrollably.

“Wait…” Rolf said. “Just wait… here.”

He never liked such looks on his fellow man, an Ironborn is a man that has risen from death and what is dead may never die, but the arms man expression of horror is a look only given by living prey. Rolf walked away whilst struggling to break eye contact with him, because for all the words of assurance and threat of plan the Kenning lord could ever give… Both men knew it is worth nothing…

And the Arms man is being left to die… Whilst Rolf is walking away with a craven face’ he struggled to hide…

The arms man turns back towards the direction where the sorcerer approaches, with shaky hands he pointed his spear forward with a false hope of survival that his mind kept conveying just to retain its own sanity. With a pace unnatural, the enemy cleaved away the rest of the hundred men. In a time so brief and quick, in time the stories would hardly note it to be just a measly skirmish.

There upon the bleak colors and the yellow light of the torches, one man stood above the corpses…

Every bit of an aura of regal, even whilst above the smell of rancid carcasses…

Yet for all the dead bodies that surrounds him, the arms man notices an anomaly. Many other of his compatriots are alive still, standing in between bodies of fellow raiders and warriors. He saw the way the wind and air had seems to be sliced a part with the works of unknown magics… In his thought, there should not be any survivors…

But such notions have been withheld as the arms man hears a footstep coming closer, on his front the sorcerer approaches his position with royal confidence. Then he hears another sound of a run, the arms man looks back to see that lord Rolf took of to sprint away from the death trap. He closed his eyes to summon any shred of bravery left…

“What is dead may never die…” The arms man whispered…

He opened his eyes with a semblance of his own tears falling downward to his cheeks…

Yet he saw no sign of a sorcerer before him…

“Please…” A voice is sounded, the arms man turns again to find the very same lord shaking where he stood. The sorcerer towers over the him, as he pleaded for his life. “Have mercy… hold me for ransom… my family have money! Gold! We can—”

“Die”

A sound of a thousand shrills of blade came after the sorcerer declaration of death, and lord Rolf is now nothing more than just another hunk of sliced apart flesh on the ground. The Arms man stared at it longer than anyone should’ve, to see a life turns into nothing but a trash heap of meat in a few second is a most disturbing moment of bizarre proportion. 

Then he made a mistake of raising his head upwards… And his eyes clash and made contact with the sorcerer…

Right then and there the arms man wishes to burst into tears, to let the flow of humanity pour out of him for a moment of what remains of his life. But he could only feel his eyes starting to be hazy in sight and his lips quivered as much as his waist. He wanted to close his eyes as well, to hope no pain would come to him in his death.

But then the second comes to pass…

And the sorcerer turns towards the entrance behind him… Ignoring the arms man as if he is just another furnish of the construct…

“Make better choices in life…” The sorcerer spoke, his blue coat bellowed by the stormy wind that entered through the doorway. “If I found any of you in this fight again, you will die.” He moves forward instantaneously after he deliver the words, exiting the tower and proceeding to the next one as his steps through the bridge to the other.

“I-is he gone…” Another voice came, the arms man looks down to find a little runt wearing a pitiful makeshift brigandine and leather pads around him. Even his sword is cleft in half. “The sorcerer, is gone?”

“Yes, he is?” The arms man spoke. Though relieved the fear persisted, remains still in his uneven tone. “Are you alright?”

“I… I am…”

It is at this silent moment that the arms man realized the boy he is speaking to. A foot shorter than him and a voice barely above a squeak. He looks a year younger than I am… he thought to himself. Regardless of the state of them both, their attention is taken again by the screams of terror that permeates the empty silence once more.

They both moved to see the sight beyond the open way to the next tower, standing far enough to feel safe as they look beyond the opening. Lights of blue hues come again within the ramparts far from them, the same story of a massacre repeated as they watch it happened from afar. in time the other survivors joined them in watchfulness, agape faces watching on.

---XxxxxX---

Of the outrageously loud sounds of air being shaken and steels being cleaved apart, one permeating noise stood close to rival, and that is the noise of thousands of feet running away from their fate. The flying blades of mystic and the sword slashes that slices from afar, courtesy of the monstrous enemy they are facing is not the only cause of death in this terrible time.

Where many have run with formless reckless abandon, a stampede would begin…

And when a stampede came, then there will be death by ones own folly…

Vergil even deigned himself to shake his head in disapproval between his intervals of attacks. Faster than light his capabilities may be, he still notices his surroundings. It is how he could be so precise and immaculate in his strength and speed. But even he, who is now facing a conundrum to know that though he is holding back his power, the army he is facing is killing itself more than he could possibly done in his violent leisure.

Multitude dozens of bodies are unmoving as iron and leather boots would stomp them mercilessly as they flee. Crevices and gaps of the tower long needed repairs are now a place of death where many Ironborn would be pushed away and fell to their deaths as the salty sea would swallow their remains to the deep.

Some madness has even overtaken some men, as they murder each other just to find a way out through their deaths…

He even stopped his onslaught in disgust when he noticed that their self-destruction that are coming from their own cause is becoming less and less orderly as the seconds passes. This is absurd… Vergil thought, and with a whim to quicken this work away from this farce, he raised his voice to reach every ear that surrounds him in fear.

“Enough of this insanity!” He shouted. “Be silent! NOW!”

He sends a few phantoms of his blade to the walls of the tower he resides in; an explosion came as they made contact. Several crevices and gaps now came anew, enhancing the landscape of the ruined structures of Pyke. The call of the storm became louder as its sounds have entered the newly made holes, enhancing the influence of the sorcerer more than he already has.

All are silent as they took him in their sight, some are not even in a state of comfort, a few is laying down with dozens of feet on their bodies, another few is in the midst of climbing their own compatriots to reach a way out. Very akin to a bleak renaissance painting of old, in Vergil’s home world. if it were not for this hindrance, he could find the comicalness in this situation.

“If you wish to not partake in this paltry skirmish, then make way for me…” Vergil said. “Voice your surrender… I won’t tolerate any long-term problems. These are trivial issues that are taxing to me, so you better not made me repeat myself…”

Only the rain and storm have voiced themselves through the cracks and openings, most of the so-called raiders standing before the lordly blue figure are even holding their breathes. As if an exhale could turn the tide of their lives to a certain demise. But one dared to move forward, and he unsheathed his blade on every eye present…

“My name is Gralen Goodbrother of Downdelving…” The man said. He extends his arms to reveal his blade in a horizontal manner, and with a release of his fingers, let it fall to the stone floor. “I surrender… My man and I will no longer participate on this massacre…” He finished his words with bated breathes, disbelief and a tint of frustration pervading him. 

“Himlen Harlaw of Harridan Hill…” Another has spoken. “I surrender…”

“As am I… Harran Volmark of house Volmark…”

“I too… Horace Sharp of house Sharp.”

“I will—”

“Those of you who won’t surrender, speak it now…” Vergil interjected, the proclamation of renunciation tested his patience. For every second wasted in humoring a dejected group of ego, is a time wasted in his claim for power. “Your name and titles mean nothing to me…”

There are no words or sounds, no one dared to make a noise to try the sorcerer’s blade. The chunk of flesh that littered most of the space is already enough to make a sensible reason for anyone to choose life. Instead, everyone created a way for him to pass through towards the last tower of Pyke. The looming castle seems to shiver as Vergil approaches it closer and closer.

He passes through the open way towards the bridge approaching the next bout of victims. And thus, the Ironborn who lay down their blade continues their breathing as the life they cling to remain theirs to keep. Some leaned on the wall in resting as they take their breathe, some still stand stunned whilst hiding the smell and stain of piss with the rain and storm wetting their outfits.

Some are even laying down flat on their back, falling asleep at the moment. The distress pushes them on the brink of fatigue and insanity…

“So, what does this mean…” Himlen Harlaw spoke, eyes almost at the brink of slumber. “What are we supposed to do now… How do we even proceed…”

“That’s a work for later, Harlaw…” Horace Sharp said, eyes looking down on the floor. Dazzled by the circumstances. “I believe another council would be the wisest choice to make… What say you, Volmark?”

“I say that Quellon was right…” Harran Volmark said. “We were pushing to far on our reaving, the world is changing, our ways becoming more difficult by the days passed. The sign was there for us to make a change, but we ignore it… Now look what we have wrought upon ourselves…”

“This is divine retribution then…” Horace replied. “Couldn’t see it as anything else really… Woke up yesterday thinking that the legendary Brandon of the bloody blade cannot be usurped in fame, but…”

“Horace…” Harran intervened. “A single man just killed six thousand men…”

“Yes… I know…”

“Six thousand…”

“Eight thousand if you count the next tower…”

“Eight thousand of… this is madness…”

The light of thunder stroke within the tower, in its flash everyone shook at its booming sound. They are in the peak of terrible anxiety, occupied on the contemptable presumption that any movement or loud noises could be the very same sorcerer returning to deliver more torment towards them. Though as moments passes, the fear slowly dissipates but always lingered.

The scream came again from afar…

And the distress slowly upsurges again…

---XxxxxX---

For some, the disclosure of dread came sooner than the others. Many eyes are focused towards the southern entrance of the last tower of Pyke, curiosity winning over their common fear. Even some are still eager to taste the blood against the sorcerer that is reigning supreme towards their fallen compatriots.

Yet Orragon Sunderly does not share the same foolish sentiment of idiotic ventures, each tower hosted more than a thousand heads or more, with each soul either a veteran of reaving or a hardened Iron man at least. Only this decrepit tower remains over all its fallen construct compatriots. It is not needed to be wise to surmise that this is an errand most folly.

Eight thousand men has been felled…

What does another one thousand hoped to accomplish against such might…

Thus, he made the wisest choice pre-emptively…

Orragon ran…

His sprint towards castle Pyke have been met with scolding from his other lordly companions, words of cowardice and craven given to him in droves. The others look upon him in confusion, for he is not a man unfamiliar with bloodletting, and many occurrences have been made that shows his talent and bravery in the midst of warfare…

Numbness overcame his ears as his feet stomped the bridge towards the castle, the rain drops pelting his body is the only sound he could recognize whilst being screamed and shouted towards with mumbled voices unknown. He felt the bridge shake and the air and birds flew in chaos, and in that one second, he dared himself to look behind towards his abandoned post.

Parades of blue figments of blades pierced the roof and the sounds of shrill metal accompanied with a high demonic pitch of unknown variety is ejected within the tower. Just as well the guttered groans and screams of helpless men cry out in a symphony of despair. It is beautiful as much as it is horrible, the pinnacle of life and death manifested to reality with a dancing against a pack of powerless mortals.

Wisdom won over interest once more as Orragon continued to flee, eyes and feet focused towards the entrance of the castle as the sounds of death followed from behind. A battle or war is a terrible thing, on median a battle would take at least an hour or even a full week in its greatest scope. But not even a minute passes as the cry of pain is starting to dispel, his fellow brothers in battle taken away in a few moments on their long life that have been lived.

Have our lives always been this cheap? Orragon thought, unending in his attempt to be as further away from the diabolical assault. Even in the greatest battle, a prospect of survival always seems so near still in defeat. But in this event of the unknown and the merciless, he is uncertain of even that.

“BREAK THE BRIDGE!” He screamed as he arrived on the opening of the castle. “SHATTER THE BRIDGE NOW!!”

“What is going on with you, Sunderly!?” A man replied, lordly in bearing as Orragon is. “Why are you not in your position!? Have you gone spineless!?”

In his utmost frustration and anger, Orragon grasped the collar of the man’s leather as he spoke the words. “We are not facing a MAN!” A grave tone delivered. “I will NOT humor you; you twisted CUNT!” He let go and search frantically all over the area for something unknown until he voiced it. “WHERE IS A HAMMER!? SOMEONE FOR FUCKS SAKE GIVE ME A HAMMER!”

“What the hells are yo—”

Orragon saw a blunted weapon on the back of an Ironborn, he approaches him so brazenly that he did not even try to reveal his identity. “All of you who has the will to see ANOTHER FUCKING DAY!! COME WITH ME AND DESTROY THE BRIDGE!!”

“What the fuck are you trying to do Orragon!?”

He pushes the man who voiced himself with one hand. “I want to live you bastard!” Orragon wasted no time to put himself to work, giving more words to his surroundings for more willing hands that sees reason. “Look! LOOK, you gods damned maggots!” He shouted, pointing towards the death trap that is the tower before the castle.

“They are all DEAD! You hear me!?” He continued. “Several keeps are ended! All hosted with the amount of man designed to conquer a kingdom! They are dead! And now only that tower remains to hold him at bay! But not for long!” The eastern part of the very same tower exploded with an azure blazing flame; mangled bodies fall onto the sea. “Grab your hammer or even your own fucking hands and BREAK THIS BRIDGE WITH ME!”

They are in a frozen state, bewildered and confused by the escalation of the moment. Eyes wonders from the very last tower to the lord of Sunderly, he put all force onto every crevice of weakness on the stone bridge. Letting his faith and instinct of survival guide his strength, every swing would lead to an inch of stone destroyed.

“It won’t work, Sunderly!” A man spoke, Orragon can see him with a sense of clarity now. He is a lord, but the terror of the moment would not let him recall his identity. “The bridge may be decrepit, but it needs more than just a single hand!”

“DO YOU WISH TO DIE OR NOT!” Orragon shouted, breaking his throat with barely a shred of a human tone in his despair. “DO NOT STAND THERE! JOIN ME!”

Pairs of hand came, and then pairs become several. All bears the same dread, and eventually more than two dozen hands are attempting to shatter the bridge. Each holding a hammer of some sort, and for those who does not have one would use the pommel of their own swords in desperate tandem. “FASTER! HARDER!” Orragon encouraged. “OUR LIVES DEPENDS ON THIS!”

He continued his work…

And then a dozen turns into a hundred…

With every body that has been thrown and flailed apart on the tower before them, more men would join on Orragon’s despairing efforts of survival…

They become so anxious that some would even dare to join the destruction of the path, regardless if they have the space or not. Here on this day where a storm has come in the form of man, sensibilities and reason have been abandoned to make way for insanity and acts of hysterics. Even the lords themselves have joined in the effort.

One second turns to thirty and then eventually a minute pass…

An azure form approaches them on the other end of the bridge with a pace of a poised stride…

Orragon watches as hope slowly dissipates from his heart, the hammer on his hand dangled lazily as he contemplates for a way to escape…

“Move out of the way!” A shout came from above. On the balcony of the castle overlooking the bridge and towers. “I am about to drop a giant rock! Step away from the bridge!”

“A rock!? How did you find—"

“NEVER MIND THAT NOW! HE IS GETTING CLOSER!”

All ears have heeded the warning, desperate attempts to reach the castle has become frantic as well. Not all manages to reach it, some has slip and fell onto the salty waters embrace. The man dropped the gargantuan stone onto the bridge, his desperation overruled his patience in waiting the rest of the men to grasp to safety.

The cracks expended, bit by bit the chip of stone develops larger and larger. Eventually, all the small tumble becomes a great fall. Then the collapse of the bridge followed, elongated structures of stone meeting its end by the maws of the ocean waters. On the other edge, the sorcerer looks upon the leftover of the path underneath where he stands. Turning back towards Orragon and the rest of the men with an expression difficult to be seen from afar.

“We are safe…” Orragon said, resting on the near walls as he kept his eyes on the sorcerer…

Yet, the notion of safety did not last even for a minute…

Where once the sorcerer stood became nothing but a dark blue blur…

And within not even a quarter of a second, he reappeared just a few inches from Orragon…

Everyone that are present immediately stops the beating of their hearts in utmost dread…

Only the sounds of wave crashing with the thunderous orchestra above…

“Mercy…” Orragon whispered loudly with a frail hope and closed his eyes by a sudden urge of shock.

Within his closed eyes, he saw the orange hue of light coming from outside of his eye lids…

---XxxxxX---

Voices are often spoken loudly on the halls of many castles of the Ironmen, for most are man of action with greater wieldy hands of axes and swords rather than their wits and tongues. They speak of death lightly when compared to the other men of the land, the people they would call men of the green. In their tradition, only apparent power through dealings of death would one become an entity of influence in the Iron Islands.

But then the keeps burn on the shores of the Lordsport, and the towers that follows them are crumbling with both stone and flesh taken by the sea. They were full of confident if not for a smidgen of uncertainty on warped occasions such as this. Thinking that it would be a call of farce by a woman of the Greenlander.

They watch on in silent as the messenger of death looms ever closer to deliver their doom, the spectrum of bravado leaning more and more towards doubt and fear for each man that has been felled. The view has been very clear from the main hall, there was no disruption of their vision as they saw with clarity what a Son of Sparda is capable of.

And now the catastrophe is upon their steps, with only murmured sounds of panic and unnatural shrill noises becoming nearer.

Then came the sound of a sword unsheathed from its scabbard, all the lords and arms man within the main hall turned to look upon the source with anxious heart…

There upon the steps of the throne of Pyke, a noble blood of Stonetree aimed his blade towards the Harlaw besides Balon Greyjoy…

“Victor…” Harkan Harlaw spoke with incredulity, a confounded face and fury he equips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Enough…” Victor Stonetree said. “This is where we need to make the right choice… the important choice…”

“What…”

“All your enthusiastic supporters are dead…” Victor continued. “Everyone that held to your irrational… reckless believe are now corpses beneath the sea. All that is left now are the ones who will venture to a greater future…”

“You’ve gone mad, Victor…” Harkan replied, a smug smirk on his face. “You think that monster killing our men will give you pardon and awards with your treachery!?”

“No… Not my men…” Victor spoke, with a scoff. “My men are here, standing here with me. Far away from your moronic ambitions. That monster you speak of would not be here had you heed our council against the reaving of Lannisport!” Iron swords starts to surround the Harlaw’s retinue, whatever is left of them.

A couple thousand more men awaits beneath the castle on the port, with a few hundred standing as of now on the main hall. All are under the command of many lords against the path of reaving, various branches of Stonetree, Drumm, Tawney held their blades upon Harkan.

“Does the sorcerer seem like a reasonable man to all of you!?” Harkan spoke, strong drums of tone as he releases his voice and words. “Those towers are now filled with dead men! Corpses of your own brothers!”

“Speak to me again about brotherhood you twit!” Victor interjected. Stepping closer towards Harkan as his steel edging upon the Harlaw’s neck. “You called me craven as I sound my council on you and lord Balon here! Not only me… Many have spoken the same, and do you remember the words you’ve given us!?”

“Words I gave with unsound mind…” Harkan replied. “Have some sense, friend. We were carried by strong passions… we’ve all said the darndest things…”

“Why is it so easy for you to make excuses now!” Words of Vitriol spoken clearly by Victor. “You just gave more reason for us to distrust you!... And you brother…” He pointed towards a fellow Stonetree; black hair salted, with a pale skin. “To find you marching against me, your own family…”

The Stonetree is named Orkan, the very same Stonetree that insults and proclaim foul acts against Genna once before. He looks down in unease and indecision, traitorous thoughts wringed upon his mind as guilt as well littered his heart. “We are Ironborn, Victor…” He spoke. “Raiding is in our blood… What else ca—”

“I won’t hear it again…” Victor said with a shake of his head. “You’ve spoken the same words again and again even as I have shown you the way… All the gold… All the path we could’ve followed… you could’ve followed with me… Not again, I will not tolerate this…”

Victor twirled his sword until he held it in a reverse grip, and with a passion and hope for the future, he strikes it downward until it pierced Harkan’s left leg so deeply, it seems as if there is no confidence capable to release it from his flesh. Harkan screamed in pain, as Viktor released his grip from the sword hilt, Harkan falls to his knees with painful attempts to unsheathe it from his knees.

“Lady Genna!” Victor yelled. “I ask again, if we give our fealty to the sorcerer… he would stay his blade against us… correct?” A group of raiders held their axes and spears aloft, still under the false loyalty of their Harlaw liege lord. They made no move other than shielding Harkan, surrounded by swords four to one against them.

“That is what I said… I’ve no interest to give words that are wind. Lord Vergil gave me such entitlements.” Genna said, sitting on the bench in the side of the main hall. Hands above her lap with a sophisticated and square pose. “Though Harlaw and his men have started this conflict on their direct command… Their survival would be put into question in the end of this sham violence.”

“I and the rest of the men with me won’t be put into the block then?” Victor queried; the lady spoke his words but the man in his fear wishes for more affirmation.

“Yes…” Genna simply answered.

Stonetree, Tawney, Orkwood and Wynch and many other houses of prominence breathes out in relief. The deals of death that once roam upon their thoughts slithered out along with their anxiousness. The sword and any other steal on their hands and their men’s hand gripped harder as they aim them towards the opposition.

The very same opposition that was once their own brothers by salt, the same ones that has mock their prospect of a golden future. Harlaw, Volmark, Sunderly and Stonehouse amongst other reavers who are drench under the pretense of noblesse, are now holding their breathes as the voices of men on the ramparts of their last walls are now but a whisper overwhelmed by noises of magic.

On their last bit of desperation, Harlaw and Stonehouse with their dozens of men spring out to set out against their rotten destiny. With a sudden charge they aimed for lady Genna, a harsh shriek of a despairing offensive from the packs of men who has placed their one foot on the grave. She stands with a pace of adrenaline as she saw them threading closer to her. The dozen Lannister guardsmen take their position on her front as shield against the waves of the inevitable crashing.

Though the clash never occurred…

Carlen Tawney and his twenty men near the skirmish, surrounded the reavers. And with the spear armed behind their bucklers they pierced through their small ranks. Greater would be the minor devastation if they wield larger shields and longer pikes, but their hopes for a better arms and training have only been recently uplifted with the sorcerer’s conquest.

It is but a brief passing of moments that the raiders become nothing but corpse lingered now on the black stone floor with the stank of blood around them…

“No one will pray for you, Harkan…” Carlen Tawney spoke, in-between haggard breathes of anger and frustration. “Letting the reaving happen with the deaths of half of our manpower here… each man that die on that day on Lannisport is each chance lost for us to have greater glory… the training we could have given them… the results they could’ve given us…”

The Tawney lord strikes the closest pillar, the stinging sound of steel reverberates the hall. “Enough is right…” He spoke towards the conflicted crowd of Ironborn. “It is done… The battle is over. The sorcerer has won, if we can even call this a battle. Strike against each other now then your deaths would surely be certain… lay down your arms, and let judgement that came from greater power gave you all your chance…”

“Nothing will come from this, you coward fucks!” Harkan managed to speak despite the blood running down his mouth. “You’ll destroy our very ways and our strength!”

“The old ways are GONE!” Victor intervened, with rage barely coiled. “And do not speak about strength when you are at your knees with vile blood and death of our men upon your hands…”

Carlen strides up the step to the throne of Pyke, where the confused and fearful figure of Balon Greyjoy watches on as the situation develop to peak intensity. He ignored the faltered form of Harkan as Carlen strode pass him, all attention only for the heir apparent of the Iron Islands. With a whisper of council, he speaks in even and low tone.

“Lord Balon…” Carlen spoke. “I know you have eyes on glory of our ancient history, I know Harkan have whispered that you have the will for great acts for our kin and yourself. But we have greater glory awaits us, and the will Harkan have spoke of has not left you, and perhaps it never will…” Victor drags Harkan away from the throne, his complaint goes unheard as the blood pools down the steps.

“Your father knows this; I know this and Lord Victor knows this… look around you now… now there is proof of our deduction.” Carlen continued. The hardened stares of many men bore through the boy heir. “The old ways may not be dead, but there is no glory to be won from reaving. Such acts can only succeed against weaker foes. Is that what you wish to be remembered as, my lord? A petty ruler who trains his steel on the lesser? Whilst we have the strength to fight against greater foes?”

Balon hears every word, just as well as he hears all the profanities Harkan have shouted as he was being hauled to a less noble position. All the dreams of glory and strength in his thoughts are slowly turning into a wavy mess of vague visions. There are many signs of agitations as he breathes, grasping the arm rest of his throne with a deep grip as he attempts to quell his dizzying distress.

“Greenlanders have always kept their words, and lady Genna has given hers…” Carlen continued. “You are the future here, my lord. What is dead may never die, and this is the part when we have to rise… harder, Stronger…” Balon felt the Tawney’s hand on his shoulder. “See the power the sorcerer has revealed against us… we yield now, and that power could be ours… You are still our overlord, Balon. Lead us… make the call… Yield…”

“My father…” Balon whispered…

“Is not here…” Carlen replied swiftly. “You are here. You are our lord. Yield.”

Balon turns his head to the cracked opening of his castle, where the towers still linger in its proof of the sorcerer’s devastation. Gleams of blue light shines every interval, along with the shakes. Every second a quake will sound and the castle would vibrate. The strength of the Valyrian sorcerer is no longer in doubt now.

“Yield…” Balon shouted with raspy voice. “I yield… we yield…”

“Do you hear his words!?” Carlen followed with his words. “The battle is over! We’ve yielded…”

No longer are the reavers could call themselves as such after their decision. With words spoken true and within reason no one could object, all of the Ironborn that are with Harkan dropped their blades as the clanging music of steel colored the air. The lord of Harlaw look down in dejection, his eyes hidden within the shades, as all attention within are wandering from Victor to him consecutively.

As if divine intervention came to witness the event, the iron door shielding them against the ramparts that hold back the sorcerer exploded and teared apart at the very next second. Total silence came again, and the storm that once was scattering the sea moments ago are now just bleak grey skies hiding the thunders.

Footstep came from the shadows behind the door way…

And the soaked form of Vergil came with his striking silver hair down halfly shielding his eyes…

He walks forward towards Genna, all the men make way for him to pass…

Genna followed in suit of striding towards him, ever proud and with the very same confident aura as usual…

They met halfway as she begins to speak first…

---XxxxxX---

“Everyone you see here has surrendered, and under your command.” Genna spoke simply, time spent with him enough to know he dislikes time wasted. “They are prepared to swear fealty, if need be. Castle Pyke and all of its being is yours…”

Vergil closed his eyes as he slowly wipes his face of irritating wetness, and with a cool fleek of his wrist and fingers he slicked back his hair. Right then and there, Genna rolled her eyes. The timing of his showmanship has often been erratic, this was to be one of them she seems. For others however, they felt their envy and veneration risen…

Vergil looks every bit as the Valyrians of yore often spoken by maidens and knights…

Even after the battle against thousands of souls, with swords and spears and archers alike…

His skin is unblemished, fair and without a hint of a scar or wrongness. Not even his blue coat and the ascot are flawed with use…

And even Genna and the rest of the people present could’ve sworn that Vergil’s blue gray eyes glows with a tint of red for a moment…

“So… almost ten thousand men…” Genna spoke evenly.

“…Yes.”

“The keep doesn’t seem large enough to host that number…”

“Most of those thousands are in the towers as well…”

“The towers…” Genna narrowed his incredulously. “The tower can take a thousand men? The towers of Pyke are smaller than the ones on Lannisport, how could they house—”

“I have no interest on the irrelevant architectural details…” Vergil interjected. “The deed is done, thus now comes the finale… Where are the dissidents?”

“Right…” Genna inhaled some air. With a gesture of her hand, she ordered the Lannister and Ironborn arms man to make way for the reaver lords. Dozens of men froze on their stand with Harkan and the rest of the lord sitting and standing respectively as they gaze at the sorcerer. “These are the minds behind the attack of Lannisport and against your claim here. The rest are with you…”

“They surrendered still at the end, my… lord.” Carlen added, confounded on the use of decorum. “Some are beholden to their loyalties to Harkan Harlaw, their liege lord. Most accountability should be given to him… for the rest often have no choice…”

“They can’t say no?”

“I-uh, no… men swore loyalties to their betters…” Carlen spoke. “They have the obligation to follow commands in turn… such is their payment for their other privileges…”

“Other privileges…”

“Yes…” In truth, Carlen spoke his last words with an almost questioning tone. Dare he to presume the sorcerer knows the process of hierarchy and each of their duties. Yet voicing his claim on the ignorance of the behemoth is a questionable wisdom on its own. “Had they not followed orders… perhaps they would be executed for transgression…”

“Executed?... you tell me they lack the power to fight back?”

“I… What…”

“Are these the very same people who allow debased acts upon the weak?” Vergil spoke evenly, but the hint of threat came as his voice slowly turns beastly. “Their use of power and presence disgust me…”

“…..” Boring his eyes towards the sorcerer is the only suggestion of understanding and fear Carlen could give, vile actions against the women and the children are most prominent in the reaving by an Ironborn. Acts that are very much frowned upon in the eyes of the seven divinities…

And Vergil has been spoken to embody one of those deities…

Genna curled her hand into a fist, beneath her lips, her teeth gritted as she dreads her imagined fears would become a reality. The corpses of influential men that could’ve been positioned as sentinels of productive means in the coming times, washed away because of a whim from one man. Feeling a sensation of heat behind her and a blue light appearing with it, she knew exactly what Vergil is trying to accomplish.

She strides to Vergil’s front and block his view to the Harlaw’s Ironborn.

“I have a plan…” She spoke.

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

Guilt and frustration overtaken me once more, i wrote this chapter under three days. the reason for this is because of my college issues and its accessory troubles. As an urban and hip member of a community might say "This Thesis Thing is WACK yo!", though i feel a bit bad for those waiting for another chapter, so i forced myself to make this one and stop it just before the fic goes into its more complicated segments. I want to concentrate on the next chapter when i am at my... Good state? to make sure it is up to standards, hence my cliffhanger.

Come this late month of may, i would be attending my thesis examination. So i probably couldn't update as quick as i want to be, apologies. Though i am sure i could visit and read your comments, i'll appreciate a few or more.

As usual, Grammar, prose, etc. if one those is delivered wrongly, it could break the story. If you have time to note my mistakes, i appreciate it.

Thanks.

Chapter 13: Reluctant Compromises

Summary:

There are aftermath concessions needs making, but not all parties sees one sight. Naturally, a hole needs feeling as a power vacuum needs taking.

---XxxxxxX---

Half a week has passed from the disastrous storm that is the culling of Pyke. An army worth of numbers slashed away by the call of steel and magic from one man. Nothing more could be said on that incident other than the apparent worthless sacrifice that has been sent to death, though who could’ve thought of a single man to be capable of such destruction. In hindsight, every soul is an intellectual.

Now the lordly gathering consolidates once more on the Great Keep, around the Seastone chair. No retinue or private arms men to be found, only the proclaimed high names of noble are present. Sunderly, Orkwood, Wynch, Tawney, Stonetree and Greyjoy most prominently. The last one represented only by a child advised by a Maester.

When the lion’s daughter appeared before them, accompanied by the ray of lights from the opened iron door. Every man stands tall, some with natural grace. The other, with a forceful will. Notions cavalcades within their minds, but a core understanding resides on all of their thoughts. Changes are inevitable, and in a new day is coming, for a greater power has come.

As well of course… As the whale sized vacuum of power that is now an issue.

More than a dozen upon dozens of noble houses has been swallowed by the sea, their blood still runs on the water beneath the stony crag and below the stone keep and towers. Their bodies still float around as the fishes slowly eating them away, each day they would become as unrecognizable as the banner that fell with them.

And with their souls departing to the salty waters, so to does the land lies empty of their rulers. From Great Wyk to Harlaw, to Pyke and Salt Cliffe to Blacktyde. Open lands for anyone to take, and with noble woman that are exposed for any lord to marry. Plans have been made however, and Genna will not let any present lord to depart from the crags of Pyke.

She takes her seat beside the Seastone chair where Balon Greyjoy resides, bewildered and curious look upon him. His eyes stare towards her unrelentingly, though no animosity was released, simply a child inquisitive heart.

“You Ironborn are not one for a welcoming formality… So, I will waste no time.” Genna said. “What we are doing here now is a convention. By Lord Vergil’s command, I hold the directive that are mandated for all of you to follow.” Some lords’ glances to his other noble compatriots, others decide to look forward and be attentive. Though all fidget in their stance, great demands could mean great sacrifices.

“I will tell you the foremost of all demands…” Genna continued. “There will be no reaving, there will be no rape, there will be battles or wars before his approval. And temporarily, none of the lords and knight are allowed to depart from Castle Pyke until further notice from either yours truly, or Lord Vergil himself.”

“To what end?” Carlen Tawney dare to enquire, a soft voice like a whisper. Had It been another event, his even voice would carry his confidence well.

“I understand that this week has been a very tremendous affair for all of us present…” Genna replied. Stone of face with no tone but stern. “It led to me and Lord Vergil’s believe that with your departure, there could be a chance for another set of… Complications.” She emphasized, “We have plans you see, and for most of it to become an actuality. A certain time of suspension is a need… A period for rest and familiarizing is another word for it I suppose.”

“We have obligations that needs bidding.” Carlen further elaborates. “How long until the notice comes?”

“Uncertain…”

“This can’t… This won’t do.” He breathed out, spiraling plans on his thoughts. Easy for Genna to spot the subtle frustrations. “There is an impressive amount of vacuum on many seats of power around, left such things for to long and it might fester into greater troubles… that would be another set of complications all together.”

“If it were come to that, then as I understand it, it would be handled with… Appropriate amount of antagonism…” Genna replied softly, subtle threat to those who are unwilling to compromise. “A long moment without attendance of order from the higher hierarchy is most likely not a familiar prospect for many of you and your own people, no? let us bait chaos for a moment to see who lacks the patience or the required temperament for the new order…”

“We understand our circumstances here exactly, lady Genna.” A Sunderly spoke. “I will not spare my dignity in admitting we are severely outmatched, and to declare against you and your lord sorcerer is to court death. More than eight thousand men has been felled, and it takes time to gather even a quarter of such forces. There won’t be any mistake such as that ever again…”

“Perhaps I could take your words in face value, lord Sunderly…” Genna replied cooly, face as straight as a spear. “But the same could not be said on the others here. I would not say which is which, but I will not create a precedent by letting one of you faltered out of the rule. There will be no outlier.”

Some sighed and disgruntled by the declaration, for it is a pragmatism that came from apathetical care for the men of iron. Some takes it in stride however, another few in shrugs. As far as most of their concern, the chaos would only lead to more killing. And eventually that means it would lead to a horrid structure of power as well. Irritating works for some, a chance of power for the other.

Yet who would bring folly to themself by delivering a complaint towards a man who have desecrated an entire army in his lonesome…. Almost all thought patience is a greater virtue, considering where passion have taken them. All they need to see is the crushed towers and keep outside of the main castle.

“The reaving ban…” Victor Stonetree chimed in. “We are a people of little agriculture; I would leave it briefly by saying that we have less than no confidence for our life needs through such prospect. How do you expect to feed us and the people with little hope on such things.”

“Let us not presumed too early.” Genna said, slightly unnerving with the intense stare the Greyjoy boy is doing as she spoke. “I’ve examined all the necessary storage of provisions that all of you have, for if there was one thing I commend your overlord, is that he kept his tasks well attended and organized. With further assistance from the Maester here, we’ve made a presumption that you have enough provisions to last for ten years.”

She sighed as she turns her head to the side wall before she spoke again. “These are trying times I admit, and all of us here are agitated by this drastic development. Neither of us are giving each other much choice here however, and as I see it, if we proceed on to my liking or to yours solely, there would be difficulties as we go on. To say we are in a complicated impasse is an understatement. Make no mistake, this quarantine is for you as it is for the sorcerer…”

“Or you…” Carlen interjected. “You are correct… We are a people that lacks standing in ceremony, so I will just spout it directly. What does the Lannister want in all of this?”

“None…” Genna replied, though she stands to strengthen her presence. “I am here under lord Vergil’s whims. The plan and conquest are solely under his command and responsibility. My lord father and my eldest brother have no knowledge of my being here when I depart, they have neither fault or claim here…”

“Except you…” Carlen stated, firm but still respectful. As much as he could considering the allegation, Genna does not surface any sign of resent however. “You are still Lannister by name. You can speak of your family unattendance in this event, but you are in a semblance of control here. Who is to say that there won’t be any changes when moments come forth.”

“There is a question of the sorcerer presence as well.” Victor adds. “He is the one establishing this new rule of his… Why is he not present here?”

As his title is spoken, greater silence came on the halls. As if the vain voice that spoke his calling would be enough to summon him and his ire. Victor merely rested his hand behind his back, answers are some of the only result he is of interest, and there cannot be any notions of arcane fear. This is for control… Victor thought. The displacements of lands and castles are of importance here, the more his own voice is heard and spoken smartly, the greater the chance he could make way for it.

“I will answer the latter first…” Genna takes her turn. “And the answer would be the same if you would question the specifics of this barring…. And it is simply because lord Vergil has plans…”

Genna paused, much to the irritation of the audience. Carlen decides to speak. “And that would be?”

“I know not…” Genna answered. “He told me that he needed the Iron Island for a cause, he told me he needed the people here for another, and he told me that I needed to act as his steward… All spoken before our arrival here, and the rest… well…” She subtly points her eyes to the dilapidated broken tower of recent destruction.

“So, you don’t even know…” Carlen said with a grunt. “So, for all we know this could just be a trivial impulse from him!?”

“Careful Carlen…” Victor interjected with a whisper beside him. “Let us not presume… less we end this with a bloodletting again…”

“No… Let me speak!” Carlen said, and as he does, he moves forward to stand on greater ground. The other men of iron make way for him, recognized power of a house long lived and prominent of the kingdom. “There are reasons why we are standing here instead of in the cells with the rest of the Harlaw dissidents. Every second we spent on the unknown is time we can spent going course towards developing a structure. We are folks of wicked reaving yes, that was before… but we are due course towards a better establishment now, and if we let time goes by in inaction then we would create more enemies than allies!”

“How so?” Genna questioned, “All the great vassals including you are either in this hall or in the cells right now, how could there be—”

“We are not a people of temperance…” An insolent act by interjecting but it must be done in Carlen’s view. “The order of reaving by Harlaw is not one of direct normative authority you Greenlanders often do! He made the call; we act by our own ploys. We do not wait until we are in formation and united as one, as each house or even a group of Ironborn hears the order than they would quickly take the arms and leave as fast as they could to take the first plunder…”

Genna raised a brow. “The attack on Lannisport—”

“Led by Ryman Stonetree, my elder brother… And yes, it was in formation.” Victor answered, eyes down upon the stair towards the Seastone chair to avoid showing his face of frustration. “But it was halfly no different than what Carlen has spoken, all the troops you see landing on your port are early braggards to the spoil…”

“How much was it? I can’t recall, two-thousand!? No… Three!?” Genna shakes his head slightly with dubiousness. “How great must your structure be to make such claim… How early are we speaking?”

“Two weeks…”

“Two!? You gathered that many men—” She did not let the sentence finish. “What are you trying to tell me… that there are actually more in process of deployment?”

“The original plan was to attack the Farman Island…” Carlen replied. “A lonesome target away from the mainland. Far enough to make a plunder without any threat from the main houses… With the war of the Ninepenny kings underway back then, it would’ve been a much easier raid… But we did not attack it, Harlaw decided to be bolder.” He took a glace towards his other companions of lords, almost all look forward, confident in his delivery. For there is nothing but the truth.

“It was a week before we—they depart, and Harlaw make a speech that our ways and power would be lost if we do not carve our way in point towards the mainlanders and the principles Quellon decides to kneel to.” He continued. “We already see the brashness of his notion. But more Ironborn still lean to the old ways more than it is needed to make a counter… And those who does not support him now stand with you here…”

“As we say, more ships are still being made. And perhaps a few has been deployed to the sea.” Victor said. “Wait a while longer and they would be more reaving. And one is already to many.”

“A raven would not suffice then.” Genna spoke loudly in contemplation, caressing her right cheek as her vision fell upon the nearest pillar as she makes her thoughts. It is all transparent to her of the want of most of these highborn. She wishes for there to be a council of claim rather than throwing away the lands by soft conquest. Enough lords have died for any hands to take their properties, it is the most clarifying notion she understands.

“No, it would not.” Victor spoke. “Most that has authority over them died… And the rest are in loathing against us in the cells. They would not listen to our call. Our position against the Ironborn ways has been well spread, Quellon’s proclamation made it so… They would cast our commands away in favor of their lords. Perhaps even despite the current conflict. It has to be in face.”

"A fraudulent letter then..." Genna suggested. "Put their names there and-"

"That won't work." Victor interjects. "Each lord have their own signatures and treatment to their letters, unknown to others. If the receiver does not find the appropriate indication they would call it a farce..."

“This of course not mentioning the situation we have now…” Carlen adds. “Half a week and we sent a letter to disperse their tasks because of a new order? Much more by the hands of a sorcerer? They would think us ailed by madness and cavalcade here in arms rather than in empty hand. They would presume acts of treason rather than change.

Balon listened to all, though he speaks no words, his lordship and authority over the Islands is being questioned by all even if it is just in thought. Genna look back to him as she heeds the council from the vassals, their eyes met and she notices him blushing and turning away. She scoffed at it with humor, the great reason why she implores the young Greyjoy to be present and in seat of his throne is to still established his house is still in great authority.

Quellon will return… And with him comes an ally as well if everything goes smoothly. Genna thought, as she considers the ingrained culture these Ironborn have made for themselves to be so uppity and stubborn on it. “Your flock is much more complicated than I assumed… this needs further reasoning I suppose. I would council lord Vergil of this and perhaps there will be a concession.”

She takes a breath as she ends her words, and many more is sure to come. Complications already arises from a sole issue, Genna dreads what comes next. The tax revenues, logistic and properties placements and procedures, distribution due processes of food and other necessities, infrastructure of various production.

In her home the people are much more amiable to all orders, despite her father’s dubious rule. Even more so considering the Westerlands is a home of an orderly kind of people; green grasses make for obedient head and hearts. She is but a foreigner here, an invader of a more diplomatic sort. But they stayed their hand in fear for now, one man has done a little too much against their military force to make such prospect an appealing one.

“I suppose… I suppose that is what we can have for now, I understand.” Carlen relented. “Wait… the question…”

That’s one issue partly resolved for now… Genna thought with a sigh.

“That’s right.” Genna chuckled softly. “As I was saying, lord Vergil’s plan has nothing to do or in any kind of relation to the Lannister other than me being his envoy. There will be no share for my house here other than rewards that came from my employment in his stead, which again… Has more bearing than what I can do rather than to which house I belong to.”

“Easy to see that me being here means that he has little attention on high lordly tasks and logistics.” She continued. “The man has great many… dealings of his own, despite his capabilities to be lordly. He has a certain mission that even I know not of, and if we consider the man himself… I am sure it is beyond any humane understanding. Even my brothers and my father does not know of my dealings and position here.”

“Yet he helped you against us—Harlaw’s dissidents on Lannisport…” Victor said.

“Would you believe me if I say it has nothing to do with his allegiance whatsoever? I saw his fight and I asked his reasoning… Its simple really… He said your compatriots’ lot has bothered his reading activities…” Genna said with a shrug. “Had your ilk’s raid has been quieter perhaps the story would have been different… Or more or less the same, if they would be insolent against him…”

“Can you not prove this?”

“How exactly do you want me to do that?” Genna spoke with an incredulous motion. “My words are all you have for now… Give time some bearing, the evidence will come.”

The speakers turn to each other, and the loud exchange turns into a murmur. Lords makes converse with each other, as plans are spouting forth as the second pass. Recent is the Quellon’s directive may be, the still living and active authority before her seems to be fluid in their houses scheming.

Genna let it past, all will change in time. And the bleakness in the skies above will turn to light…

Where to start however…

The thralls that are slaves with another name…

The salt wives that are concubines without a choice…

The reaving will stop, hopefully… But…

The resources of the Iron Islands are unique… But seldom used in trade, caused by their old culture…

Provisions may last… But the logistic for production would be difficult… the lands of the Islands are soiled with bareness they might as well be cursed…

“Lady Genna…” A Wynch decides to speak. “I understand the reaving would be banned comes time… But there are needs that are necessary to be met.”

Here we go…

“Perhaps a great reave to the Summer Islands and near the stepstones would suffice for now.” He continued. “Merely a suggestion… changes take time, and graduality as I know it would be healthy for the kingdom…”

Basic Reasoning… But still wrong... Genna thought frustratingly. These weeks will be long…

---XxxxxxX---

The planning and construct of the castle and its surrounding towers are telling enough of the temperament and priorities of the Ironborn. One keeps above the craggy pillar above the sea is solely to be a kitchen, another tower keep serves as both the treasury and armory. The foremost edge of the stony stack lies the sea tower, with the Greyjoy banner still flying on its peak.

The library however, resides on the bottom of the bloody keep. Books and tomes stowed away until there are great needs of them, in Genna’s thought knowing the Ironborn. The needs for them in this castle are most likely infrequent and most likely a forgotten part of it, if there is even someone that even know about the library other than the working servant or thralls.

Perhaps when the need truly comes for such collections… they wouldn’t even thought of it… Genna supposed, as she walked down on the spiral stairs toward the archive. The shine of dawn gradually fades with each step taken. The grey and green moldy darkness welcoming her as the orange warmth dispersing around her.

History is enough for her to feel at odds and anxious within any of the castle Pyke’s chambers and hall, moments of her time pacing throughout its rooms has been spent with sensation of antipathy. History has told of the castle’s many souls that were once thralls, a title and a name no different than a slave.

Once a long time ago, House Justman ruled the Riverlands in their standards of peace before the coming of the Targaryen and their dragons, and then the old high king of the Iron Island came and kidnapped the ruling house’s children. Make them captives for tributes, in which the Justman king makes no interest to pay, swearing vengeance against them instead.

The three Justman children were mutilated to pieces, and sent back to their father…

Not long after, the father would follow his sons in death… Used as a sacrifice for the Ironborn demented god…

In this very same bloody keep is where the old high king Qhored Hoare makes the killing…

Each stone tells a story, a jagged edge could tell of a passionate fight gone awry, whilst the clear unmolded part would tell of a tale where a wife would await there for their loved ones return. In this one however, the story told in this keep has been written as well in parchments, and she hated every bit of it. Child slayer is a rotten thing to be monikered as in Genna’s thought, and from the attitude the Ironborn beckon, the man might be proud of it as well.

Cursed be the very day for a library to reside within such a horrid stone…

The iron door is opened with a strong sound of crank and steely whimper. The torches pervade the walls neatly, each shelve is covered by their light. Small collection compared to one section in Casterly Rock, and the Casterly Rock library has more than a dozen section. Still, Genna saw Vergil in his usual state of reading. Sitting on the center of the room, a small stack of tomes beside him on the table.

Small does not mean without substance… Genna thought, the Ironborn have their own arcane history. No mistake there would be an exclusive assortment to be found around their midst.

Though the chamber is lit with a subtly green tone, and the light simply emphasized such color as it dances on the wall. She speculates it to be the permeating molds on the stones that gave such spectrum, and think nothing more of it.

“Vergil?” Genna called.

And the man himself turns his head slowly, sharp eyes with lips thin as ice. She approaches him with a gait of trained elegance, took a chair beside him and take a sit whilst fixing her disheveled hair. “Hard to believe I must make a journey to get to this library.” She said, wiping a bit of sweat of her forehead. “You wish to start first? Or I?”

Vergil kept his attention at her, unchanging and with focus. He did not blink as he closed the book under him, with one hand placed on the cover he still not relenting in gazing her, head tilted downward awaiting. Genna did not challenged the notion, but she stared back with fatigue retort. Her eyes bagged underneath with worry and anxiety.

“I’ll make this brief I suppose… Just the way you like it…” She said, soft voice like a grace of flower. “They have no choice but to bow to your control, naturally. Less than ten thousand men felled in a day makes for some legendary opinion, and you’ve made an image of yourself.” She cleared her throat. “They worry of course. New management means new procedures, and they wondered what would come of their future so with your prerogative I made my own adjustment to this issue.”

Vergil leaned back; face soothing though the sharpness persists. His right hand still lay above the book cover, but his figure tells to her of a more relax stature. Genna continued. “You’ve made a power vacuum, more than four dozen lords are felled, and most of them are holders of land and castle here. Before I even took my place beside the Seastone chair, they are already discussing ways to procure those lands for themselves… I stopped them from doing so.”

“I have no interest on what lands they have.” Vergil said evenly. “As long as they do as they are commanded then it would be above me… And in turn above you, seeing your current position on my behest.”

“This is something you need to worry about, we need to worry about.” Genna replied, a strand of hair fallen over her eyes, with a slight strain to her voice. “More lands or more castles mean more power, more production value, more tax revenue. If not distributed fairly or at the very least given in accord to our benefit it would be a waste at least and an additional problem at worst. They can levy more men, therefore strengthen their attrition. Names would rise, a weak vassal would turn into a principal one and a stronger one could rival even the overlord. The Greyjoy’s themselves…”

She paused for a second before she could find the proper words. “If you would make these people to be your vassals and subjects, you need to award them as proper to your benefit and as fitting to their deeds or other factors. Did they serve you well? Gave you great trade? A part of your family? did they stave of an invader way above their capabilities? These things need considering. And right now, circumstances are very peculiar and frustrating for all of us.”

Vergil crossed his arms on his chest as he tilts his head and closed his eyes, whether it is by boredom or actual deliberation, Genna can only guest. “Put that on the list for now and we’ll get back to it… I want to know the changes you made…”

“Not much as things stand as it is…We’ll start from least complex.” Genna answered. “I address the fact that this is an act of conquest by you, an act made by you and yours only. There are no suggestion and other performances that could relate this to any other houses both great and otherwise.”

Vergil raised a brow, opening one eye. The iris wanders to her lion pin on the right breast of her dress. Noticing this, Genna decided to reply. “Yes, I know, it has been raised. But I’ve cut the root before it could spread to fester. They doubt still but… it would do for now.”

He closed his eyes again, seemingly content with it. Not that he cared on that particular topic.

“Did they know about the Farman?”

“Sebastian?” Genna rhetorically affirmed. “That has been taken care of as well. I admit, that was because of my panic on our journey. Your plan is sudden and I wish to make the proper end or this cause… Whatever this is.” She sighed. “Either way, no one spotted the Farman flag. It has been ensured that no one knows Sebastian was here as well. It is for the best. Horrid enough that I stand here with you, if another major house of the Westerland being present. It could be a precedent for an act of war.”

Genna cleared her throat, flushing slightly. “Additionally… It could make for an added conflict with the Westerland. If my brother…” She halted her words. Her tongue spasmed to recollect her thoughts, though with a shake of her head she continued. “Never mind that… it’s been taken care of.”

Their eyes made contact again, with Genna actively avoiding it everytime she would raise her head. Omission… Vergil thought, and he sharpened his eyes as his stare seems like it would bore into her head. Genna tapped the table and brushed her elbow with her other hand, discomfort clearly seen. Doesn’t matter… its unlikely to be a troubling thing anyway… He thought before he speaks. “Continue…”

“Right…” Genna exhaled in relief. “So, I confined them in this castle for a week, until there is a development. Whether it is by your scheming whims or If I see any potential benefit comes the days… I believed some obstinate moments will arrive eventually.”

Vergil scowled. “If they bother me—”

“They won’t.” Genna replied quickly. “Your message is ingrained, with the blood still runs freshly on the waters below this castle. I reminded them pithily before, if they would bother you, it would be for an important reason.” I hope.

He grunted, but beckons her to endure on. “If they won’t compose themselves, I won’t regret any loss of lives…” Genna stared at him in silent, “Or limbs…”

“Moving on…” Genna interjects. “Taxes and… Do you even want to hear it?”

Silence is the only company her ears welcomed. “Yes, it’s what you are here for…”

“Fine…”

She opened her mouth, and then she opened it again after she opened it. opening it every second and let it widen in interval, closing it in one second and opening it again in the next. The issue here however is that no words or any voice other than a throat stutter escape her tongue. She sits there fixing her hair as moments pass with most of it is spent with her mouth agape.

A whole two minutes passed until eventually a noise is heard.

“Look…” She spoke. Hands moving in motion, helping her articulate herself. “I can help you; I can make this better, you’ve already given me the foundation for us to move forward appropriately to your plans. I am attempting to make every crevice of our conditions as stable as I could possibly do. The pieces are here, and I of course can help you maintain them, make everything better for you and I and them.”

She leans forward, her torso hits the table. “But in order for us… For me, to guarantee such a conception to happen with utmost constancy and solidity, with as minimal complexity as time goes by. I need to know what the Plan really is…” She stands, inhaling a breath to gather as much vigor. “It has something to do with the Naga on Old Wyk, that much I can gather. But if this would result on the participation of the whole of the Iron Islands or an assembly of a quarter thousand people, I need to know… Less we repeat the mistake we did.”

“What mistake… It has gone smoothly. Or have I not read this right?”

“It has been as smooth as I can possibly make it.” Genna answered. “But it could be better, not as many men needs to die as much as it is that day. And by proxy, my house almost went to war because of a sudden change of plans. There are more, but…”

Vergil rested his hand on top of Yamato’s pommel, his sight lingering to the green dim blazes of the walls. Genna held her tongue, sitting back down, as her ankles ache on all the motion she had on this short brief of intrigue. She shivered as she rubs her elbow again, the mist exhaled from her mouth, with the damp glasses of many lamps crested with frost on its surface.

“Winter is coming…” Genna whispered, eyes straight on the open window.

Vergil saw the icy wind as well, the sea waters dances like flowing silk from afar. He knows of the odd weather of this world, as uncertain as a spear flying in darkness and just as long when compared to its daggers and sword compatriots. Vergil’s home world is not as trying as this, could there be a reason for this… He thought. Or perhaps a work of a certain…

“One week…”

“Pardon?”

“One week.” Vergil said. “And then we go to the Old Wyk.”

“One week.” Genna nodded. “This I can work with, enough time for discussion of distribution amongst other kinds.”

“When the week ends, we will all go to Old Wyk.”

“All?”

“The lords you spoke of.”

“The prisoners too?”

Therein the chill becomes frost fall, wind came from all around yet there is only one opening of a window not close to their spot. Vergil turns again to the lion’s daughter, bearing the same hateful scowl he once had when he participated upon her dastard tournaments moons ago. Head tilted down as he look with a glance, sharp eyes downward with his grey blue eyes threatening a color of red on the edge.

“What are your plans with them.” Vergil voiced himself, grave voice more beast than men. Something is about to happen… Genna thought. Whirlwind of improv comes and go within her head, for this episode has been done before, and his sharp eyes will often follow with a mayhem of corpses before him.

They have a use… Genna thought, we can make use of them. But the words did not escape her lips, all works of politics relies on heavy faith and with little hope and guarantee. You have my word is a statement she often hears, and less so been done in promise.

“You’re making me wait…” He speaks again, this time he faces her fully. Jitters came to Genna’s figure.

THERE IS A PLAN. She thought, THINK! THINK!

Harridan hill, Blacktyde castle, Shatterstone, Sunderly castle. All the mounts of buildings belonged to their lieges, some dead, some imprisoned. Had she had more dawn to fill her schemes perhaps the words will leak off her with clarity. “Why are you so adamant on their lives?” He questioned. “Have you no love of your own people? These are the same rotten flock that intends to rape Lannisport…”

Grave words, well picked. In her thoughts, he Is correct, but not wholly. “Lord Horace and Himlen are… innocent by omission…”

“What…”

“Horace… he was under order by his father Harad Sharpe.” Genna explained. “The same is said for Himlen, he is a Harlaw. Had they spoke against Harkan, they would be executed then and there…”

“He was not in the main hall during my attack.” Vergil stated. “I remember these names, they surrendered, craven lot that tried to abandon their comrades.”

“You see…” Genna said. “They’ve seen their errors, no need for executions.”

Then there he goes, striding out of the library with an orderly pace, but his quickness suggests great confident aggression. For a miniscule moment, a blue glow revealed itself on him and the door opened without a hand. Genna held her breath, forgetting her exhaustion and depart towards him.

Vergil left no veil of weakness on himself; every footstep is as well-organized and sure as the sun will rise. There were no unsystematic movement, it would seem like he moves forward despite rising up from the spiraling stairs. It was difficult for Genna to keep up, with all the dress and an already fatigue body.

“Please wait.” She asked. “Where are you going!?” Tint of worry is heard from her voice, as with the end of their converse. She half a mind know where the journey would end.

He did not spoke, regardless of the amount of enquiry. Due time they would pass the main hall, with the collection of the new Ironmen lords listening to the focused commotion that is slowly fading away from them. Curious, one folk followed in the distance. With the rest remain in fear of retaliation stayed their hand.

“Listen…” Genna spoke, air slowly fading from her lungs. “Do you understand what would be the result of your wanton actions!? Changes must be made in gradual, anything less or more would either mean nothing or fade to quickly! Drastic measures you employ is too much! Please see reason!”

He did not answer, the entrance of the dungeon begins to appear of their sight. Genna blocks Vergil’s path, only for him to disappear in a mist and formed himself behind her. “There will be chaos! There will be difficulties in delegations! A civil war will come after this! The remaining lords will battle one another for these lands—"

“I want you to be quiet.”

“But…”

“Quiet.”

The darkness of the dungeon’s entrance whips outward like a tentacle, his glare is deft and without question. “I held no love for these people, the same is said to these weaklings serving under them… Thrall, servant or soldier…”

Genna felt a shake below her feet, cracks appeared on the walls and floors as the stone shivered. He continued. “I thought your plan for them are of assistance to me, but what you don’t know is that I do not follow your rules and exceptions… I do not care for these lands, and I do not care of these lords so called civil unrest. If they decide to desecrate each other for it, it is none of our business.”

“It is our business! If there are—”

He looms over her; she gritted her teeth as the pressure forced her to bow her head down. There was no exchange of words for a long minute, Vergil’s stance is straight as an arrow as Genna felt his judgement above her. “You were passionate in protecting your family back then… Knowing this I assume you would have no issue for me ripping these living mistakes apart… I agreed to teach you the powers I know, it is disappointing that you would hesitate on doing the right acts considering the occasion.”

Genna forced herself to look up, the burden on the back of her neck felt no different than an anvil on top of a paperweight. “I… Am… Trying.” She whispered loudly, not enough to escape her throat fully.

“Foolishness…” Vergil replied. “In this terrible world, when you have might. The only thing that matters is protecting yourself and who you care about…” He leaned in, nose almost touching her hair. “These are dissidents, ones who are not willing to change. They see you as corpse first than my extension of rulership. They will obey or die… They are imprisoned now, that means they’ve made their choice.”

He entered the prisons, with Genna frozen as she slowly relieved of the unusual burden the more the son of Sparda became farther from her. Being strong is not enough, there is being right as well. Her mother’s voice whispered on the time long before the curse of ladyship. Beautiful and fair, in body and mind, that was her mother as she remembered her.

Has it always been this difficult for you… Genna thought, often does her father made decisions that would rue the family slightly, with her mother fixing it with efficacy twice fold. Resolve came with the family twice powerful than before, when the issue would halve their standing before. She looked towards the stair down to the cells, the shadows seem to give her mercy. Whatever horror awaits her downward are minuscule compared to the devil she knows…

Even then so much of Vergil is an enigma…

She lazily strides onward in following him, his figure slowly grows as she gets closer. She tried again, voicing herself despite the apparent hostile exchange. “The king will come here; he and his royal retinue would demand justice from the Ironborn that has attacked one of his kingdoms. If there would be death upon these flock, let it come from favored hand. Let us win the rest of the kingdom through just acts.”

“I don’t recognize your king… Creylen told me of the malice this Iron Island brough to your royal’s empire. We are working on the assumption that he will hold no issue on my conquest here…”

“The Iron Islands are a part of the seven kingdoms!” Genna explained. “Your conquest will end under his rule nonetheless!”

“I’ll take away the cancer of this civilization… But I have no wish to be a part of its coy game. Your king better accept my placing here, or there will be more colorful corpses surrounding the western part of this forsaken world.”

Her hands fall lamely beside her, half and more plans on her head has gone to dust on his proclamation. “You would make war with the seven…”

“Not interested…” Vergil replied cooly. “But if they start, I will finish it…”

The black bars are now on their front midst, the prisoners within spouted either profanities or pleads of release. Some speak of rewards and oath of servitude, whilst the other would spew curses and threats with vigor that remain on their mouths. In the back leaning on the bleak black wall, is Harkan Harlaw himself. Resentment clear to see on the wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks.

“Do you not trust me…” Genna queried. The sweat on her face is more pronounced, it made the bag under her eye’s shines. Vergil look towards her, same stony face, but with a tint of exhaustion with him. Not of body but mind.

She saw a semblance of a certain something on him, an act of goodwill she hoped for him to have. Under a year they avoided and talk with each other with unique fervor, one time she would find him difficult to discard, they would engage in a conversation passionate enough sometimes she would raise her voice and he would counter with a quip that infuriate her more but there would be something come of it. Then hours later he would hold no interest in looking at her, other times she would be to tired to even look at him.

A bond so odd she struggled looking for its sensibilities, Genna still hears the core of their conversation from time to time.

That’s not how magic works, you can’t smash your head on it…

I’ve never seen a sword of that like… Where—

That poem is horrid, cast it away… in fact, burn the book that has it written…

Why is it called Redgrave?...

How could a family have more than a thousand years dynasty… Which is older? You Lannisters or the starks…

One of the seven gods created in your image… I hope your ego is well fueled…

Speaking of gods… have I ever told you about Fortuna?...

Yamato… its written on your scabbard… What does It mean?

…

Alright… Keep your secrets…

“I want to help you, as you helped me…” Genna continued. “I know… You’ve done plenty against… but you’ve done otherwise also…” She sat down on the grey stair where they once walked. “Had you not come I would be under the Frey’s whims, broodmare of a family with no interest on my knowledge or opinions. And then came the Lannisport incident… my people… woman, children and men. Saved simply because you don’t like the noise… Do you have any idea what you have done here?”

Closed enough to his arms, Genna grabbed It with both hands. Pulling him to a more shadowed place where no prisoners would hear their whisper unless of a mumbling echo of a yell. Vergil intended to pull himself away from her, but then he felt the vibration on his arm. The way her hand, shakes as if she is enclosed inside of a frozen vault.

“You were right about power, and you were correct on these pirates’ fate that you would give them… All I wanted to do, is to make sure you not only make the right choices, but the best ones as well.” She exhaled a sigh, and ran her hand up and down his arm’s cuff. “There is nothing these people can do against you, weak as they are compared to the forces you can summon. All I ask is that you make sure that the ones that have partaken because they have no will and bravery to refuse the order to be given a penalty that would be productive instead… They are weak, but you can gain strength for it…”

“I am not your enemy…” She finished. “Trust me…”

He avoided her gaze when she tried to challenge him with her eyes, but all her eyes tell is but a whimper of a plead. She saw him weighing her in length, Vergil’s iris crashing left and right as thoughts whirled on his head. She felt her hands released away from his cuffs, stepping back as they rested below her waist.

Silence came again, before Vergil decides to voice himself. “The ones who have surrendered… Go…”

Genna eyes widened…

“Go… Before I change my mind…” He declared. “Make sure they are the ones amiable.”

---XxxxxX---

Mumblings and grumbles of words congealing into one mess of noise is what the state of the Castle Pyke main hall. The lords still made their debates, as the sun still shine above on mid-day. There upon the green lands where the name of Lannister, Baratheon and Targaryen amongst others would spring on every moment on their tongues. So to would they take care on the tone and respect of their voice lest they are deemed unworthy or juvenile.

But not among the Ironborn, a conversation that does not lead to one man shouting with rage is a dull one. And all of them have many topics of importance they are eager to cast away from their lips and mind.

“Blacktyde is closest to Tawney, there should be no—”

“Does their name even have power, now!? Most of them are in the cell! Harridan Hill and Ten towers belongs—”

“You have men, Stonetree, but you raise to—”

“If we don’t act now… House Sparr would be amongst the strongest house if we let them keep—”

“Shatterstone and the Old Wyk have power in beliefs! Disregard the other lands, we are too far! we can—”

“My Lords!”

One man shouted, he pointed to the edge of the railings. On the horizon of the ocean a flag with hundreds of ships returns towards Pyke.

“Quellon is here…”

Notes:

No actions in this chapter, time to develop the pieces of the chessboard. I understand the relationship between Genna and Vergil is rather odd (From my own view, considering that their interaction has been either limited to a specific situation that is difficult to deduct their bond, or it has only been through hearsay), So i decided to not skip their interaction so the readers can see a semblance of how they actually "Feel" about each other. Now i will say that they dont have a simple accord, but then again, their situation is far from rudimentary. odd mixed feelings are on the blender, so even i feel strange and odd about how they express towards each other...

Well, next chapter would be... i dont even know.

thanks for reading...

Note: I dont think i get the present or past tense andwhatnot figured out fully, but i believe it is better in this chapter than before. i have to actively think to use words that ends with -ed and -d rather than -s and -es. Heard that people struggled on the story because i cant decide on the tenses i use, figured i bolt it down which i want now for our sakes. Do tell for any mistakes.

Chapter 14: Stable Environment...

Summary:

All things considered, despite the conflicting interest, all is well. Quellon returns without to much of a loss, Genna made progress on her training and Vergil ease himself slightly on a pleasant conversation...

---XxxxxX---

He recalled it vividly, the time when he gathered the might of his force on the port of Pyke stretching all the way to Lordsport. The enthusiasm of war is one of high spirit that there were no need of a speech or cry of one. Everyone was overjoyed when the call to arms has been summoned for their fight against the Ninepenny kings on the islands of the stepstones.

The Ironborn knew the archipelagic nature of the environment, they know that the naval aspect of that war would be principal compared to their land skirmishes. In a time when the crown of Westeros is threatened, an opportunity comes for the Iron Islands to exceed expectations and to take its due rewards. Honor, gold and glory.

Let those that dwells in the sea of green take the battle on land, the real war of thousands would float on the salty waters…

Quellon Greyjoy recalled the clash of steel that occurs as they surround the navy of the opponents, the shouts of hunger infuse all his men as they take what is owed. When the first blood is felled and taken by the soil and the sea, all sides must accept their loses and victory. A view the overlord of the Iron Islands anticipated and welcomed.

Dark thoughts have come to his people on this time of change, still he dreams of his kingdom of gold and iron both. To discard the ways of the old so they could reach upon the higher game, so they could no longer tire and hunger in awaiting a view of plunder in the horizon whilst they could have the capability to arise them instead.

Always been strong is the vigor of the Ironborn, but strength is to achieve victory, and Quellon is more than interested to take them from steel and gold dragon both. These notions have been taken with awesome protest as there are reluctant acceptance. All still recognize the power of his and his house, but the opinion has split his kin.

Even then before the war of crowns commence, the disagreement of the change has already made way for civil unrest within the Islands. He took all the opportunities he could take to solidify his claim just as well to catalyst the means to acquire the profits in point. Septons, Maester and training of knighthood to both appease to the rest of the Kingdoms and to prove thorough benefit to his vassals.

The Ironborn have the heart and eyes of interest only to the tangibles, therein a solid prove is needed for there to be acceptance for the new order… And though there has been some of such, it was still far from enough for them. The old ways are ingrained still in their blood, and a harder hand is needed to stomp it away.

Complications came here and there; uneasiness turns to combat that ends in blood…

With the participation of war of the Ninepenny Kings, comes the quelling of the lust on their senses…

Gold, Glory and Salt wives… All the things he wishes to dissuade, but must accept to appease his people for the time…

When he returns to the true crown-king Jaeherys, all will be well to make way for a better future. His actions to come will come from decisions that would lead his people to gold and iron both. Satisfaction must surely be met on this finished war, all is sated…

Then the news came of transgression of the highest sort, of faith and loyalty left broken. The trusted hand he left the Iron Islands with has become his greatest enemy who not long ago was his most genuine ally. Ideals are shared and fractured, but Quellon believe that Harken would always follow through on their plans despite the disagreements.

And now that faith is tainted with the invasion of Lannisport…

Along with the rumors of a sorcerer most divine that has dispersed half a ten thousand troops of Iron Born. With savagery bore from magics that fallen from the skies in the shapes of sword and other forces of nature. To Quellon, all that he hears are crumbling arrangement crushed to dust as all works of hope beckoned by his actions slowly fade away…

The trades and the knowledge exchange alike… All the maesters he gathered to make use of his resources…

And as he arrived to the familiar halls that is his home, all that greeted him are his Vassals who looked upon him with weary sight and droop. As Victor Stonetree approaches him in welcome to his own home, the very first query that came is to know where Harken Harlaw is, the very same man that should’ve greeted him to give back the Pyke.

As Victor spew his elaboration, Quellon Greyjoy slowly arrived to the revelation that the Iron Islands have turned into another world of its own due to an act of one man he thought to be a simple farce… And the powers he sought to have and had, has slowly turn to decline as well, as his position as overlord is being put into question.

---XxxxxX---

The fall of Ten thousand men…

Back before the unification of Westeros, Kings littered the leagues of its lands. Petty and great alike, they wage war to all their surroundings for power through lines of soil alone and perhaps more. There were legends then, mighty knights and warriors through steel hands and armor. The great advantage always comes from numbers of arms and its own quality, just as much as it came from mind and trade.

And then the dragons came, and with them the field of fire emerged. Thousands of men have fallen in-between dry wheats and grass. Fire spreads on it as if the gods have put an oil out of spite against the kingdoms that fought against the Targaryen. ‘Closer to gods then men’ as the saying goes for them, as when they fly with such beast that can spew such force, they were closer to heavens than even the Arryns and their towers.

Swords and spears both useless, just as well as arrows. How can one win against such force they cannot strike or even strike through. Harren Hoare learned that lesson the most, him and all his kin burned within his own castle, the largest castle in Westeros. All stones and iron melted by the Dragons fire. Even then the fire did not reach him and his family, the heat is enough to scorch them away from within.

The swords on the Iron throne are proof enough of their follies, it is all that left of their legacy…

By the time the dragons died, the unity has all been solidified. The question if there should be king is replaced on who should be one succeeding. The game of lands and waters turned into the game of thrones. Influence consolidated within a bladed chair inside the red keep within Kings Landing.

And now all returned to swords and steel once more… this time for the seat instead of earth…

But let life and fate be the ultimate players of the world, as now hundreds of years after the death of dragons. Another dragon came in the shape of a man, sitting quietly beneath the castle Pyke, reading in solitude. No remorse is found for the death he caused to more than fifteen thousand souls. For how could an individual of such strength would care for such men? Much less men who are known as pillagers and rapist?

There have been discussions that has been had with the Valyrian sorcerer’s emissary, let destiny insult the Greyjoys once more as she came in the image of a Lannister. Golden head and green eyes both. To find that retribution come so soon for the crime his family did not commit other than omission…

Balon is but a boy… Quellon thought, And Harken is the true manipulator in this dire strait. Where is this boldness come from? Quellon questioned.

He can still smell the blood and imagined the bodies beneath his castle, a city worth of corpses is a difficult thing to ignore. The smell becomes stronger as he neared the cells of his own dungeon. Just as well the whimpers and grunts of terror and anger grows louder. Torches has been lit from his end to the other. And as his face is revealed near the iron bars, the pleading came forth in addition.

“Forgive me my lord! I was forced!”

“Mercy!”

“Traitor!”

All the words spouted inclined to give him sympathy and anger, but Quellon will take none of which. His aim comes farther to the edge of the prison, where a lone man awaits in salty torment.

There Harken lies still in the corner of his iron bars, underneath the salted and moldy grey walls where his piss and shit has been accumulated.

Their eyes met at last, and where Quellon bears ire, Harken decided to equip a mockery of a smirk.

---XxxxxX---

“What did he say?” Katherine spoke, an old blood of the Sunderly, and the bearer of the Greyjoy’s heirs. A pretty lass, with raven hair that glows under the moonlit walls, with the grey eyes that shines with them. Her cheeks are shallow and sharp, strengthening her fierce sturdy look just as much as it made her ethereal in many lights.

“What he always spouts to me in private…” Quellon said, Harken’s strong image grows vivid in his thoughts. “Weakness and disloyalty are his claim of what I am, he chose to be stubborn in his own making of fate. So, I let him…”

“Let him what? Rot in his black bars?”

“That and more…” Quellon replied, the plans are made in his mind. All the blood and shame below Harken’s living body, he can hear the scream of pain and anguish from the imagined torment. The Greyjoy hoped that when the time comes, it would be twice fold as painful. “Let him have his brave face, I saw him flinch from every point I made. You know how he arrived to this predicament; he was fierce in his ways… Now he gets what he deserve…”

“And what of us!?” Katherine spoke. “All this work of magic… of powers that be. How do we…”

“I know…” He answered with a sigh.

Quellon learned of all that has transpired within these black dreaded walls. Of all the blight just as much as the due profit. Let him handle the sword and the blood, his wife always knows the ways of the trade. Arguments has been made and just as well a compromise. The Lannister’s lioness is a cunning one but are filled with doubts.

Is it of her position? Or of the sorcerer? Katherine thought once before. All the deals that are made are tame in great consideration, despite the unusually dreadful circumstances. And for what it is worth both of them are thankful for the lack of dispute or animosity. That is to say, the lack of openly remarking it rather than filtering it within themselves as they are now… and by lacking means few and far in-between.

Balon and his other brothers will not be a ward of another house, the open lands that once belongs to numerous vassals many of which are now dead, now is in suspension until further notice. Most of all there will be recompense for the stricken land of Lannisport. Despite the minimal damages than expected, tributes are a necessity over the great slight…

Breathes of relief came when Genna Lannister agreed on using the wealth of the unruly Vassals as the vast total of the compensation. And the Greyjoy house will as well give their gold and iron in due, for goodwill and faith… however lacking those may be for them. This all came from misplaced faith of commandment from the house, and Katherine needed to provide in kind as to ensure in open of their responsibilities.

Outvoiced accountabilities will remark authority as well…

But most of all burden of fear goes away when she spoke that the Greyjoy will remain the Overlord of the Iron Islands. But the thought lingered on the upcoming management, Will they serve the crown of Kings Landing? Or would it be the sorcerer?

“That remains to be seen…” Genna’s voice is heard, from a conversation verily recent. “Either way, Lord Vergil will be your better… Under the king or above…”

Quellon and Katherine sits on the balcony of their room, looking upon the sunrise as they greet the day. And as the light streams slowly on the waves of the sea, the former decides to speak first. “You’ve done well… Certainly better than what I would have done…”

“What a terrifying thought…” She answered. “If you can even call my ventures tolerable…”

“More than enough. And even more will come…”

And tell her all he did. All the dealings he had made with the king, with the Hightowers, with the stepstones triarchs, even to the riverlanders who has often been beset by his own people. Tully and Blackwood and Bracken trade that would disperse the notion of iron ways for a golden one. The many maesters who are willing to contribute, the foods and stability for the Riverlands, the wealth and woman of the stepstones…

The last one would calm the Iron islanders the most… a touch of the fairer sex are sweet anodyne for heartache, and there would be many with the changes Quellon is planning to make… the notion of there being more septs in the islands would challenge the patients of many irons blood. He has schemed and willed himself to be ready… but not with these courses of events.

Katherine swelled brightly of all the news, and Quellon is so sure of it ending well. Surely with the title of overlord still being under his name, so too would many of its merits and privileges retained. There were trust and hope from all the discussion he has made by and to all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. But with the Lannisport incident equated, would the faith remain still?

His heart cannot rest even underneath Katherine’s warmth and the dimly lit candle of his vast bedroom. When such issues prevailing upon his mighty plan is being threatened by the second, with the sorcerer, with his most powerful control over himself and his vassals. How could he rest within such uncertainty?

To say the confusion is dominant is an underestimation. Even when the sorcerer was not present on the main hall during his council, all the subordinates’ lords is fearful on their gesture of account. They all still call him lord with the expected strength that he always has in name and position, but more than some would fleet their eyes in doubt over it all the same.

It is clear his name and power are being threatened… But against such man of titanic strength what can he do?

---XxxxxX---

“This is not the way I wish to proceed in this case as well my lord…” Genna said, standing on the empty main hall below the throne. Quellon and Katherine are the only ones present other than her, and the dispute is stern and conflicting. “You are recognized as above these spoken Vassals, but from right of conquest, Lord Vergil is your better…”

“We are both part of the Seven Kingdoms…” Quellon replied. “The king will find this unacceptable…”

“Lord Vergil is NOT part of the Seven Kingdoms—”

“But you are…” He replied, snapping for a better position. “You are the Lion’s daughter, and you represent the sorcerer here… By doing so you’ve put the Lannister’s name on his conquest. Implications will be expected by your father and brothers.”

“I sometime hoped it would be that simple, lord Quellon…” Genna replied. “For me to seek a greater seat, simply I see merit from a man with a clear cut and show of power, but it is not. Vergil is as clean as his blade; he would be honest and cut to the truth. There will be no farce here as he says that I am here under his command and no one else… My family holds no bearing here…”

He sighed, both in frustration and exhaustion. In these times, Quellon would have enjoyed a converse between a Stark or Arryn. An honest and blunt statements could ease a man more than veiled words of the unknown. “You’ve made dealings with my wife on the recompense of Lannisport, a simply biased act for your family.”

“I’ve had this conversation with her, lord Quellon. Must I repeat it again? It was under her call, in order to appease my family, yet it is an action outside of the events here. That was NOT made under the pretense of this conquest, had there been no attack here, the dealing would have been the same nonetheless.”

But it is an act of a precedent. Quellon thought, or at least tried to make a concept true. To make sense and understand that beside of her telling of position outside of her family, she is still acting as a Lannister envoy as well. And even then, in his thinking, if what she says is true upon the notion that her family bears no command here… That would also mean she has no power to make such contract, even for Lannisport.

That would need a prerogative given by Tytos… Quellon thought. Or Tywin… Or the king…

But he bears on the edge of his throat instead, against the notion of voicing it. further council with Katherine perhaps a wiser course of action. A thought still lingers to be pushed out of his tongue that despite Her’s is an action outside of the notion of war, it is still being done within it and therefore questionable in nature. But he confines it still.

Would I even call this a war? Quellon and Katherine thought the same, such an incomprehensible time and events.

They continued the discussion regarding the distribution of lands next, and that turns into a heated battle of words between Kathy and Genna more than Quellon could ever hope to intervene. For each point and claims being made, both women would bite back with a greater one. At times he understands why the lords of men of his kin would return to sailing and plundering over speechcraft and trade works of entrepreneurship.

For every second, a great man would swing his sword thrice fold… And a woman makes a point with her words in ten.

In these moments, Quellon could see how his wife is absolutely the golden tongue to his iron fist. He would embrace her warmly that night, and twice as passionate.

Perhaps someday, the man of Iron that are his subordinates would share the sentiment in time. For the Iron path is merely one half of the full course that is life…

A man has greater senses and will when he has someone to return too…

---XxxxxX---

There were grunts and there were whimpers, and Genna can no longer properly recall how many times she has done both. Her hands are extended in front of her almost fully, and the sweat are drowning and soaking her as they fell towards her loose tunic that extends to her wrist. Her dress has been kept in the wardrobes of her guest room until the time of her practice end.

For now, she needs to focus upon the heavy brick in front of her floating and flailing slightly, keeping itself on air under her magical guidance. A second felt like a year for Genna in this instant, understandably so when she considers the significance of her activity. Breaking the will of logic and nature is not without its consequences.

At first it was a paper, and then a spoon and then a plate… on and on until it is eventually a black brick the size of a fat cat. Each progress surges a feeling of pleasure upon her blood, each second, she would put into practice with a simple piece of paper she would keep afloat with her magic. Just a simple sign for every interval to convince herself that it is actually being done, that she is actually using magic.

The cost does not come with fatigue as well however, time is also taken. Once she would be using such things to caress her nails and fingers to clean and neat, some she would use to bath in flowers and pleasant scented waters. Those are still being done, though with fewer occurrences than the usual. Some activities are more significant than the other, and this one is more apparent in that case than many.

“A… B…. C…... C …... Z” Vergil whispered and shouted in varied motion, and with each voice that are released, Genna becomes all the more faltered in her endeavors. Had it been only her the brick and the silence, she could’ve kept her composure and focus with less soaking as she is now. but it seems the magical act demands more than humanely necessary. “A….C…...C…. D….C…. Sword…. Remote…. Brother…. Family….”

Each line spoken is a voice designed to destroy her concentration. To make her work with efficiency unparalleled, for he would not accept anything less. Sometimes it was a letter, in other time it would be an object, an event, a name, an act. Anything and everything that would put her into the test. “Lomas Longstrider…. The Prince of Darkness… Carl Jung…. William Blake…. Tytos Lannister….”

Some names would be an unknown to her, and therefore would affect her less. But then he would play his tricks, and put the familiar onto her ears. She wavered slightly when she heard her father’s name. The Brick reaches her waist level before she subjugates it again and lift it up to her head level. Her vision fuzzed slightly, as the brick seems closer to a haze of the wind rather than a solid thing.

It did not help that it is several meters away…

Genna thought of it always, before she goes to sleep, and before she takes a bath or sight seeing on the window. Of her father, of how he is right now without her beside him. At times she would remember him being empowered as she enters the room, as if the heart recalls of its old pursuit and passion.

Her thoughts lingered on her brothers as well, to all of them equally. All the stern ones to the playful Gerion. They would be gathering on Casterly rock right now, discussing upon the war and the Lannisport and the Iron born and many things. She wondered what they thought of her now, would they name her dissident? Or perhaps worry and taking actions to return her to her home…

Her mother… Her future… Tion Tarbeck and Emmon Frey… So many things have happened under a year…

“Enough…” Vergil said, and the brick hits the floor with a boom. Genna turns towards him to find him staring at the floor, thinking… Contemplating with a stern look always. It Is a state she learns to accept; smile comes rarely for him just as it does to Tywin. But at least the latter would smile time to time with the family he trusted, to Genna and Joanna most of the time, but it was there.

Vergil was rarer than the red comet. Whenever it happens it is due to certain times of the unknown to her. Most but not all. Once he smiled when Joanna spoke that the people of Lannisport erect a statue to name him in Godhood. Before that is when she agreed to follow him on his wake against the Iron Island now.

Could she dare claim… to insinuate they have a bond together? As little as it is? as peculiar?

Where does she even stand in his grand scheme... Genna thought.

All he knows of him is his magics, his place of origin, his name…. and some other sense of trivialities that has even still be kept on basic premises. Can a man truly trust so little to others.

Vergil came back then with slab of meat the size of a babe. Its smells rather fresh and recent, not touch of rot from it. “Crush it…”

“Pardon?”

“Crush it….”

“How do you expect me to jump from feathers to meat right away? Floating a large rock is different kind of—”

“Genna…” Vergil spoke, narrow and without room. “The same as you did on the feather but with more power. It’s that simple.”

Her heart lofted high when she hears him spoke her name. never has he ever addressed someone with respect with at least a name except for her in a now many rates. Would it be safe to say that he has grown on her and the other way around as well? She knows not… And it is prude to dwell on such thing so brazenly and long. Genna has her pride.

“Try it…” He said, confidently. Though his face is stone, just as always. “With surety…”

And so, she did, it floated upwards and squirming as it does. There were shreds of its meat, but it was miniscule and fragmented. Far from the demands that he asked. She put more on her focused, making the image on her head more vivid as the seconds passes. The meat was tenderized but far from being crushed.

“Use your body…” Vergil added. “The same as the brick, create the sensation and motion from afar. remember, you’re just starting. It’s the duality of the event, Reality follows the mind and vice versa. Pushing yourself is fine, but in your case moderation is necessary.”

“What do I do?”

“As I said… use your hand.”

It was confusing at first what he meant by such thing, she extended her hand just as before when she lifted the brick telekinetically. And though the meat was whimpering and bleeding out its liquid like a cleaning rag being squeezed it is still not crushed. And then he decided to speak again, the right voices… The right words for Genna to squash the doubts away.

“That meat is Garth Tyrell and Reynard Reyne pissing on your mother’s grave.” Vergil; said. “And they are still doing it….”

Then the red came, not of the meat but from her own eyes. Vein like fade appeared on the edges of her vision, and with it came as well the anger. Teeth gritted, eyes narrowed, Genna instinctually squeezed her hand to a fist….

And the meat exploded in mist of red and miniature slabs of its former self…

She looked at her work in a sudden face of shock and a wheeze. Some splatter of its blood lingered on her tunic, but it did not deter her from the sensation of swelling disbelief creeping onto her tingling skin. There was barely anything remaining of her victim, only its mushy exterior with nothing within it. Like a freshly carved skinning of flesh and fur.

Other emotions sneaked in, of victory and pride. Of astonishment of her own making, despite the still lingering sensation of a fatigue coiled still on her body in several ways. She looked to her teacher who his arms are crossed with one brow lifted up and back again to her work that is now on the floor with its red coloring of fluids slowly caressing the stone and wood used beneath.

Genna laughed slightly then, mouth slightly agape on her achievement. A minor one on the standards of present company, but comparing one self to an entity of otherworldly proportion like Vergil is not quite a fair one. Either way, the man nods in acknowledgement, and ended the brief celebration with a force that turns whatever left of the meat into ashes.

“Imagine if that was a human heart…” Vergil said, he turns to her with eyes of neat sharpness. The allusions of his words are clear. It was a mundane work of magic on the eyes of the almighty, but when applied properly, anything can be of dangerous level. Genna imagined it so, the intense picture of Garth Tyrell writhing on the floor clutching on his…

She stared to the ground as the thought casted away. There was no bile on her throat, but a figment of such sensation seems to be lingering on the crook of her mind. To dream of a death of another so simply and so quickly with glee is a dastard thing. But did he not deserve it? Genna thought, lesser and greater men died for a more mundane reason. And the man dying on her thought deserve more than just a humble demise.  

She wondered how her mother feel or how she herself would feel knowing if her resting place is desecrated by someone so crassly. All will be settled… Genna thought in finality.

Just so as the adrenaline dispersed, so to does the fatigue starts to spread from her mind to the rest of the body. She losses the balance on her ankle, and within a second the state of panic entered her mind with none the vigor to make use of it. it was a fortunate event for Vergil to be present, as there was nothing but the stone-cold floor beneath her. Yet with a blink a chair has appeared and she leaned back to rest on it when her bosom reaches it.

She looked up to find Vergil’s eyes looking away from her and his hand on the shoulder of the chair. She breathed heavily to procure as much respite and energy, with the sorcerer walking away to watch the seas on the opening of the room.

“This is not normally how I feel…”

“The greater the burden, the more it cost…” Vergil answered quickly. “Even the unnatural falls to established rules, you cannot make something out of nothing. There are resources for every action, and in the case of magic, the price is both complex and linear in many aspects…”

“Then…” Genna blinks as she tried to find the words underneath the exhaustion. “What bargain did I make?”

“Some magic costs blood… Some take from the spirit or the mind. Some are more bizarre in prerequisite....”

“Which one was that?”

“Both…” Vergil replied. “It is no different with your flesh and bones… The mind is a powerful thing, and many fold for the human soul. What you are feeling right now, is the body trying to accommodate the practice of the mind and spirit…”

“Will it always be like this?” She used her tunic to wipe some sweat from her forehead and neck.

“Yes and no…” There was a breeze coming from the window, as Vergil felt it, he proceeds to make way for it, leaning his body sideways to let the breeze hit Genna on its way. “In routine practice it would be no different than other activities, do it often enough then it would be efficient in both cost and conclusion… Either way, the ceiling Is uncertain for each person. That’s up to you to know if you are willing…”

“Alright…”

And it was quite a cost indeed, even now half an hour in silence after their conversation, her heart is still endeavoring to beat in a quickened pace. Though it eases more than before, with Genna being capable to lean back in comfort on her chair without any slight discomfort on herself. Though her mind always wanders back to her training.

How long until she reaches the storm of swords, is what she wonders. He delivered her the knowledge that she came from a bastard line of a Valyrian of old that usurp the old blood of the Casterly. Is it truly safe to surmise she is capable to reach Vergil’s level of strength. She reminded herself of his capabilities then. During the fabled storm of both Lannisport and this castle of Pyke.

She had never saw him in a state of exhaustion. There were states of anger, frustration and annoyance and even a tad bit of arrogance. But never there were any indication of fatigue from his figure. It was always perfect, always composed, never faltering in every way. In patience perhaps but not in fortitude.

It is in this type of thought that led Genna having a moment of recall on how absurd the situation really is. She is in party with an entity of legendary proportion, the very same that shows no harbor of weakness and wasted actions. How can someone be so blessed in their life to be given so much boon… Genna wondered.

It is not the first time such thought has lingered, but even a year could not disperse it so easily. Especially when there are so many ordinary men whom few are extraordinary in skills only on the confines of the human limit. Against such flocks that surrounds her and him, Vergil stood like a center of a contrast. The more time spent together with him, the greater his image become.

For how many men could even reach a fractured figment of that level of strength? Even the legendary Children of the forest who broke the neck of the north and the bridge arm of Dorne needed to sacrifice the blood of kin and nemesis alike with great amount, a sacrifice that pools oceans worth of blood. If the story has merit in truth that is, but with all the mystical measures flying around her, how can she claim disbelief.

But for Vergil… It would only be a whim… Even with his eyes closed.

She wanted to know more, of who he is, of how could he be so sure of himself, to carry one’s own being with such a concentrated focus of a tunnel of light that all seems so insignificant, even the sun. His father, his city and his sword are not enough for her. All they converse about is of the book of angels he so fascinated about, and the story of her own family from the translated works of the hidden section of Casterly rock.

All mine…. Never him… Genna thought.

“What was he like?” She queried, she dared. Vergil turns his head to the side to, the edge of his eyes met her green iris. She sits there with her hands coiling each other fingers, expecting and curious. “I mean… I know he lived for a thousand years… but everything else eludes me. I cannot help but… He saved your people from tyranny of the prince of darkness, no?”

At first, he answered back with a dead stare to her, though with his head turning fully on her. She felt unease and anxious as he kept it so, but then his eyes wander back to the window. And the lips are finally open to reveal more than she would’ve thought for him to give away.

“It was a time ago when he does…” He speaks. “I’ve heard many things good and just as many bad from all hearsay and news… Though they say his rule is always peaceful and full with comfort… There was conflict here and there, but it was always concluded rightly… And he would always at the Vanguard. He was legendary in all forms, every being may love or hate him in many ways, but the respect is always there… Even now…”

“Even now?”

“Even now…”

There was a skim on his story, that choice of statement breathes many connotations than Vergil would give away. But Genna did not intervene to demand for learning of it, rare are the days that he would open himself up to her in this manner of intimacy. And pushing too hard on it may cast him away to seclusion again.

“He worried over many, over all thing’s kind and philanthropic. He never shows it, but the signs are there… Once on Redgrave there were rumors of cutthroats roaming the outskirt of it. It was broadcasted everywhere… And when he heard of it, within a second, he stands and leaves our home… when the dusk came, he returns. And when the news came, they stopped speaking of the bandits… rather they spoke of the craters and blade work my father has wrought instead…”

“Could he not send his own men against them?” Genna dared to interject, her hands quivered slightly as she worries if she should do so. “Seems a low work for such a man…”

“Practice hands make for perfect work…” Vergil replied swiftly. “He could do it all… But for a goal, he always has the principle of a perfect conclusion. Getting it done is not enough, when you can exceed expectations… The authorities may handle the issue, but my father has shred it away to its root. The city becomes a hellish place for evil and a haven for the cultivators. And he would not have it any other way… He always does things alone, all on his own and his lonesome…”

“Just like you?” Genna said.

And when he heard it, a small smile came onto the corner of his lips “Just like me…” He spoke. Her eyes widened with a twinkle of merry and half agape. He is smiling, Genna thought. And it was not a coy smile or a monstrous one. His brows are raised, the eyes are open to show the full circle of his iris all in genuine. He stared at the wall, but in a daze of recollection. One Genna could understand…

The same way she would remember her mother, ever steadfast and strong.

“There was never any word of complain, never any naysaying on all acts he done… He let his weapons speak, and whenever words are needed to be said from him, it must be a really important one. Even then he kept it brief.” His hand rested behind him, the fingers caressing the hilt of Yamato softly. “He sees the good and bad in all things… very meticulously… I have much grounds to cover.”

“For what?” Genna leaned forward. He spotted her interest, as his gaze went back. Vergil’s lips though retain the smile, a lingering solemnity visit it. putting his hand forward and uses his sword pommel to rest as he spoke the words.

“My father said if the son does not surpass his parents than it is a failure of parentage…” He spoke. “A child could be many things as far as I concern, and in everything I learn for most, they would be the best part of their previous contemporaries. He told me once he has made many mistakes and learn so much of it. He intends to make me learn all without suffering the way he did…”

“A second chance?”

“Perhaps… or a better future. For me and for himself” He replied, with a nod. “He expects much from me and my—”

The words stuck on his throat, and the same as well his head shoot up with a snap. A little moment of recall when all things in memory becomes vivid as a dream. Genna stared at him with confusion, for the sudden silence that beckons a look of shock onto his features. He looked like a man struck with thunder, looking forward and unmoving as a statue, yet little signs that indicates he wishes to move.

“Vergil…” Genna called, half-worried and fearful. She stood up from her chair, whatever left of her exhaustion was gone. She walked towards him until the shadow of his head fell to hers’, and with a daring turn she decided to touch his upper arm softly with her hands. His reaction to that was uncharacteristically gentle, his eyes wander away from her. Yet he let her caressed him until she reaches his wrist.

“The truth is… My father stopped ruling a long time ago… Before I was even born.” He continued regardless. Whatever thought he had a moment ago is gone under his whims to shelve it away. “I cannot recall, perhaps it was a century or two ago. But it was long enough for the people to see him as fable more than history…”

The unwanted images came, of a manor on a plain so open and free that every bird could be seen, every blade of grass looks like a green sea with nothing but a dark purple spot where he used to sleep and resides. Where he still remembers every sound of clashing wood and eventually steel. Where and when his father would scold him for his footing… And for the choices he made.

“How could he live for so long?” Genna asked, both of her hands are now coiling on his arm. As Vergil looked at her, her eyes are shining with curiosity. There was no indication of falsehood in those stares, the very same eyes a child would give for another story before they fall asleep.

He is lost as he gape at her, the shining white and green on her seems like a vibrating star.

“My father is not human…” He simply said, and he avoided her eyes once again. For Genna however, she persisted in her stare, but there was no surprising sensation from her, only a contemplation of understanding. Vergil realizes this quite quickly naturally, with how she still remains being in such close proximity of him even now.

“If not human... Then…”

“Not human…”

“Oh…”

Social cues are a mastery Genna learned from experience and her mother’s constant education, and when one gave a brief answer, it is either of little patience or in this case… A knowledge one has no interest to depart, a secrecy she assumed to be of significance for him to gave the indication with such vulnerable language of the body.

For Vergil however, regardless of how he felt of the matter, pragmatism still lingers on bridges towards action. Thoughts and consideration come second nature him in every way, prevalent it may be of his capabilities to be without hesitation when necessary. An anathema mindset, but one he manages to apply with effectiveness.

The heart wanted to tell her, but the mindful is wary of the unnecessary reaction. Even the seven who are foolhardy in their stubbornness to put him in the pedestal of God, is unknown to the fact that he is of demonic blood. And the lore presiding is no different in nature than all the worlds depicting them, even his own home.

Demons are vile creatures that covet evil.

But his father has proven them wrong, and so are many of his compatriots. But they are the few of the quintillions… Are there truly goodness within them? Or an exception? Or perhaps of the fear of his father’s awesome power they fought against their own nature of malice?

It matters not now, and he scalped away his want to tell Genna what he is. In his thought, it would be a drastic notion to her. It would lead her to animosity perhaps, or at the very least wariness. Raising doubt enough to quell apart her purpose for him. But mayhaps there is another reason her opinion is of magnitude for him, someplace within the quickening beating heart within Genna herself, Vergil dared to think of the possibility…

No… He thought. Not now, perhaps never… Then again, the sensation he is feeling as she touched him is a pleasant thing indeed. Perhaps once in a while…

“What he is, is hard to explain…” He relented slightly. “What I can tell you now is that he is effective…”

Is that what important to you? Genna mused, her head softly lowered almost touching his shoulder. What is pragmatic and practical?

“Maybe someday you can find the words to describe him to me…” She said to ease his tension. “It seems he is a very important person to you…”

“He is my father…”

“Quite…” Genna replied, lips pursed playfully.

In the end however, she let go of her touch. Slowly and carefully like a whisper, she let it run down all the way until her finger and his are untouched. She let her hands rest near her waist, resting and leaning down the other end of the window beside him before she goes straight to business. “I’ve talked with Quellon sometimes ago, do you wish to hear it now? or do you want to enjoy this moment first?”

Coyly he raised his one brow to her and went back right to the sight of the sea. Be that way Genna thought, with a smirk. Considering this to be for her to do as she like, she rather cast away the business so then he could enjoy the pleasant company in time.

“Everything has been stabilized, the lords are willing to listen to reason to stay. Instead, they decided to sent their own representative and envoys to rule or give messages at their stead. For all of our interest that is…” She said, playing with her hair. As another thought beset her mind.

His father surely is no beast… Genna thought, Look at him. Everything that made Vergil is not only human, but a man beyond that as well. She couldn’t even recall if he even sweat for all the time they see and spent the time with each other. A human form with seemingly none of its weakness. He has to be something more…

“Now whenever you want to peruse the lords, any order or command you wish for them to do, I advise you relent it to Quellon Greyjoy rather than to each of them alone.” She continued. “The presence of hierarchy will be familiar to them, more so when you are so brazen with your… Abilities…”

Is he even Valyrian? His hair is more silver than the old Targaryen monarchs… if the paintings are proven credible… Genna mused.

“This is important because this would solidify your rule as well as the Greyjoy’s. in fact, this delegation would appease you and your time frame. With Quellon leading your command, it makes time for you to be free. All the whilst recognizing your place at the higher echelon. Well, you could relay all them to me of course and I would in turn do the same to him. But if there were to be a command you wish to demand on your own directly, least now you know what to do…”

“That is practical…” Vergil said. Nodding in approval.

“Good to hear.” She replied. “Remember, you are powerful. But stability needed more than just strength, it needs a level-head as well. A sword the size of horse would be less effective if the edges are as blunt as a Stark.”

Would he live for thousands of years as well? Just as his father? Genna continue to rummage with herself. Such longevity and power would make for such a powerful dynasty…

“Crude…”

“Just a simple analogy.” She spoke. “Other than that, there is the very same distribution of power. Lands and castles and keeps… We would need to declare the loyalties and the properties of these islands. You need to understand this, those lands I mentioned could become holdings of power just as well they could be center of commerce. Our rule here will be vastly different that the Iron ways…”

“How many times are you going to tell me this?”

“As many times as needed for you to understand how important this is. You are not giving them merely a land. This also includes agriculture, mining, places of estate. Which could also result in a status quo that decides the power dynamic…”

Utmost consideration was tumultuous within his mind, there is a shake on his eyes. But he would not drag Genna with his conquest if not for the faith on her skills. “I’ll leave that to you…”

“…you want no part of it?”

“If you think there would be benefit to my goals, then feel free to council me.”

“Well… The only goal I know from you is that you want to kill a gargantuan snake on Sea Wyk.”

There was no reply…

“Alright then… There will be basic procedures I suppose. Uncompromising distribution to appease the tension until you are ready to tell the rest when this venture of yours is done… I’ll let the resourceful locations on suspension.”

“Very well then…” Vergil said. “Get some rest, we will depart next day to Sea Wyk…”

“Right…”

He strides towards the door until he stopped just as his toes are on the other side of it. “Also, tell those maids to discard themselves from my chambers.” Genna perked up on the words spoken, with incredulous sour feature miring her. “I saw them entering it just as I was departing to train, their advances annoys me. Make them disappear lest I make some drastic measures…”

---XxxxxX---

Fury becomes her as she wantonly walked towards Vergil’s chamber, from afar It would look no different than running. Within she heard cavalcades of giggles and chuckles, accommodating the room with sultry drives for those that would hear it. But for her it would invite intense ire, for the undisciplined and the insolent. For whoever it is that strode without invitation.

The door was pushed open with force she did not know she had, empowered by emotions. And what she saw adds to the oil that stoke the flame…

Three maidens if at all are spread upon the large bed, fully naked with strands of their hair covering almost all the pillows. The cover and blanket are used to cover their delicate parts, showing enough of their figure to invite ungodly temptation to those with any third appendages on the lower body. The fist becomes firmer as she absorbs all the view.

“Who are you!?” One of the ladies spoke, both in confusion and a slight feature of indignation. The other however equips the face of recognition, horror and terror swirling on their eyes for the dread of higher punishment Genna would enjoy in imparting to them. Perhaps it was the outfit she wore in place for her training that would make it seem like she is not of high birth.

The miniscule moment in between the awkwardness is enough time for all to see the golden hair shining in a smooth flow and the green eyes is nothing less than an indication of the due respect they needed to give. “My lady!” Another one spoke, the one who has the mind to see reason before the other whores. “I-I thought this is Lord Vergil’s chambers—”

“It IS!” Genna growled. “On what grounds did you bother yourself to act this insolent!?”

“My lady! I-i-I simply wish to—well as demanded by—the… the--.” Whatever words she wishes to give is hindered by the fear of flogging that marred her throat and mind off reason. Her friends share the terror as they all struggled clumsily to acquire their clothing that are littered all over the floor.

“…Out” Genna breathes out, no intonation but an exhale that made it seem like half a roar. “Out! ALL OF YOU OUT!!”

Some did not even manage to dress themselves before exiting with clumsy distress, merely holding the pieces of cloth on every part of their nether region. “My lady! Lord Vergil often comes and go in his lonesome along the castle we thought not he is already promised!” One of the maids said. “Had we known! We would not dare to tempt his loyalty to you!”

“HE—I WASN’T—." She was pink then, but now any who seen her would mistake her for a living blood with the crimson coloring slowly pervading her. To call it a blush would be no different than calling a castle a simple house. “You are lucky he did not at all spend his days in this room! Or you would’ve been corpses already!”

By the time the warning and the threats are delivered, all of them has already begone to their lowly crevices where Genna no longer are bothered by their presence. She sighed and softly massaged her forehead with the other hand leaning on the stonewall in exasperation. Had the tunic be anymore tighter, it would be enough to suffocate her both in mind and body.

She hears a slow neat footstep coming towards her, with a deep gathering of breath she coiled any endurance she had left and turn around to find someone of great standing before her. “Lady Greyjoy…” Genna bowed slightly. “Apologies, I did not think to find myself… Or for someone to find me in this… State… so to speak.”

Katherine looks behind the Lannister to where the maids have escape to before her sight looks towards the full figure of the she who stands after her. “Even I would not soak myself this heavily on my anger to my servants.” Genna looked down to what is left of her outfit. Tunic halfly wetted with her sweat complimented by the curling trouser part ways to tearing.

“Ah… I am truly not presentable aren’t I.” Genna said, apologetically. “Right… This one is due to my harsh activities on the library with lord Vergil…”

“Harsh Activities?”

“Yes…” Genna replied, tongue almost by instinct spew out the magical practice of her own manufacture. War is deception, and the less people know the better, Genna thought. “Yes, unfortunately it is not an activity I would like to speak of… it is a private matter, I hope you understand…”

Katherine is frozen on her place, though she did not show any but a judgmental narrow look to her. The words she decides to voice however, grants insight on why she is quite so. “I believe that is the purpose of the bed chamber, lady Genna. Or perhaps you find more pleasure in a more silent location like the library. Seldom any Ironborn visit there I suppose.”

“…What” Seemingly, Genna’s fate seems to be whirling with misunderstanding after the other. the redness is begotten once again on her cheeks, enough for her to held her breath on the implication presented. Why did you not just lie!? Genna mused frustratingly to herself, make up another activity, walk on the gardens! Even sword training!

"I do hope this is not an attempt to test Pyke's hospitality..."

"My lady, i assure you my dealings with him are-."

"The details would'nt be necessary my dear, it is enough for me that you consider what i said..."

"..."

“Try not to hold resentment to my maids, my lady.” Katherine interjected Genna’s alarm. “Whenever a lord or any men of high enough bearing return from war, all the women would often fall to their beds to be taken as salt wives or even a true one. They did nothing but what our culture here has demanded of them. It is the iron way… The old way… And hopefully, the former way.”

“Rare are those who find the way out of thralldom or servitude. Even then, what is a wife but another form of service… in a much better position of course.” She continued, Genna did not speak. A learning experience of where she is now. “Then again, all our position is of subservient in some way. I serve my husband through children and administration and he to me by guardianship and war. We all have our duties.”

Katherine returns her attention to Genna again, away from the runaway maids. “Lucky one, are you? To find yourself such a partner in life… pray tell, how did you collar a man of such power? Seldom there are fellers of even a fragment of what he can do in warfare to be settled by one woman, you must give him quite a trade…”

If there are any coy and insult in her tone, Genna did not find it. it was merely a curiosity to her, to many people in all honesty. Dragon’s, they said are of magical making, but they breathe fire and fly in sensibility, very simple in face value. Certainly, incomparable to a man who could cut apart stone and steel and could summon a rain of sword from the sky. Katherine simply wishes to understand.

Genna wanted to quell the rumors, for with it would come complications beyond what is expected. There are many that needs to be planned, and any actions that comes from hearsay that is untrue could beheld a most uncertain result, a prospect of no interest to the Lion’s daughter. But then a threatening thought came upon her.

If any would know of Vergil being unpromised, being without betrothal would mean he is open to approach. It would mean opportunities for high and lords of the midden to offer their daughters or even their sisters, if need be, to procure his loyalty and powers. But of course, Vergil is not one to accommodate such things. It was a difficult thing for her to be on speaking terms with him, would he really be swayed by another?

Is this a risk I am willing to advance with? Genna thought. Yet would it not be correct to say that he would not wish for any bothering, that this could lead to another storm with the corpses of the fairer sex of those who dared to take his hand. Revelation came with the notion that perhaps that this rumor could be use for the protection of everyone.

Why not? Genna thought. It would disperse of any of the unwanted… he would understand… right?

She would… So could he…

“An intellectual man…” Genna finally dared to say. “And I am well-learned… We found that in common with each other…”

Katherine raised a brow upon her slyly. “Truly? The mind rather than the body?”

“I… I wouldn’t, I can’t say…” are the only words she falls back to, for how could she find the proper ones. Her mother had only taught her on the shrewdness of lordly dealings, not romance, especially not a feign of one. “Events just seems to happen…”

Katherine guffawed with a loud chuckle; she seems to be in good spirit. “HAH! That is what many have said, one second a gaze, the next one a thrust! Fleeting is the way of love, us woman should know, it is our domain.”

It truly feels like Genna’s throat is swelling with bile, many she did not expect, most of all the good merry lady Greyjoy seems to show beside her. It truly was not long ago that they had thrown words of spite on the conquest that is lord Vergil. This quickness of this subtle approval is another phenomenon to be worried about for Genna. She did not say anything to her, looking at her simply, whilst casting away any indication of anxiousness due to the madness of present company.

“It is alright, lady Genna. I understand your position, being drag away on the passionate whims of man. We all do our best for the ones we love… and as for you, you have been more lenient than what I expect on this dastard state of affairs.” Katherine said, slightly solemn. “If it were your elder brother instead at your place, perhaps there wouldn’t be any negotiations whatsoever.”

Further confusion mired Genna…

“You did not know?” Katherine looks upon her as she spoke. “Tywin Lannister fought with my husband on the stepstones, along with your uncle Jason. Your brother as Quellon has said… He is efficient… Effective, much like you are now don’t you agree. There must be shrewdness in all things, and I think we both agree that you held your own on your respective trades.”

“I suppose…” Genna said, eyes narrowed as a familiar name has been spoken. “What is your aim here?” She held any questions of her elder brother as she enquired, what is now and then and what comes after are parties of beast that needed neat movements.

Katherine sighed. “What I want us to be is to be amiable…” She softly takes Genna’s hand and stands right in front of her. Despite the former being older, Genna is a head taller than her. “I know you do not want to sow conflict; I know there are ways you could’ve chosen for your family’s interest but you did not take it. I want there to be an understanding between us.”

“You know where our loyalties lie, and who else but our own family first even before the crown.” She continued. “And you know what goals my husband intent to reach, whatever notion that would led you to believe of the ways of this Islands, trust in the fact that he attempted to dissuade from such things further.”

“I know of Quellon’s work.” Genna nods in reply. “A stumble here and there, but it is to be expected. He fights against the tide.”

“Greater wave has been made.” Katherine said, letting go of Genna’s hand as they walk in tow with each other. “Whatever schemes these dissidents intend to have, it has been cut apart by your lover’s wake.”

There is a quiver on her left eye, as the term is spoken. Fingers writhing on top of her other hand as she tries to get use to such a calling.

“In the end, whatever is left is just the forsworn that are few in numbers just as they are in spirit. We have an opportunity here to become something more… Something only your lord husband and mine could achieve.”

“And that would be?”

---XxxxxX---

Life is silent on the harbor of Pyke, whether they are of the small ports scattered throughout the island or the heavy one of Lordsport. Never were like this before, all serene and calm without the seconds would pass where a man would yodel and yell with the screams of pleasure or disdain from a woman’s mouth.

To more than some it is a boon, to know that there less than none of reavers roaming between town to town all around to unjustly plunder and take what they can by right of banditry. Once at night they would bar every opening of their homes, darkened it all to make sure even their houses are mistaken for a trick of the shadow.

None of that now, it appears…

Whatever numbers these reavers used to have has been quelled and broken both. Once they would gather in the castle and towers of Pyke before their rummaging of their surroundings of undeserving merriment. But now all that remains are destitute towers and corpses slowly feeding to the marines. And it was because of that day when vistas of light and magic would fall down to the black stones of their lords.

The Ironborns may have saw everything on the forefront, but this does not mean all the peasants and the commons who lies beneath on the city of Pyke would be barred from watching. Even so far away as they are from Lordsport, the falling of swords and whirlwind and the thunders that struck down are mighty and large enough for everyone there to feel the quake.

They heard of the screams to, and for the city of Pyke they are close enough to hear the plead for mercy. Scatterings of limbs and blood and every kind of gore have colored the walls and fallen to the depths of the sea. For even some Ironborn would fall down screaming whilst missing an arm or a leg. A horrifying work, but let justice be done and many would say fair enough.

A sight of bloodletting unparalleled upon their oppressors for the coming times they would come to plunder is a good trade for them, all things considered…

After then another song is made, one that would arise in twine with the storm of swords of Lannisport.

The Iron Grind of Pyke…

In a year, the sorcerers claim of power and reputation has grown unprecedentedly. To create another landscape of mystical proportion once is astonishing, but twice? That is most divine. Already his name is carried by the memory of the spear that was pierced through Reynard Reyne’s corpse, by the high names of lord that has saw it.

Again, it came on Lannisport where the Westerlands have solidified his venture with a statue of the warrior…

What would the Iron Islands give him next?

On Sea Wyk, the bones of Naga are trembling as the man drew closer…

Then come from the south, the banner of the lion is seen passing the castle of Pyke. Along with their cadre of ten ships of guards…

Yet unknown to all, a small battalion of vessels carrying the seven-pointed star is going straight as a spear to Sea Wyk as well… with the wind and faith carrying them.

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

There were insurmountable amount of revision for my thesis AND this chapter. i have to submit the former in a week, and it demands MAJOR attention. I am sorry i could not reply in the previous chapter, the second i realize there were comments it was already weeks away, and it would be better to post a new chapter instead. No action in this chapter as well? I apologize, i truly feel like there are key points on the story before i could put the DMC in the ASOIAF.

Grammar? THeres a problem? please say it in the comments, it is welcomed. it is because There are most likely... Considerable amount of it, since i merely skimmed through it... but other things demands my attention i will return to this in time. Also... is there a paragraph or a minor story line in this chapter that has been done in the previous ones? i have a feeling i did, but i cant be to sure... let me know of that as well...

Thanks for reading.

NOW HERES THE SPOILER FOR ANYONE IMPATIENT BELOW, if delayed gratification is your thing, then it is better to wait for the next chapter dont read the next part.

yes, in the next chapter. Vergil would fight the NAGA. Just as well he would meet the other LAnnister brothers and the... holy entourage...

Chapter 15: Hellish New World

Summary:

The old ways is gone, and so does the old world. A new one came with new tests, and demands no human should be allowed to endure.

Notes:

This is a warning, there is gore and HEAVILY explicit scenes in this chapter. I have reworked the tags to conform to it, i say in this again just in case.
I cannot entail what it is specifically, as that would a spoiler. My apologize and sorry for the inconvenience.

---XxxxxX---

A stillness has pervaded the seas around the Iron Islands, a hunting color of gray that surrounded the surface of the waters. Smoke scattered just above it, a fog or steam that seemingly further hides what lurks just beneath them. There were many faunas around them, the Ironborns are familiar of what exists just in a small dip of an ankle. But the days have brought a grander shadow under the ocean.

There were waves then, though it often slow and steady before but it was still a strong one. But it is unmoving now, as nature has come at an impasse, and a greater power has held what is natural at bay. All men of the Islands see through the haunting days, for it was to clean and the change to much for even the dull to ignore.

Childrens on the shores awaits the waves that would rarely come, fishermen would hunt the marine life only to rise their hands above the water to see their hunt already dead even before the act of butchery. The skies were every so often gray, and it would come in disparity with the young blue and green grow of the sea depths, yet now the clouds are seldom seen, and the sun is clearer on the middle sky.

Even the waters are glowing brighter as it is expected, lo the luminous sight of deep ocean even around the kingdom of iron and blood as now the shades that hunts the waters are now beyond scoffing as they are too apparent in all sights of men. Words of warning, wary and worry littered promulgates on the towns and castles all around, speculating both the time of great curse and blessings alike.

For every man who speaks that the dead fishes that wash ashore is an indication of dead men of the sea, another would have their feet planted to speak of it as an act of the gods that are blessing the realm of men with food. When one brings of word of fear of gargantuan shadows that moves in the sea deep, another would toast on the table of the truth revealed by the light of the depths.

Some are prepared for either, most are simply just confused. Still, they live their lives just as any other day, hands on the dirt to farm on whatever land would give them such soils, the others would simply continue the sea hunting amongst other things. No sword can part the sea to face whatever beneath, so what could they do against a greater power who grand call is beyond their stature.

No children of men are capable for such a quest, not all but one, and he is not of this world. His blood of a greater sire and of a grander realm, and the man silver of his mane with blue coat that drapes upon him like wings is begotten to a short journey.  On his way to the sacred temple of the Ironborn, there the Old Wyk awaits him in gesture unknown.

He sailed with an unassuming sail, a ship that would take him to his destination with nay a purpose of its build other than transport. For what ever the necessity for anything but the journey, if a single slash would part the sea if it comes from his hands. All the surrounds him recognize his unrelenting power that is become him. Silent are their service, less they invite ire of the unknown that is the Son of Sparda.

His Lannister herald and the lordly gathering of the Iron Island journeys along with him, in tribute of a new era, in which even they still linger on the unfamiliar. Most has expected a great change from the hands of their Overlord, kraken’s hand of the Greyjoy instead of an entity of sorcery from a land unknown. But rules of power are not unfamiliar to them, thus when greatness comes to keel them over, their knee and shoulder would bend and swear their fealty to their betters.

And so there are only silent then, nothing but the sound of waves and wind that carries their sails. With the exception of the prisoners that always on a state of squirming and writhing beneath their hull. Other than so, everyone sits still on their ships, save the occasion demands them to be otherwise. To captain or service their vessel either way.

As they arrive at the self-same Wyk, there are none there to greet them, ships abound already on the port and harbor but with nary a man within and without them. No creek of wood from any step remains. All are wary on the view; less are those who live on the Old Wyk but there is always life to be seen. Always are in the Iron islands, the coast is always thriving with men for how else would they found bounty.

Vergil know little of such things and caring even less. What matters is that he arrives, and the road for him is clear towards his goal. Genna however, naturally sees the wisdom from the Ironborns weariness, and thus are more vigilant. the air feels hollow, yet fog covered their path, but it is its smoky counterpart, a fog that blurs the road rather than bar it completely.

It is not a heavy feeling, to the Son of Sparda and many others, all they felt is unnatural lightness. Their breaths feel like mint on their throat, and the swing of their arms feels exaggerated as they move. Quellon Greyjoy attended many feast and joy events upon this island, where men do battle in mock and iron both. Some dared to thread death, others settle upon first blood.

Either way, the occasion would not lead to a summon of an air this bizarre…

There is no wind, but the sensation lingers… Someone is whispering closely to every pore of their body, and they feel the breeze without the words.

“I don’t understand what this is…” Victor Stonetree spoke, and many others concurred, Quellon as well. He could refer to many a thing, but all sees what he meant. The fog, the ethereal wind, the hair standing on their skin. Some are fearful… Anxious more like, but very far from terrified. Just as any other they are just perplexed… Curious.

And then the fog starts to thin…

Thinner, but still thick to a degree.

Quellon, Victor and Carlen Tawney have made a discussion with both Genna and Vergil. Regarding the dealing of the Old Wyk, on the future of their kingdom. They’ve stated the obvious and with a short brief. “He is a step above overlord now… And you will all obey.” Genna said to all the man of iron, referring to Vergil.

“And what of Old Wyk?” Quellon asked. “For what purpose?”

“To settle…” Genna simply answered. “And to Solidify…”

The words were actually far from brief, and further still from straight and true. Debates has been made, of the Targaryen king more than others, of their place on or against the other kingdoms, of how the other overlords would be cautious of such event and would retaliate by just that simple wariness.

Quellon thought still resides in simplicity then, thinking that the Lannister means to legitimize the sorcerer’s claim through the Iron Islands religious side as a way to harden his position. Let the priest proclaim his greatness, and all the others who not listen and decide to rebel be swiftly be ceased to exist by a simple movement of the sorcerer’s hand.

These fogs and shudders are convincing everyone that this would mean more than simple crowning…

But then…

---XxxxxX---

As they arrived on the edge of the harbor, where the fog hides the open plains, they stopped at the stables to find horses without the stable boys. All the stallion and mare are calm, lazy eyes and still on their feet. There was no unrest on their figure, simply being put and awaiting their riders. One Ironborn called one of them, and the horse approach him with no sign of defiance.

“Their fine…” The same Ironborn said, hands shuffling on the stallion’s hair. “Where is everyone…”

T’was in the noon they’ve arrived in this harbor, and other than the horses and occasional farmstead animals, there are none other to greet them. All the houses and offices around are empty and dark, torches alight here and there, but they are a quarter away to their dim. “I’ve checked the port storage and granary… provisions are there with no one to guard them.” An Ironborn spoke, followed by another one. “Pubs and taverns are empty, dark inside as well. None have lightened their bearings. We’re alone here…”

All look to their lords for answers, in turn they as well look to Genna and Vergil. The latter more than the former, she has been surrounded by magical acts but many are still beyond her, in this Genna is as clueless as the others safe for one. “Does this have anything to do with you?” Quellon queried.

“No…” Vergil simply answered. “But I have ideas on who… Or what…”

They are still in their standing, awaiting answers whilst their eyes fidget to the edges. The sensation of an ambush coiling on their pores, fighting the urge to sprint away to the waters. “Vergil?” Genna added, for she sees the shivers of their retinue. All hands on their swords, back hunch expecting a lunge and a combination of a quiver and immobility, afraid to make any sudden movement.

“The fog marks the way as soon as our feet touches the road…” Vergil answered cooly. “Its not as thick as moments ago…” As he ended his statement, he points the pommel of his Katana towards the sky, though his sight is still on their surroundings. Everyone followed the gesture, and all heads tilted upwards and skywards.

There were confused on what they are suppose to see, more confuse on the notion of what it is they see than where. But then whatever is in the sky starting to move, and a distant roar can be heard. A notion came onto their minds, trying to comprehend whatever is in their sight. All safe for one felt heavy on their knees as they try to understand the entity upon the sky.

To speak of its gargantuan stature is a severe understatement of all things, tis large, larger than any kingdom, larger than any dreams of men. Above them is a body of a serpent, in truth only a fragment of it. its tail and head cannot be seen, and its length cannot be measured. They see only the paintings upon its skin, no different than the scales of a dragon, snake and fish alike. Though luminous and divine in pattern.

In Quellon’s and many others mind, if it fell to them, it will engulf the island as well, for the vista that surrounds it has at least remarked on its true size, for all that looks up will know that the serpents figure lies high above the clouds as well. Though no shadow befell them, for the fog still cannot hide the sun’s shine, and it is not above the scaly body.

“Oh gods…” Carlen spoke, his neck feels numb. “What is that…”

“You know what that is…” Vergil spoke, “Did you not serve it?”

“They don’t serve Naga…” Genna corrected, fear coiled her as well. “They serve the drowned god; the Naga is a different beast entirely…”

“That’s…. That’s the Naga…” An Ironborn said, quivering.

“It is… is it not?” Genna queried, she still questions her own understanding of the Iron history.

“What else could it be…” Vergil sighed. “We’re wasting time… Move. Take the horses, we’re moving fast.”

“What of the prisoners? Do we… Oh fuck…” Whatever words Carlen wishes to advice; his fears turn him back to the Nagga’s body. Talks of horses, intrigue and casual sense feels outward to trivialities on this happening. “This wasn’t part of the discussion…” He ended with rasp of terrified air.

Vergil’s back is upon them, but his head tilted to glare upon all of them, Genna however is the first to make her voice known. “My lords, this is no place to show your weaknesses…” She emphasized. “Words has been given, and none has been violated. We will all keep what we swore here.”

“A gargantuan beast that towers over us is a matter of Great import is it not!?” Quellon strikes back. “All those talks of trade and overlordship! And you did not deign to suffer us this knowledge!?”

Genna stood silent on her ground, and wanders her eyes back to Vergil. Another roar came from afar, and this time all the men almost falter to their knees except for the lords of Iron, Genna and Vergil himself. Still, they doubly move their heads to the sorcerer and skies repeatedly, wary that the beast would punt them away whilst awaiting answers.

“What you think of our situation is irrelevant…” Vergil answered. “You will do as you are told…” He turns towards the lords at hand, more to Quellon than the others. “Or you can stay here, surrounded by the unknown. In which of course we will find someone else for your place, your overlordship of this Kingdom is extraneous to me…”

He strides back to the vanguard, leaving Quellon and the other lords to their thoughts.

They look towards Genna as well, for any proceedings or any elaboration on the current regard. But even she recoiled away, confused and anxious of the escalation of their journey. “This is madness, what teachings do we have to approach this hellish task!?” Victor questioned loudly. “For all we know we could be marching to our deaths!”

“And the alternatives?” Carlen replied. “What awaits if we flee? You may be right… But what will we lose if we turn back? Our lordship? Our lands? What choices do we have?”

As his words end, Carlen and Quellon still their hearts as they see Victor’s grip on his sword. His glare focused towards the sorcerer, quivering and desperate where he stood. “You’ve seen what I’ve seen ye stupid fuck…” Carlen interjects. “Your attempts will be futile; you’ll be cut down before you unsheathe that thing.”

“His back is turned…” Victor said, eyeing Vergil. “Maybe if we catch him off guard—”

Victor felt a hand gripping the collar of his leather, a furious face of his overlord is all he sees now. “I will not let our fate be decided because you choose to be a coward twat!” Quellon said in a stern whisper. “If you wish to kill yourself, then crawl away to the nearest bush and slit your throat there! We will not follow you!”

Quellon let go of him harshly, Victor almost recoiling to his fall. They stood there for a moment more to prepare their senses and bravado for what lies ahead, some still as a statue, others moving here and there to summon as much courage as they could. Either way, they’ve decided to follow, and so they shall with heavier heart.

“This is no longer the realm of men as we know it.” Quellon speaks, “We have to band or we will be picked away like a prick one by one, this is no time for us to be divided. You not need any words of bravery here, what I say is common sense. So, pick yourselves up and follow! For there can be no other way…”

Every path they see is mired by fog and smoke, other than the one the sorcerer intends to walk, and thus they follow still, with swords unsheathe and breaths on hold. An order came to the men, to take as many horses as they can and to take the carriage as well to hold their prisoners. “We will follow the sorcerer wherever he leads… otherwise we will be left with ourselves. And whatever hides in the fog is no beast I am interested in knowing.”

Quellon turned to his men and make the order. “Take the carriage within the stables, and as many horses as you can. We’ll not suffer to carry the prisoners on long chains.”

---XxxxxX---

The sensation of the group is tense as they march, the sounds of hooves and footsteps kept them from desperate thoughts. They took the narrow road towards the Nagga’s hill, the very same that are used for all men of influence would take to attend the kingsmoot. An event when they would choose the next monarch of the kingdom.

A ritual long bereft of use, long before the monarchy and overlordship of the Iron Islands turns to inheritance than merit, though their merit would be called blunders by many other cultures and kingdoms. And the narrow road itself is far from such, in honesty the road is wide enough for an army’s march. And close enough to the waters that they can hear the clash of the waves.

The state of their alert cannot be spoken by words, each man rarely blinks, and when they do, it is when they feel the pain of salt on their lids and iris. Their hands gravitate just around the hilt of their swords or axes or spears, ready to unsheathe when a figure would jump from the fog. They do not even dare speak, afraid to summon unwanted entities.

In their senses, time seems convoluted. The only passage of time they notice is when the sun has now reach mid-day whereas before it was just slightly on the side of the serpent’s body. Now the sun has been covered by it completely, the remnants of its light still can be seen on the far coast, in truth it is a small blessing, now they are under the shade of the Naga.

They passed many hovels and villages in their journey, and the same story is kept on repeat. No soul, no sound of life, nothing but the silence, nothing but left out cattle and horses. No sign of blood, no sign of a fight, simply just abandoned, with even the local garrison construct leaving their weapons on their cabinets and places of respite where there should be none there on their patrol.

“It is truly just us here…” an Ironborn spoke, he is as wary as his compatriots, but now he spoke on simple mystification and curiosity. “I hope it is for a merry reason…”

“And I hope that is a jest, for what reason could they be in joy in this forsaken weather…” Another one adds.

Some chuckled on the statement, but in truth none have find it funny. But they take it in humor just the same, anything to feel sense of familiarity, anything to stave of the mind from fear of unknown danger, anything to feel save…

Even the prisoners within the carriages have spoken no words, and feeling just the same as the others on the matter. Though the band on their mouth does help them in being silent, either way they are a stranger to this occurrence as well.

They arrived now in open plains of the Old Wyk, so very close to the coast and the Nagga’s hill. Close to find comfort on the sound of the marines. Yet the fog becoming thicker by the sides save for the front, even their back. Only the road forward can be traversed with complete visibility, even if its slightly blur.

If it would be just that it would be more than swell, but the horrors would not settle…

“Fellers…” An Ironborn spoke, “The fog…”

“What of it?” Another questioned, a slight quiver in his voice.

There upon their left and right they see all the humanoid shapes, of men and women both. And in that surface deduction their hair stands straight once again, yet it did not end there. Whatever is within the fog did not show itself fully, only its silhouette can be seen. There are hundreds of them, they even take the form of children. They stood there in the shadows of the fog, watching the living and surrounding them within the smoke.

Then they start to seizure in intervals, their shapes start to regurgitate and spasm as if they are being choke and shaken all at once, the parts of the head the arm and the legs protrude and convulse Inhumanly. Whatever bravado the Ironborn have, have been faltered right then and there, and all the sounds of unsheathed steel starts to clamor.

“Be calm!” Genna spoke sternly, “The sorcerer said they are but illusions, a trick to defeat the mind! They are not real!”

“What are they then!?” Quellon queried, his sight still bores onto the horror of the shade within the fog.

“Not real…” Vergil this time answered, still walking forward. “Keep up or you will die…”

“Die!? You said they are but illusions.” A simple Ironborn spoke near the front. “They can kill us…”

“If you let them…”

Whatever implications the sorcerer suggest, it is far from all men around to think clearly. For the shades within the fog did not stop with the spasms and horrific imagery…

The sounds came as well…

The sounds of men being mutilated and grunted as if their limbs and organs are being rend away from their bodies. The scream of women, shrill and horrifying as if they are being violated and their throat in the process of shredding, rings all eardrums. The gasp and shouts of children begging for help as the sound of meat being squashed followed after.

Each second of these voices and noises rends away the morale of the group…

Though Quellon, his lords and his men are still within the road following the sorcerer, it is slowly becoming unorganized as the revulsions becoming louder and shriller. Him and Carlen intends to shout and organized the men even beneath all these abominable circumstances. Yet the horrendous sounds of the fog overruled his voice a hundred-fold, no word of his has been heeded for none have reach their ears.

There is one thing that Quellon and most of the Ironborn notice however, wherever the sorcerer goes, the fog disperses as well. And as they look back to their rear, the fog starts to reach their behind closer and closer the more distance they have with the sorcerer. In that, both Quellon and Victor sounds a shout as loud as they can.

“TO THE SORCERER!!” Victor roared.

“TO ME!!” Quellon thundered, inching closer and closer to Vergil.

Fortunately, as they are loud enough to be heard, some men begin to step closer to them, and all those who does not, followed the ones that do, just in time for them to avoid the smoky hand that intends to reach them. They coiled together back-to-back, protecting each other’s blind slide, preparing themselves for the ambush that came from the so-called delusions.

And then, the noises stop, all noises save for one…

“Father…” A voice called from the fog, “Father… its cold…”

Bewilderment came again to the group, as all look to one another. All except for one man, who wielded a face of quivering desperation and with eyes as wide as the open sea. “Leila!?” An Ironborn called back, “Leila is that you!?”

“Father i… Father I can hear you but I cant see you…” The voice from the fog replied.

“Leila I’m here!—” The same Ironborn almost jump to his end if not for his companion beside him that halt him with both hands.

“You hear what the sorcerer said!” the companion spoke. Teeth gritted and with a strength of his grip hold his friend in place. “Illusion! That is not real!”

“I can hear her voice—Leila!—I can hear her fucking voice!” The Ironborn said, squirming to be released. “I know you can hear it to!”

“She’s dead! She drowned when you—”

“Father!... I don’t know where to go!” The voice shrills louder. “I CAN’T BREATHE! FATHER!”

“LEILA!” The men with great strength, tackle his friend away and sprint towards the fog. “Keep shouting! I’m coming!”

“MORIN!” The tackled friend called, but it was to late just as it is to no avail. He is lift up by his other companion, as they all watch on Morin charge to the fog.

All stands still that instant, even Vergil. The latter curious on what would occur, though the rest feels morbid on the event. Morin cut the fog apart as he entered, but it reconnects again a second after he entered. And for a moment the noises stop, and in that, time seems to stop as well as all stood unblinking watching where the men entered the unknown.

A short after, the very same girlish voice sound again…

“Father! You’re here!”

And then… Silence once again…

All the grasses of the plains are green and brown all the likes, every blade of grass on the side of the road, other colors would contrast its clearly and all would notice. Just as well all have noticed the blood flowing on it, it surges and in an amount that would engulf a man to drown. It came from the very same place Morin have entered the fog, and the flowing of it never seems to cease.

It moves and divide around the grasses it hits, until the blood came to a stop on the same Ironborn boots that halt Morin in place before. “Mo—Morin!?” He called, and everyone but him and the sorcerer holds their breathe as they watch on. There was nothing but silence for a moment, save for the sound of the wind until…

“Rackham!” A voice from the fog is sounded. “Rackham! Can you hear me!?”

“Morin!?”

“Rackham! It’s me, I am well” The voice continued. “Come here! Everything is fine!”

“What…”

The chill now came to every skin of their pores, whatever pretense that an illusion would not harm them has fallen to the waves of doubts. Quellon turns to Vergil in demand. “I thought you said they cannot harm us!”

“They can’t.” Vergil simply answered, voice calm as a spring wave. “They’re illusions, unless you make them real.” He turns back to the front and continue onward. “Every man for himself here, if you can’t even save yourself from your own weaknesses then I suppose you are of no use to me…”

Quellon did not even have the strength to be angered on the accusation, so apprehensive he Is of the surroundings uncanniness. All he does now is order his men to move forward, for only the Son of Sparda have the strength to scatter this awful mist. Whatever complaint he has now, will be storage within his mind until the time comes.

“Rackham!” Carlen shouts to the Ironborn. “Stay on formation! That blood below you is not a sign to be idiotic!”

“Right, milord…” He fell back to his living friends.

“Rackham! Don’t believe them! They are the illusion not i!”

“I found gold here! Theres’s gold—”

“Husband! I’ve given birth, it’s a boy—”

“Son… Do not disappoint me… come to me—”

All voices, all familiar voices, melding as one. To each man, they all hear the same, families and friends and lovers calling to their names to approach them. Most of them even close their eyes as they march forward with the sorcerer, trying to close their senses to all the voices that be. all the loved ones they thought dead, all the loved once that should be awaiting them from the other islands.

“Genna…”

Genna stop in her tracks. “Mother?”

“Illusion…” Vergil voice himself with a gruff voice of warning. “Move forward…”

“It sounds so real…”

“I know… Keep moving…”

It becomes easier to ignore, but the feeling sadness and repression never end to burden their journey. In some time, the voice became quieter and in the next turn becomes louder, the silhouette persists on their journey, taunting them with shapes of loved ones combined with horrific noises. Maiming their memories within the retinues view.  

“I can’t take this…” Another Ironborn spoke. “Can we not fucking kill these monsters…”

They await the sorcerer’s answer, yet none came. Another thing came actually, a mockery that came from the daring, and the daring is often synonymous with the foolish. A female voice came, still somehow distant that it sounds like an echo to them. To them except to him.

Vergil stop in his tracks just as Genna did, and despite all reservation he had to let this illusion make its work, it dared to test his limit. For there upon one side of the mist, came one silhouette in particular. Long of hair, tall and slender. A comely woman figure, and to one… a motherly as well. And in that regard, Vergil let them have a taste of his bearing.

Whatever pressure the fog attempted towards the group, has been slightly lightened as it attracts Vergil’s attention. All notice the particular shadow that beckons his sight, all know the fog taunts through memories of long fallen and love ones. This time, Vergil takes the bait, and the horrors behind the fog are the ones who held their breathes now.

“V-Vergil!?” Genna called with worry, seeing him striding towards the edge of the fog, on that very same shape of a shadow.

He stands there on its smoky edge, right before it. yet unlike before where the transparent smoky hand would reach out to grab unsuspecting victims, the smoke flattened to a crease, as If they are cornered into a wall. Yet the silhouette is still there, taunting him. Yet it quivered no different as the Ironborn has against them.

This time the scale has tipped, and it came due to hubris… A tale as old as time…

The many shapes of the fog actually stayed silent as Vergil stands unblinking to the female figure. No longer do they sound their abominable sounds, now they await judgement just as any other opposition.

And for a second, the mist dispersed slightly… And a strand of golden hair and a black robe and red scarf can be seen…

In that moment, Vergil voiced himself…

“Go on…” He spoke. “Try.”

The fog became shorter, and the wind became still. And speech craft came again from beyond the fog. But to the ordinary men, it was but a congregate of whisper, one would only hear mumbles from afar. Not to the sorcerer, for he stands to near and his ears are greater in their drums than present company.

It was subdued, very much the opposite of the expressive intonation of before. A development has been made; the whisper turned into silence…

It is unknown to the Ironborn what has occurred, but an act has been done enough to spurn the sorcerer…

He entered the fog…

---XxxxxX---

At first doubts still resides, but now as the current course of events approaches and passed, Quellon has seen the truth as the others did. As before his men would refuse with bowed head in heeding his orders to strike down the sorcerer, he still amused the notion that they are under a spell, a work of treachery and deceit as many other histories of spell casting has shown. Warging and sorcery be damned, all stories have spoken that they all can be struck down by a sword. Whether they be the children of the forest or greenseers of any kind, even the Valyrians.

T'was a surreal moment the first time the sorcerer flung one of the creatures from beyond the fog onto near his feet. They are misshapen, more scales and fish than men. Fins near the elbows, and limbs with fingers and protrusion that resembles a duck’s feet. Blue and dim green like the corrals beneath the sea they are colored, with thin sharp teeth underneath their full-thick lips. Eyes as wide and circle as an apple. Taller than an ordinary man by a head measure.

It makes no difference in the end; their lives are numbered in seconds now…

For each one that die, the smoke and mist dispersed slightly. Until eventually the silhouette becomes solid, until the colors returned to the lands and then it became as vivid and true as the shine of the sun. until they all saw with clarity what the sorcerer can do in the position of an audience instead of a victim. For it was not clear then, when the walls came down on Pyke. They hear the screams of men but not seen the act.

Methodical, precise, inhuman and full of hate. The first three of those all the Ironborn that are watching knows of such aspects before, safe for those of Quellon’s men and Quellon. But the latter one, Vergil kept to himself. He was spurned, and he let it known by slicing apart limbs from body, rending until the pain is felt fully into their slow deaths.

It seems the creature numbered by dozens, perhaps half a hundred. But in a quarter of a minute, they can be counted by one hand, the sorcerer made sure of it. Most of these ill-omened creatures already knows their doom before the bloodletting, some realized just now. in their haste to their safety, all thoughts of reason are abandoned, and one of them tried attacking the retinue.

Wishing not to show weakness, most of the Ironborn unsheathe their weapons, axes and swords alike, but they underestimate their lone opponent. Though steel cleaved through their scaly skin, it was not deep enough to be proclaim it a true strike. Anger came to the lone creature, and a particular Ironborn was swiped away with a backhand and thrown like a child, meters afar.

More than six men kept the creature at bay, anymore in its surroundings will compromise the Ironborn cohesion thus most wait from behind them to await an opening. The creatures bear the strength of three extraordinary warrior, and despite the numbers, the Ironborn has been found lacking. Two of those are Victor and Quellon, spearing and striking down with their swords with strength crowned with hot blood.

It screamed for each wound inflicted upon its body, flailing itself all around like a crazed windmill. Two men has been mangled apart by its abandon, Quellon’s sword shattered in its attempt to guard its wild movements. He fell to his back as the pieces of his blade fell beside him, a shadow begun to loom over him, the scaly monster shown its fangs widely, teeth that numbered thousands.

Then a sound of a popping thunder came, and the creature recoiled slightly. Time has frozen in all those that are present, and black blood starts to pour from its body. A hole is there, just on the right side of his chest. The creature looked down on it, his hands examining it in fear and disbelief. Anger, sadness and shocked permeate it in seconds, until it eventually fell to its own pool of shadowy bile blood.

All looks back towards the source of the thunder struck, to see Genna Lannister with an arm and hand extend, a steam bellowing from her fingertips. Her face express features of one who are shaken, fearful and frozen in distress. Her eyes cannot be anymore wider, the shivering seems to be unending despite her wishes to remain strong, the teetering of her teeth could’ve been heard had it been a tad bit louder.

She is a sorceress as well… Quellon thought. Rumors has been spoken of her practice in the library with the sorcerer, from the lips of unbecoming maids and servants of the castle. All the men present now see it for what it is, a pair of practitioners of arcane is in their midst instead of just one, and to those of noble bearing present, one of them bears the Lannisters name.

“You can do magic…” Carlen spoke, fidgeting where he stood as well.

“I-I can…” Genna answered, attempts of recalling her smooth voice failing to summon a quivering one instead.

“Since when?”

Her mouth moves to answer, but a sensible mind came first to halt her speech in progress. She shut her lips, and the intrigue came back to bring new words to sound. “That is a topic for another time…” She said, still the fear still presents on her, unsteady as she spoke, “This is not a place for any kind of conversation, we have to move… Right?” She ended with a question.

The present company looks toward the recipient of the question to find Vergil standing just a pace behind them, with nary a look of haggardness upon him. He is clean, neat and no flaw on his bearing. Very unlike the others with sweat, blood and fear all over their statures. Marred chainmail and bodies alike.

What lies after him however, is a vista of corpses of proportionately vicious and bizarre. Pack of creatures, kin to the ones that attack the retinue lies in different shapes of gore. Arm, legs and limbs that looks otherworldly scattered on the soil and grasses. Quellon and many others sighed at the onslaught, it took half a dozen men to fell one of the beasts and with the help of a Lannister to boot, a mystical help so to speak. And here the men stand unbothered in body but heavy with anger by breathing.

The Ironborn are worried as they watch his subtle stature of anger, expecting another bout of fury.

“Vergil?” Genna called, and the composite calmness seems to return the sorcerer to his stupor.

“We are continuing on…” He simply said, and begins the brisk pace towards the destination as before. He looked back to the corpse of a certain demon, and turns towards her, “Well done.” He said.

“You…” Quellon interjected, “You could’ve killed them sooner. Why didn’t you!?” He asked, halfly furious and the other half confused. Both the Lannister and the sorcerer ceased their walking, with the latter turning slowly, judgement in his eyes. “Some of my men are killed…” He ended, a statement enough to release his point.

Vergil raised a brow, slightly amused within, but a bit more annoyed. All of them let the silence infuse their circumstances, letting the awkwardness seep to their minds. Slowly however, the discomfort turns to bewilderment, and then turn to dubious anxiety. Whatever the sorcerer is, he is a fickle man one moment and easily bothered the next, as far as the rumor goes.

Even Genna shaken slightly, not wanting to see another bloodletting.

“Those Demons…” Vergil answered colly. “Are called Merlings, the Siren’s problematic brother.” He let his hand rest on Yamato’s pommel. “Designed to lure men towards their doom by recounting regrets, guilt and anger. Every sin and mistake you’ve done, especially the ones all of you connected the most, they will know… and they make use of it to lure you, to tell you that it can be absolved…”

All listened intently, some coldly stared the ground, others hold on to their mementos, other ones would simply recall in mind only. Voices and screams to each their own, of memories unwanted and wanting to forget. Chances not taken, words not spoken and choices made in folly. The fog that was once was, revealed all of such. Many of their faces contorted with anger and gritted teeth.

“Judging by the history of your people, I expected this to be a good test to see if you have what it takes…” He continued. “I will speak simply. You are all wanting, but then again, despite the expectations from your culture… I don’t expect anything more…”

Quellon contorted his face to a crease, barely containing the vitriol on his voice. “This is all a test… You let my men die for a test… A test for what?”

“That comes later…”

“Later… For you to lend us all to a meatgrinder…”

“Don’t pretend to care…” Vergil said. “You send men to die in routine, this is just another day for you…”

“You…” He hated it, Quellon hated presumptions, more than most. His lips no longer hide his barred teeth. “Was it a test of self-control!? A patience against other beings!?” He grabs his sword by instinct, security rises from his loins to head, a grip on a weapon always comforts a man of war, despite him no interest to test by mettle. “I don’t know where you’ve taken us… Or planning to do to my people… but you’re no better yourself, that creature also gets to you same as we have—”

The tension come again, and all lords and servants alike, tensed their bodies as their overlords’ words seep out from his mouth. Carlen grabbed Quellon by the shoulder, but he would not heed still. Victor already designed the plan to flee for what is to come, to escape from being another blood on the soil. The rest hoped for the best, for the virtue to win over madness, for the hope to return home.

The ground starts to crack beneath the sorcerer, his eyes narrowed to a slit until a figment of redness escapes the visor.

Quellon stopped breathing, not by other forces but from terror alone. The Ironborns are not known for their temperament, and he let his mouth runs before his mind. He looked back to his other men, to Carlen and Victor. To see the hair seems to stand on their skin and hair, and he remembered his family, of Balon and Catherine. “Apologize I speak out of turn…” Quellon bowed his head. “Forgive me…”

“Vergil…” Genna whispered, for Vergil’s ear only. “Please, this is new to them and me. They are away from their comforts; don’t expect the same stride you have with them. They have much to learn…”

He bore his eyes still to the overlord, focused as she spoke still. “They will understand in time of your goals, don’t lose assets over honest grievances…”

Vergil let the thought ponder…

Genna attempts to dissuade the anger…

And Quellon halfly prostrate himself…

And then they move on to their journey…

---XxxxxX---

The march towards the Nagga’s hill is spent with greater silence than before, even the prisoners themselves whom have been coiling themselves with their own noises shares the same thought of quietness. The attack from the demons have led them to ponder and in outrageous height of alertness that should be reserved only to guard the gods.

All seems to be unwilling to let their hands wander to far from their sheathed weapons, telling of the situation at hand. Uncertain event makes for a very caution approach, it is warranted. The lords as well, though they stand surrounded by the men, being far from being the first conventional target, they are less incline on cautiousness. Instead, their thoughts wander to the future, the sort of times that would come.

If there were any hope for reclamation, Quellon did not see it. All indication turns towards of being a second fiddle of a being from lands unknown and of character just as uncertain as well. He could not even bear to think of the dealings, contracts and agreements that has been made in his journey. Discussions has been made, compromises as well. But it always returns to the notion that he will no longer the great lord of the Iron Islands.

He glared to the back scalp of the sorcerer, to see his head explode in wishful thinking. Of all the exhaustion that would befall him and all his vassals of the coming changes, of the sudden turn in history. Queries within his mind if the Iron Islands could take such revolution, to suddenly abandoned the ways that is so ingrained, where once he would do so in a gradual sense, very far from what the Sorcerer is planning.

Genna Lannister is amiable, willing to compromise and seems to be uninterested of unnecessary long-term issues. The onslaught has made many lands empty of authorities, with hope they would be given to the appropriate scions, one that would be under his advice, under a kinsman. But that is such a lowly subject in comparison to the chore at hand.

The Naga above them still bellowed and still as large as they first saw it. The shade that it creates, makes for a comforting breeze in their journey, but it is still a terrifying view, a surreal inhuman land and skyscape. Despite the men alertness to their surroundings, their awe always summons their attention to look upon the gargantuan beast above and around them.

The Naga seems to be in the land and sky both.

Then they arrived on the open entrance of Nagga’s hill, where the Grey King’s Hall lies in the center of the bones of the old dead Naga, the bones are an ant compared to the ones above them. But one view takes their attention more than the hall itself…

Bodies upon bodies, strewn and staked all over the outskirts and lands. Their bodies pale, eyes gouged out with every orifice bleeding black bile blood dripping and flowing to the dirt. Their faces spoke of suffering before their deaths, but death is far from their being. As though their bodies are speared through from bottom to shoulder, they are all still quivering and trembling on their torment.

“Their… Their still alive…” One Ironborn said, voicing what all is seeing.

All the people upon the stakes look as if they are living corpse, forced to be alive by means of great evil and spellcraft. They groan and moan, their hands struggled to relieve themselves, trying to dislodge themselves from the stake with non-existent strength. Alive and ripped apart with no means to escape, a hell on earth.

Many would see such things undeserving even to those accused of conventional murder… But they saw more accursed as they see more clearly and deeply as they stroll closer to the hall…

For it is not only men, not only farmer men and soldier men that are staked…

Women… Old woman…

Pregnant women…

Children… Young children, no older than five… Many of them…

Babies… Little ones the size an arm. Gurgling black blood form their mouths, gasping for air as the spear lodged them from one rib to the other and squeaking for help as a baby should…

“No…” Another Ironborn voiced himself. “NO! this is… This is no longer just evil…”

Fear turns to sadness; alert turns to fury and every anxiety they all bore turns to vengeance. Some screamed, others looked on with their irises quivering from bolstered rage. All Lords and Men-at-arms alike, shares the sentiment. Genna wanted to cry, to turn away from the violation of human kind and the great indignity. But the cries of the children are too great to bear her attention away.

She turns to Vergil, turns to see a glowing blue hue, to see it rises and fluctuate. But he as always, compose himself at the end, and all the cool persona returns for him to stride forward once more. To disperse the memories long bereft of fondness to rest. To stow the recollection of a burning house, a screaming mother and a flock of demons attempting to striking him down.

“Why…” Carlen spoke this time, partly distressed and the rest vehement. “Where are you taking us… Why has this happened to us!”

In those words, a moment came for Vergil. He halted himself and a sensation returns to his figure, of a feeling that should’ve been long abandoned, a fire abated for a cooler blue flame. He spoke again, but without turning to show his face. “Breaking of morale… A sharp sword without a hard hand has no influence… One of many mantras of combat. Kill the mind first before the body, and when the time comes for sword to clash, all that left is a dead body waiting to be finished…”

“But why us…” Carlen asked. “Why is this happening here? Of all places…”

“I can give you technical answers, I can give you the facts… But I’ll surmise it simply. It happened here, because the demon resides here. Because you are the closest thing to be a victim, and the closest target to be taken apart and to be used…”

“For what?”

“For anything the demon wanted you to be… or wants from you… whichever it is.”

“And that would be?”

“We’re about to find out….”

“I have so many questions…” Genna spoke, and all the Ironborn shares her sentiment. they all have eyes of pleading.

“All things in time…” Vergil ended it. “For now, move forward…”

Some Ironborn sighed with a shudder, the same words spoken on every end, moving forward, despite being surrounded by great evil. But it is a difficult thing at best and insufferable at worst. Some let the sounds galloped on their ears, the others released their hands from their weapons just to close their ear holes.

They are now in the open hall of the Grey King, the sounds of pain of those who are staked is louder there than they are outside, as if all the noises and voices congregate to arrive there, to make known their torment. It became harder to be sane, harder to compose one self. Save for the Son of Sparda. And the prisoners who resides within the carriage, unknown to the savagery outside.

One Ironborn however, is missing from the group. A friend of his called out to him, “Marlo!?” He called. All of the men turned to the men who voiced himself. “Marlo’s gone!” he said, and some groan in frustration, others in apathy. But then they heard the cry, a wailing of a man. There near the entrance where they’ve entered the hall Marlo is seen kneeling beneath two staked young boys.

Both boys are impaled on the same spear…

“My sons…” Marlo said, clutching the spear whilst his children bile coating his hands. “My Sons…”

In the stead of many, Victor decides to voice himself finally. “I thought… I had hoped this is an illusion, all of this.” He equipped a sad look. “It’s all real…”

Vergil merely gaze him slightly before continuing moving forward.

Genna let a tear fall and walked with him.

And Quellon froze for a moment in thought, of all the raids his people have done, of all the rapes, of the killing and maiming. And even with all the good of the Greenlanders he designed to abandon such prospects, all things will come full circle…

Is this providence…

Quellon thought, for all evil acts must be repaid somehow. And now it came in such a demonic vista, right in the time when he intends to turn it all civilized. Vengeance with a taste of irony, to take away hope of the future just when it all is on the tip of the finger.

“Is this happening to all the islands?” He dared to asked, but the sorcerer did not answer.

They moved forward, leaving Marlo to his grieving.

-XxxxxX-

There upon the hill overlooking the sea is where the throne of the Grey Iron should have been, where the throne of the high king resides or should’ve, where once a congregate of high men of old would speak of moot to determine the holdings of kingship. A practice long begone, and in its place something other, something unknown.

It is circle in shape, and a mirror in nature. But not with reflection of what it sees, but more of a painting to another world. it seems to be moving, of environment within it with creatures of many forms around. It is wavy in its texture, and in closer inspection, seems more window than mirror.

“A gate…” Vergil spoke. “Don’t approach it.”

“A gate? To where?” Quellon queried.

“Hell…”

All the Ironborn present do not speak after the declaration, to much signs to say otherwise, to many evidence to disbelief. All the powers that have been shown, all the magnificence and horrors. “So, what do we do?” Quellon asked.

“The prisoners… tie them tightly, if you can find a chain, all the better.” Vergil ordered. “Bring them here, right in front of the portal, here where I draw.” He stabbed a particular place in front of the portal, not far, thought not near as well.

Quellon ordered the men to bring the prisoners to their place, Vergil kept drawing a certain shape onto the ground where the mark is place, continuing his work even when the captives are being moved. All of them writhed trying to escape, with most paralyzed in horror as they realize their surrounding of death, decay and demonic.

The other Ironborn watch on intently on the antics, whatever they need to stave their attention away from the moaning of all that has been staked.

They and also Genna also watch on as Vergil is committed in his drawing, carving in a circular motion around the prisoners with words of unknown language and lines of shape makings. Genna in her curiosity approaches closer, her eyes glint for a new teaching, anything to move forward in his academic mastery of the mystic.

“This is?” She whispered, unconsciously as instinct took over for her curiosity.

“Seal of Solomon…” Vergil replied. “One of the many seals of power used to exorcise, command or take power from demons… Or any entities, whether divine or mortal.”

“A seal? And what are the prisoners for?”

“Commandment trades… This portal is the strongest portal in this world, and therefore would be the quickest to grow stronger to accommodate my needs. I’ll use the prisoners’ blood and soul to bind it…”

Everyone is disturbed as the sorcerer made his statement, the quivering came again as implications starts to return to their hearts and mind over the planning of the sorcerer. They start to whisper to each other, in haste and fear. Carlen wishes to speak in turn, but wisdom came first before he could and let the elaboration is put to rest before he interjects.

“Hold on… This portal?” Genna said. “Bind, what do you mean bind?”

“Yes…” Vergil answered. “In this case, my binding would ensure that this portal would listen to my heed, and to fastened its growth to accommodate me. A human sacrifice is the most powerful trade one can give. With them, I can change the rules.”

“…”

“Enough with the bleeding heart, I’ve released the prisoners you found to be useful… These are rapist, murderers and salt to society. They’ve made their choice.”

“I can’t—”

“Later…” He spoke. “To far and contrived to explain, and I need to be in haste.”

As he finished his carving upon the ground, he unsheathed Yamato and drew blood with his hand. His blood encircles the drawing around the prisoner. All of them whimpered as the ritual commenced, pleading of ransom and other kinds of beggary goes unheard as a storm slowly comes and the grunts of pain becoming louder.

“Are you closing it!?” Genna questioned.

“No…” Vergil whispered, but he can still be heard despite the noise. “I’m making sure I can enter it.”

“What!?”

A bellow of a beast now thundered the ground, the body of the Naga above starts to move.

“Why!?”

“Not now…”

The shaking of the earth becomes stronger, all the living bodies impaled upon the stake are now fidgeting inhumanly, their bodies moving with cracks of bones and pus of blood…

“Something is happening again!” Carlen shouted.

The prisoners fight for their lives, even attempting to dislodge their own limbs to escape.

“Stop! Whatever is happening, make it stop!” One Ironborn shouts.

Underneath all of the chaos, there Vergil stands with unnatural calmness, cleaning his hands with a napkin from within his coat. And flinging the thing away rather gracefully. He lifted Yamato…

And sliced the prisoners apart…

The portal exploded.

The Naga roared.

Rain falls…

---XxxxxX---

A head lift itself up from beneath the sea, its size is unspeakable, with its eyes the size of castle Pyke. The scales light blue, the color of the young ocean. Where the ears should, fins are there instead, a silhouette of yellow and dark blue on the edge of it. Now all saw the edge of the body that covered the skies and lands. And now it starts to speak.

“Those who dare to disturb me… SPEAK”

Every vowel a thunder, every breathe taken a storm. Some men froze in standing, others to their knees. Genna is among the former, looking up with tears in her eyes. The same is said for Quellon and Victor, the rain hides their strands of lamentation. Vergil however, fixes his collar and move forward.

“YOU” The Naga notices him. “My Portal has been overtaken by your doing; I can sense none of my essence within it any longer.”

“The Portal belongs to me…”

There only one greatness remains over the storm that dance furiously above them, one man against a beast of supreme proportions. His coat be like wings, bellowing with the wind. And everyone else hides behind his shadow, where they hope the gaze of the monster would not see them. A faint hope, but they tried.

“Brazen feeble human being… Admirable bravery such as yours serves only to be my slave… Or my food!”

“Attack…”

The Naga heard his voice and look to him with narrowed perplexity.

“Attack now… Your threats are not amusing.”

“You, insignificant swill. I, Lotan will swallow your whole existence!”

Lightning struck of the bones of a Naga, as It lunges towards them.

And the head becomes bigger and bigger, perhaps even as large as a quarter of a small island. Its teeth shown itself. A million and one they are numbered, prepared to grind anything within to mush. Quellon closed his eyes to avoid the gaze of death, but instead shot open once more when an explosion of a thousand gale came.

It was a moment…

A simply small moment of a microsecond, but the Naga who calls himself Lotan sees it…

What hides beneath the blue coat, the sword that he wields. He looks human still, but not what hides beneath…

What true power resides in his blood.

But it was too little too late.

In the frame of the next moment, Vergil made his move. Yamato unsheathe and sheathed in the same time. with a slicing gale that numbered a few hundred are released…

Black blood soar through the sky as Lotan felt a part of his face mangled apart along with his left eye…

The monster recoiled back and screamed…

“You.. you…. You…..” The Naga tried to find the word, but the pain is unbearably great, the bones and fleshy pile is falling from his left head. “That sword… That power… I know you…”

He tried to find the name, the name of the knight, the name of a legend. But his long memories fail him, and thousands of year slumber did not do well for his wits…

---XxxxxX---

Hours before the Naga’s revival and Vergil’s Arrival on Grey King’s Hall

The journey towards the Iron Islands have been unremarkably stiff and silent, unlike the argument made before his departure. Tygett has little inclination on speech craft and intrigue when compared with Kevan and more so to Tywin Lannister, thus when the sept came and elaborate their intention to follow the Lannister fold to the Iron Island, it escalates to vehemency.

The sept has many debts in lieu from his father Tytos, and they have had a generous sum. Their sudden demands have been found conceited. And then the young lion come, and some already call him a great one. Tywin agreed swimmingly, with the same wavy tone he equipped when he humored an opposition or other parties.

Kevan smiled as it happened, a face approval so clear to be seen. It’s not until the sails has been taken by the seas and wind that the blunt truth has been made from the subtle. “The sorcerer’s influence is becoming great in the Westerlands.” Tygett recalled the words from Kevan. “The more of the pious followed us to the Iron Islands, the less they have power in our lands.”

So Tygett rested his head upon the main cabin of his ship, feeling foolish as the waters swayed in the middle of the narrow water path between the islands. There has been no hostility as they arrive on the Iron Kingdom, one would expect a retaliation would come from the conflict, but the occasion has been more than just bizarre. The land and seas are empty…

His thoughts made designs of paradigm to make sense of this brazen occasion, not even a simple Ironborn patrol has been found wandering the western seas of the Banefort. But when there is none to be found on their own part of the seas, the storm would bend to a paper first before the Ironborn could be unquenched from the lands.

The thoughts and speculation would’ve continued if not for the sudden shake and storm of the seas…

As Tygett looked up to the sky as he is nearing Old Wyk, a great beast the size of a world roams above…

---XxxxxX---

Pillars and land masses raised up to the sky, becoming platforms upon platforms for the Son of Sparda to make stepping stone as he sliced apart scales and fins apart as he goes. In intervals, Lotan would send great giant rocks towards the Ironborn group where Genna lies. But everytime Vergil would simply disappear as a blur, and sliced every momentum towards them to dust passed onto the wind.

The next second, he would teleport closer to the beast, flipping and swaying with the wind as he let his sword dances with his hand. Flesh upon flesh falling to the seas.

“Name Yourself!!”

Lotan demanded, the size of Vergil’s stature betrayed his true power, though he does not seem to be in a demanding state. Still as a statue in a second, the next he would rend any opposing forces.

“Focus on the fight, don’t get bothered, you’re to slow to have that privilege.”

---XxxxxX---

During the Fight

“Do not fear!” A Septon shouted, his hands raise up to the skies. “You have seen the hands of god fell upon the devil kin of those who opposes the seven.”

Above him looms the ever-moving body of the Naga, coiling the clouds and piercing the space between the stars. The sail and flag of the seven stars still move towards the great conflict still, faith and fear fighting for their places in the spirits of the faithful on their ships.

“Do not think that great size trumps over conviction and strength of will! Numbers have come towards Lannisport! And you have seen what became of them! Meat to feed the seas where they belong! While we succor upon the blessing of the god that has come to our world!”

A roar of pain is heard, a squeal shrill and in turn the scaly hide above them shuddered as well. Blue swords appear, shot forward like arrows towards the giant rocks that flung all around, the size of a giant spear piercing and destroying everything it touches.

“Look! Look upon the clouds and see his boon in constant! Sword of fair and just protect those that come bearing believes upon his power! DO NOT DOUBT!”

---XxxxxX---

With great size comes great cost, even to a demon lord the ever-constant rules of life and nature is still in place. His is a being of great power, and with a spell of his making, an island could’ve been submerged, and with great anger, perhaps a continent as well. It was a long while ago that he has been tested. Once by his father, and then by his better…

His father is dead now, turned into an island that now is being used by the frail human beings below him as home. But one of them is no ordinary mortal, if at all. The cost of flailing his power against the very same men has led him to utter exhaustion.

Shaping water into an ice spear numbered a hundred and each a size of ten mammoths has been turned to flakes that falls to the sea once more.

Summoning of great numbers of his Merlings shares the same story, their blood covered the lands…

Aiming upon the group of humans that lies on the bones of his father seems to be a sound plan… attacking him and those that seems to be cared by him could divide his attention and take his focus.

But he disappeared and appeared to slice away all attempts of such to failings…

With a great desperate attempt, Lotan decided to lunge forward to eat him again, to rend him to pieces beneath his fangs…

T’was a great mistake to attempt the same move to a powerful and intelligent foe, now almost all his teeth are shattered…

What comes next is an arsenal not of Lotan’s summoning, spears, swords, arrows and simple energy appeared above the skies and seas. They are azure in color, seemingly as solid as mirror and harder than Valyrian steel.

They come crushing down to his scales, pinning parts of his bodies beneath the ocean… Guttural beastly roar spread the oceans.

“Why!?” Lotan questioned desperately “Finish me!”

---XxxxxX---

Fear no longer present…

All the confusion has now been away, though the questions remain…

They are all standing now looking up…

All stories spoke of men with great strength or those who sacrificed to be farsighted.

One would sacrifice hours on practice tenaciously, others would sell their souls…

One would abandon other means to perfect one aspect.

Many would train the sword yet abandon the work of scholars, others would have it otherwise.

Others would do both, just to be a median above in all things. Far from remarkable, enough to be capable.

It is unknown where Vergil would be placed amongst those categories.

Have the water dancers in Braavos be as acrobatic as he is? As he flipped and sway from one small rock to the next, with one foot on a single stone when it would’ve crumbled even under a child’s weight…

Quellon can’t recall any men who wields strength to cleave a part stones the size of a boulder, much less a castle…

Sorcery is supposed to be an intangible works, one that needed great sacrifice to do, a specific work that needed procedures confusing even to the higher minds.

And how many swords that the sorcerer conjures? How many shockwaves from swords? Was the inhuman speed the works of magic or his pure strength?

Lady Genna have been found using sorcery, though a paltry work compared to the man himself.

Quellon questioned, what do they have that he and his family does not. Is he not a descendant of men and mer?

The rain still falls to his eyes and cheeks but Quellon stares still unblinking to the skies…

His lords and men do the same, some in a sitting position, some standing, but no fear remains as they watch the epic…

Morin’s corpse is still rotting as it is feasted by the Merlings that uses his daughter’s voice.

Marlo is still clutching the spear that impaled his two sons to a stake outside of the Grey King’s Hall. Crying still despite the earth-shaking fight around him.

So much happening So fast… Quellon could not fathom, none of them could, none but one, and he is still fighting the Naga.

Quellon watches as lands raised to the clouds, beams of light shot out from the Naga’s mouth and the sorcerer slicing it apart. Watching everything under the symphony of the storm above them, unblinking even as the raindrops hit his eyes.

The Iron Islands is now another world of its own.

And as the days passed, it will become unfamilliar even to the elders of this time.

---XxxxxX---

Not far the king watches the fight from his ship.

The Baratheons are confused of the news given by Jon Connington.

And the Starks and the North bewildered by the sudden earth quake…

Garth Tyrell the gross has been found insane by his own family over his claim of a sorcerer that lives on Lannisport…

The Vale distressed by the divide of the faith.

Dorne, feeling only a slight shift, ignorant of all things to come…

But all of them will have their place in the story.

All things in time…

Notes:

I'm sorry for the long update, in truth my thesis is done and im due to graduate on december. I took some time to make rest and partake in recreational activities to soothe myself.
Anyways, this chapter might be more expressive than the previous one, and there is a reason for it, though one i think you all might know.

I'll elaborate on what it is, but be warned, knowing this could SPOIL what would happen in the next story, despite the cryptic nature.

Firstly... Grammar, let me know.

Secondly... This chapter is actually divided because the things i wanted to cover on the notes on the previous chapter is just to much to be put into one chap,
I apologize.

now onto the explanation.

With Vergil's entry to the world of ice and fire is a breaking of a status quo. Political intrigue would cover many events on this story. But the Son of Sparda plays an entirely different game, one with different rules and more powerful pieces. There will be conflict over politics, whether Geopoliticking, Familial relationships between noble houses, Internal and International cold war through trades and embargo, armed conflicts etc. Just as you found it in the real asoiaf. It makes you wonder... how would it all be, if such a heavy being that is above the rules could do in such infrustructures. especially if he decided to introduce... certain divine and demonic advancements, if he make use of his heritage and his home time will tell.

And as advancement reaches to the hands of the Iron Islands by Vergil, they will play a game of their own against each other, one that would seem the politics and game of thrones in Westeros a prospect not wise to follow yet.

Thanks for reading and stay tooned.

Chapter 16: Great Beast Felled

Summary:

The battle against the Naga is concluded, within the sight of all the eyes that mattered.

---XxxxxX---

The ocean shows its blue hue in a dim, the men of the shores stare at the waters in turn with hidden awe, though the smile they wore shows their pleasantry. It has been weeks since the coast have shown its elegant colors, though in a great while and rarely does the seas would show its splendor towards the surface waters, never was it seem so prominent until these days.

Instead of collaring small school of fishes, the waters depth glows in a greenish blue gleam, more so at night, where it dances with the stars above if its not blanketed by the grey clouds or mists. A glow unlike any other or any day. A glow that pierces through the water’s surface, and dances above it. so verily similar to a fog or mist, yet structured and with layers.

Like rainbows that shows without the rain they kept appearing, and they did not hide for the whole of these days ever since the fogs hides the land of the Old Wyk, ever since the great rumors of a sorcerer have invaded the old castle Pyke, a sea away from the Great Wyk. Fisherman steer clear of such heavy works of evil, a flung and a swing of an axe has its use, but seldom the men of the Iron Island does it in godly work.

Rarely do voices speak of the men of work that corralled themselves onto the sea, works of sweat for bounties of marine, whether the flesh of a fish or metals or gems hidden within the waters. The reavers spoke so noisily and the clash of their steel is just as loud, that the honest men of the Islands are seldom heard.

“Men of the Iron… Men of the Darkness…” So many have spoken, as if they are synonymous. A sentiment often shared by Greenlanders and all those who hear them in nod. Unfortunate for both parties that the saying are not made in falsehood, for how could they not speak of such, when the vessel that spout away from the Iron Kingdom are often the loud reavers more than they are traders.

Above the water surface however, sails the banner of the dragon, slowly but surely it marches on, as it already sailed away from the open seas and entered the narrow waters of the Iron islands. It was a peculiar journey as they arrived, strong winds yet the light of day is bright. The breeze stirs against the sails and the tides, burdening the wooden creek of the ship.

“Has the Iron Islands always this odd in nature Gerold?” King Jaeherys asked, hands on the railing, his bottom seated on the side.

“I wouldn’t know in face value your grace… But the maesters writing of this place state of grey skies and heavy rains often.” Sayeth the lord commander.

“Must be a good day then…”

The ray of the sun is strong, it clashes with the pale king’s skin yet the chill winds affect him greatly more than the warmth. Clouds are lofty in number and shapes above, yet the graces eyes narrowed as the very same white garden above moved and parted unceremoniously, very unlike a natural cloud. “All of you, look to the skies, what do you see?” The king commands.

They all followed in their sight, everyone that heeded the monarchs’ words. Head lifted as they examine the blue vista, everything between the clouds and the light of the sun. it was more than a moment, long enough for the rest of the crew to be perplexed by their doings and followed suit in their curiosity.

“Your grace?” The lord commander spoke, “Do you see anything?”

The king stands at last, slowly but the eagerness is apparent. “Above the blue skies…” He spoke. “Something is moving…”

The lord commander’s eyes narrowed, his head fidgets and mouth grunted softly. He looked up once more though with a tint more doubt than before. There, a fragment of a phantom lingers moved, a figment of a gargantuan thing, with its lines marching like an arrow like scales of a lizard. “I do not know what I am—”

“Something is in the waters!”

A crew of the ship bellowed, pointing forward towards the island of Old Wyk. Some still enraptured to the odd vista above, but Gerold Hightower is not permitted to be off guard, stationed to protect he king he march to the front to see. And there he looks upon the green lines that dances above the water’s surface. Dim and bright in some parts, yet for sure they made a line.

“Not something you know!?” Gerold questioned.

“None ser! Never seen the like!” The sailor answered.

A redundant question, bearing in mind the confused look of all the sailors but the Kingsguard must be wary. Slowly does the ship draws closer to the green and blue glow, the eerie sense grow stronger as though the wind blew just as mighty, everything else is silent. There was no gawk of birds nor the waves of the sea sound as loud as it usually does.

“What should we do!?” One crew mate deigned to ask.

“We sail forward… as we should—” The king found himself besides Gerold, looking upon the lines as many have as well. “Your grace… we should sail on… correct?”

“Yes of course.” The monarch replied, a slow glee hidden within. “This begs more question, and just as much more incentive. Full sail if you can goodman…”

“Full sail it is your grace…”

The sailor joined with his contemporaries and the order is made to sound, the sound of drapes falling from above and the wind carried the wooden vessel swifter. The king held on to the railing, eyes wander to the bright seas and the moving phantom above. “Is there something you can tell me?”

“Your grace?”

“You’ve spent some of your time in Hightower and the citadel once, no? Gerold. No parchment that would hint of anything?”

“None, your grace as I’ve said… my hand wields a sword hilt more than leather covers. My brother would know more.”

“Of course, he or the—” The king points to Old Wyk.

“Or the Reavers, your grace. Naturally…”

The crown watches on in front, and the lord commander anxiousness amplified. His hands restless as does his instinct, it grows worse as whispers starts to breeze to all ears, darkening in tone as the ship is a few minutes left until it touches the dancing lights. The Warrior’s heart took over, and Gerold’s fingers wrapped around his sword, lessening his wariness slightly. Gerold decides to speak

“This does not bode well your grace…”

“I Agree…” The king replied.

“Wisdom dictates we should turn back…”

“I disagree…”

Gerold harsh breath let out from his mouth, the lord commander tightening his grip. “To much uncertainty is in place, your grace. Would it not wiser to send for someone whilst we await on Pyke instead?” His eyes still focused on the nearing light. “This could be your end…” He ended grimly, a sure word said with stern. With great hope he spoke in such to convince the king.

“The work of magic is strong in my line, Gerold. Who else to send if not for myself?”

“You are sick…”

“I am always sick.”

“You are heading to danger.”

“That’s why you are here…”

“You will—”

“My order stands…”

Gerold closed his sight briefly, opening them again as the frustration seep out from the bones. In Lannisport, the sorcerer’s feat is spoken in absolute, especially so the closer one is to the sept. doubt is only spoken by travelers recently arrived who were absent on the Ironborn invasion and those who questioned their own eyes. the latter ones are foremostly scolded by those who do, and they are many.

Had the travesty of the rumors stopped at the Smallfolks, Gerold would take it as the ramblings of the feeble, and then the Marbrand concurred, then so are the Farman and the Crakehalls. Bear in mind Lady Joanna and the Maester as well. “If the feats of the sorcerer ring even slightly true, then our position would be heavily compromised. In worse of all affairs, we would be struck down by a flying sword before we could even see his face.”

The king smiled towards him, solemnly. Until eventually he spoke the words with a soft tone. “The Lannister circumstances speak of his civilized demeanor…”

“So, they say… with the corpse of a Reyne and a Tarbeck wife hand’s mangled.”

“Due to his patience being tested…”

“Then he has little patience and even tinier self-control…” Gerold adds. “Being in his presence could be testing him… We could be testing him as we speak…”

“Gerold…”

“I do not fear him, your grace.” The lord commander’s voice soothed in hope of persuasion. “If you mistrust a simple messenger then send me…”

“No longer doubt the sorcerer’s powers, have you?” The king said, smiling as he does. Kind as he is playful at times.

“Of which that I am certain is that if his rumored powers are proven true, then I cannot protect you properly when you meet him comes the time. I must work on all grounds of state, this includes the most abhorrent of all circumstances. And the worst of this is that I may fell without guaranteeing your safety…”

“Lady Genna is accompanying him, with her as an envoy and advisor for his cause… That should speak much of his civility…”

“You can’t know that…”

“Please Gerold, enough…”

The ship passed the bright line above the sea…

And the darkness came to the open…

“By the Gods…”

Mangled creatures of the depths surfaced themselves as they plop out of the waters concurrently. Man in shape only and scales that gleams and oily in texture, all of them swims towards Old Wyk.

“Your grace…”

The sea that was once blue, is now pitch black that rivalled the midnight…

“Dragon…”

The lines above the clouds now shown itself in its more tangible form…

“Turn the sail!”

A snake that twists itself on the sky, a drake like creature that has no limbs other than its head on the edge…

“I gave no such orders Gerold! SAIL FORWARD!”

Yet there where the head lies, it looks scarred and maimed. It breathes out blows of ice and fire, all-consuming drift of breath that would’ve destroyed all. Yet it instead dispersed by another power, a shockwave that conquered the monstrous attack. There, a blue light glow brighter than the sun, even the king and his protector shy away their eyes.

“Your grace…”

“Order the crew to sail forward Gerold…”

“But…”

“Gerold…”

The blue light turns into a small dot far away, and with it creates another form of thin line. A wave is summoned in the air, hitting the dragon-like monster that blanketed the sky, its face partly sliced away. Though the wave did not stop at the creatures’ face as it travelled so close, to close to the vessel that carried the royal party.

Gerold grabbed the king in haste, shielding him as best he could. Had the shockwave be any more powerful the sea would be parted completely. The shakiness to strong, the ship split the Lord commander and his king. Their eyes met and the king’s order is seen clearly, there will be no other end.

“Sail forward…” Gerold decided.

“My lord!?” A sailor questioned.

“Sail Forward!”

---XxxxxX---

A gasp of air is forced, a struggling gawk with waters spewing out in not insignificant amount.

“How do you feel?” Tygett asked “Kevan?”

They landed on a shore, far away from the intended port. The tide that caught them pulled them away from the true course, unbridled turbulence creates an impossibility for anyone to take control. Even then the loud and booming noises that cluttered the seas and skies would mute any shouts no matter how humanly loud.

“I’m… not dead…” Kevan said in fact, not in confusion.

“Others could not say the same…”

The older brother still in laying in the sand, looked around the sandy coast. More than a dozen ships scattered its way to crash upon this land, many more could be found if the pair would dare travel to the distant. As he stood to look around, only corpses he could find, besides the woods and cargo. Some sailors in the sea, some can be found floating so near to the beach, so close to life but departed before their time.

“Why did we survive?” Kevan asked, yet confusion mired his face until he enquires the true question he wishes to ask. “How did we survive?”

“I managed to swim my way to these shores…”

“What? You jumped?”

“No… I was toppled overboard…” Tygett touches his left shin. “I hit a piece of wood on my way down, my leg still hurts… I still manage to struggle my way here. And then I saw you…”

Kevan stands, both brothers wearing nothing but noble travelling attires of crimson color with only a light gambeson above it. the trees are little seen, with only great plains towards the halls of great Naga can be seen from afar. But that is not what is most apparent.

“Its not a dream…” Tygett said.

“What…” Kevan’s eyes narrowed in confusion…

“You wore disbelief on your face…” The younger brother inspect himself lightly, exhaling a breath with his sword unsheathe. “I am seeing what you are seeing… This is not a dream”

There amongst the shores, the Lannister brothers look towards the horizon if not the sky as well. A great being that blanketed the world. “This is still the Iron Islands?”

“Nagga’s hill is over there Kevan…”

“I can see it…” Kevan replied firmly. “You know what I mean…”

“Yes, I do.”

After a moment of respite, they decided to move forward where the great dragon being waylaid itself. Where another entity is seen to fight it, a glow of azure so bright, the darkness of the Old Wyk is no more. They stride through in silence, the breeze of wind both soothe and chill their bodies in bothering. Yet they have nowhere else to go.

Kevan stopped on the hill that overlook the plains, and his eyes could no longer be the same ever again.

“Tygett…” He spoke in horror. “Brace yourself.”

In confusion, the younger brother reaches beside him. And looked to the landscape before them.

“How many stakes are there…”

“Unnumbered…”

“So many corpses, in each stake…”

“Who could’ve…”

---XxxxxX---

Not one pair of ears can hear anything, nothing other than the great roar of the titan above and the shrill of flying blades in glide everywhere all at once. Thunderstruck all around, a demonstration of forces of nature in place and in conflict. The heavy rain wields a greater weight than the ones of yesterdays and yore. Each droplet carries strength.

All Ironborn present remains watchful and unblinking regardless, wide open to the raging battle above. Quellon more than most, with the other foreign entity stare on with eyes of learning more than awe, Genna has yet to learn true power, only see. It is a haven of oddity, other than the lioness, the Ironborn seeming like a congregate of zealots in the presence of most divine.

Above, Vergil fling himself left and right, in distance no men could have covered even in the most unnatural of skill. The Naga would spew out icicles and blue flame, and the blue figure would clash in utter victory against the beast or would disappear to another place entirely. None can make sense of it, none of the men of Iron, of the Greenlanders or anyone who have arrived within the shores of the Wyk.

Not even the faith that have arrived, strolling in to join the Ironborn.

“What in the Gods damned hells!?” Carlen shouted behind Quellon. Quellon turns around to see another curious sight.

And there the overlord sees another pack of men clambering to reach their stage. Hundreds of them, wearing attires of silver, gold and white. Their armor shared the same scheme, all held the seven stars on their pauldrons, their chest or their outfits. Thousands wait as well outside of the hall where they stood and lie, most Ironborn look to them bewildered, some still look above in watch for the fight.

“You are trespassing!” Viktor shouted, Quellon decides to let his men handle the squabble, so entrenched he is to the Naga and Vergil.

Vergil sliced away all the ice that aimed towards the crowd, the only thing that reaches them are the snowflakes that remains of the sharp ice edge.

“The faith has no place here! You have no right!”

Desperate for any advantage, the Naga roared for his subordinates. Thousand of life spring forth from both the clouds in which the rain would carry them down and the seas where they would sprout by the strength of the wave. The sea creatures of the same foggy ilk of before, clamored to succumb the son of Sparda. Yet Vergil dances against the rain, and his slashes remain unseen. The creatures are made to become bloodwork all, their limbs or whatever remains, mixed with the air.

The rain turns to blood for a moment, as a thousand demonic flesh becomes liquid…

“All the land upon this world are Gods given, heathen! The faith belongs everywhere!”

Patience thinning, Vergil sliced apart the other end of the Naga’s face. The gargantuan beast’s wounds are now symmetrical, perfectly cut and scarred and halfway to death. What remains of the Naga’s ears, has been made to anchor to the ground as two giant azure blades fall to pierce it to the land.

“Did you not taste the air, Septon!?” Viktor unsheathed his blade. “All salt, and no signs of your gods.”

Attempt all he like to release himself from the blades beside him, the Naga could not be made to rise from the sands of the coast. His head almost fully sunk the whole island by virtue of outrageous weight. As he struggles to roar once more, he opened his mouth, another one of his greatest mistakes. As Vergil landed on his front and sliced apart the fangs, rivers of blood poured out from all the stump as the Naga is forced to swallow it all.

“You are blind to your own surroundings, filth… Look behind you, the warrior’s light shines upon us…”

The giant blue blades dispersed to nothingness, and the Naga squirmed upwards in great horrendous pain. Flailing his head in horror, the blood from his mouth creates a waterfall that flows down to his own body towards the sea. In a show of power, Vergil summoned a tint of his strength and it manifested itself in a stronger light, annoyed by the rain, he made one slash to the sky.

“He is not your god…”

“The statue of his likeness remains in Lannisport under his permission, Reaver. Bandy your tongue no longer.”

Mighty Is the wave of air that came from his movement, the slice itself summoned torrent of wind that immediately quell away any droplet of water however large or small. The darkness above and below the seas vanished, and all returned to brightness. The sun is seen once again and the rain remained no longer.

“What is this!? Septon Logan!? You are here…”

“Bless you lady Genna, it is good to see you safe…”

Coils of light came from the blue sky, as Vergil landed in the vanguard of the congregation, so to does a pillar of light rested on his coat and bearings. There he looks to be a messenger of all that is good to the faithful and everything strong to the Ironborn. No blemish whatsoever to his coat and skin, save for his hair that has fallen in droop and reaches his neck. Seemingly bored to the Naga’s attempts.

“Your followers are well equipped, Septon…”

“To serve, my lady.”

“With swords and armor!?”

“We all serve in our own way…”

One good strike, one quick move, and no longer Vergil waste his moments, the Naga is on the edge of death. “Mercy” The Naga spoke, but the son of Sparda’s face gave his answer without a voice.

No…

He made for a horizontal slash… and everything fell apart…

Whatever trees remained in Old Wyk is uprooted and fly away with the wind…

The stakes followed as well, with the corpses accompanying them…

The ships that have scattered on the coast and shores are desecrated and caught with the wind as well… Counting those that are not accosted…

“You… Your grace!?”

“Lady Genna, you are well…”

The Naga fell, his head crashed and rested inches away from the hall, Vergil stands upon it, the blow of the wind left him undisturbed. The rest of the Naga’s body no longer followed the head, being sliced apart in three courses. Each part of the body would part the sea waters, each one the size of an island, with the farthest one the size of almost a continent.

“It’s over already…”

“You’ve arrived to late your grace… perhaps that is for the best…” Genna said, surrounded by pale corpses and nature’s destruction.

The battle is over, and yet, the head squirms in life still. The Naga clinging to life with every haggard breath made harder by the blood still pouring from its long-gone fangs.

Vergil appeared in a blur once more, surrounded by faces he does and does not expect. To his front is his on-lady envoy, Genna, standing beside a thin man with a fitting crown above his silver gold head. In his left are the hands of Iron, men of the seas and axe, Quellon and his ilk. On the right stands a flock of dresses and armor all white colored no different than a dove.

“Who are they?” He asked.

“The King…” Genna answered. “And his retinue…”

There was a moment of judgement between the two, a trivial kind for the sorcerer, but a great deal of marvel from the king. Silver-hair is the only trait they share, otherwise, the royalty bears a lither form, unique even to the nobles and the others surrounding them. They are both hold fair skin unmarred from war and attires of the haughty kind.

“Genna…”

“Kevan!? Tygett!?”

Yet Vergil is tested so many times, and in most recent there are many who bears witness on the battle with the Naga, very unlike the king. To him, the monarch is a noble of man of just the same as any other kind that he has met, supercilious with thread sense of redundant elegance. If there is more to the person, he could not see it. Unimpressed, he looked to Genna for a second before turning his back to walk towards the Solomon Seal.

“Genna… you are unharmed.” Tygett march to hug his sister, Kevan simply smiled but it was only for a moment after he saw the sorcerer.

“Why are you here? Joanna didn’t tell me…”

For King Jaeherys however, no other words need be said that has not been describe by any other children of men that have shared his view of the sorcerer’s work. The mangled head of the Naga still whisper in a bellowed pain still as testimony of his power. A tall man the sorcerer is, higher than most nobles or even some, but a man he is in shape, yet not in strength.

“What are you doing now?” Genna questioned.

“I am sealing this portal here.” Vergil answered. And just so he lifted Yamato to the skies, the tip of the blade aimed squarely to the middle of the seal. And with a hard hand, pierced it through the land with the screams of a thousand harsh screams of hell. The portal squirmed not unlike the spasm of flesh, wobbling above the ground, incapable to disappear by its own will if not permitted by the greater power before it.

The sound pierced the bravado of all present men save for the azure man himself. Covering their ears as the gate to hell sound of pain is unceasing. T’was a long moment before the sound subsides, but even after then, most still held their fingers close to their ears, wary of a second coming. Vergil left Yamato where it is, holding the gate in place. He blurred towards the fielding of men once more.

“Do not touch that sword…” Vergil said. “You will die if you do, either by its own powers or by me…”

Not a second after the decree, he blurred away, appearing before the Naga’s mangled head. Though

---XxxxxX---

“Why….”

“You were in my way…”

The Naga snorted on that remark, cannot even forced himself to smile in this cruel occasion. The blood from his stumped teeth still seeped in a torrent, just as strongly as it is on whatever part remains with his head. Now that he is cut to three parts, the sea runs red just as well.

“I… We are of a folk… Why did you save these humans ilk.”

“They are more important to my plans alive…”

A cough is sounded, and veins of blood fell to Vergil’s feet. None have touch him, whether by respect or accident is unknown. The very same creatures of the sea surround them as well just as they surround the Nagga’s hall. Yet now they are in escape, some fled to the depths of the sea, the rest make way to the portal.

“Your strength befits the greatest of all kings of hell… but you bear a human’s mark…”

“I am the son of Sparda…”

There upon the shores of Old Wyk, the Naga halfly gasped and choked on the seeping blood. His eyes that were a slit and sleek as a tip of the spear gloriously widened, the snake’s iris in close seemingly as large as a two storied house, but they told of the same surprised just as much. Then the laughter came, the waters by the sand shaken slightly as he does.

He squirmed his way closer to the sea, soothing his wounds as undue as he could. His left cheek touches the sand, the great mutilation of his figure stiffened him significantly. But a proud look is worn instead then an anxious one that came before. He lay there in silence, staring Vergil in awe, despite the pooling blood that colored the sands.

“Then I shall die in glory against a superior foe of kin. Great was my worry that a human would rout me instead…”

“I have questions…”

“And I will answer…”

Vergil’s spine straightened; a goal achieved no matter how slight is a step closer to his true power. “About the portal, about you and regarding Mundus…”

Yet there the Naga answered with delight of all that is known and what is unknown, in which the portal mode of working is of similar kind to the one that summoned Belial in the Westerlands. A gate whom its invitation to the other side may only given to those weaker or of similar strength to it in kind, the stronger a being becomes, the harder it is for the being to enter it.

The portal can only accept those of equal strength to it, and it will disperse its strength if it does accommodate of such a case. Had the Naga entered the portal, it would take time until it recovered to let it entered it again, just as well if a thousand demons of a weaker stature would do the same, then the same could be said as well.

There is a limit, and each entry will cost it…

“Blood…” The Naga explained.

Blood will tell, blood will show and blood will reveal. Only blood may strengthen the gate just as it would strengthen the demon ilk. Let it be known the ecstasy of human blood to all things divine and hellish, for it enhanced all it touches. Hence the appeal of it to the demon kind. “For that is why I am here.” The Naga said. “To consume, to absorb and grow stronger… For it is in the human blood where strength is fed.”

“There is strength in demonic blood still…”

“Of course… Running wild and without halt, that is a demon’s blood. But it is a marred kind, a blood meant to empower itself, not to others. But human’s, they are of the luscious brand, pure fuel for all… Invigorating, and without equal. A tint of human’s blood is worth a river of demon’s”

The son of Sparda’s eyes narrowed with focus, he looked back to the gate where his followers await. With another slash he parted the sands, the lands and the plains. And the blood of the Naga flowed well to the parted soil, heading its way to the seal of Solomon.

“My blood will not be enough…” The Naga spoke. “It will add but it will not sustain your entry… You need more…”

“How much more?”

“The Iron islands would not be enough…”

A great price for a great portal…

The Naga gaped at Vergil still, the sorcerer looks upon the portal as he turns his back from the great beast. The man is in a contemplative state, torrents of schemes and plans rummaged within the coil of his thoughts.

“There is another way…”

Vergil made a glance, his back still against the Naga. It is still a puzzling interaction, the kind of due respect if there is at all towards the great beast is hardly sensical nor it is visibly apparent. They speak with each other yet Vergil seems to struggle to meet its eye in esteem, unlike the Naga’s opinion of his loftier foe. The decorum between the two are confounding.

“Say it…”

“Let me see it…”

“What?”

“I do not wish to speak with a human… Let me see it…”

There the wave upon the shores is somewhat stilled, the sound of pelicans is gone yet there they are above flying and encircling with its sister-kin the crows. As the Naga made his demand, the world watches on as well. The skies are clearer the very exact moment the question is asked, just so the animals surround them. Whether dears, the fishes, the birds or the squirrel and all of those in-between. The world is watching.

“Fine…”

The air is writhed with divine words, etched upon no solid matter, each letter floats, empowered and explode. Some even ingrained itself to the sand below the son of Sparda, for there he stands on fields of glass that was once sand. The sky turns dark for a moment, no other force of nature would intervene.

They turn to flee, all creatures that was once observing, and the portal quivered as it senses him as well, a level of strength that would make it gape and crack. The explosion almost fractured everything, the weight of the world seemingly disappeared for a flick of a second as rocks and sands and soil hovers to the air. Its only after the power stabilized and everything subside, that everything fall into place once more.

All except for Vergil. Coat turns into scales with four wings one would assume demonic just as well they would say draconic. Everything else turns to fickle, falling down from the skies all things rocks, shards of heated glass and the remains of the Naga.

“I was never a match for you.”

“The portal… tell me.”

---XxxxxX---

When the king and the Lannisters arrived at the halls of the what once was the Naga’s hill, the foremost thought and topic was nothing else but the mystical work of the weeks and months. All works of magic derived from all things are questioned without rest. From the event of Lannisport to what they were seeing on Old Wyk.

After the Naga fell upon the northern shore of the island, the sorcerer is said to reach it within a single blink. A great distance of land that would take twenty minutes on horseback full speed to reach the Naga’s head.  A varied show of powers that defends the island with paramountcy over all life, whereas the Naga would fall a quarter of the island, the sorcerer would cut it apart along with the waters.

There was a great heavy weight upon the air a moment after the lord sorcerer reaches the Naga’s head, the trees, the grass and the waters were silenced as another azure explosion is summoned on the north shores where they lie. Speculation came here and there and over upon the yonder. But not one can make a claim so true other than lord Vergil himself.

And in that, the man has no interest to elaborate. Ever so furtive in his endeavors with only Lady Genna and the overlord Quellon having the most of his attention, the former more than latter, and even then, it is still an underestimation. By the time the Naga is felled, the trust between Lord Quellon and the sorcerer is still short just as their interaction is just as low in amount and far in-between.

T’was Lady Genna where the bulk of Lord Vergil’s spoken words came in droves, and in turn the lady would come to speak to the lords of the Iron, serving as advisor and a conduit of power both. Though few forget of the lady’s capabilities on the clever craft of sorcery, for she has felled one creature of the damned and in such her standing is second only to the sorcerer and none have questioned.

The faithful of the seven star as well aid upon the cleaning of the Old Wyk, after the sorcerer made a great one slash that decapitate all the spears that staked upon the lands with corpses, they would gather the remains and pray for their save keeping with the light. Bout came between the Iron and the faith, yet quelled quickly due to pragmatic reasoning and lord Quellon and Lady Genna’s intervention.

The king od the seven kingdoms demanded an audience with the sorcerer, but all have cringed upon it. hands made to quiver as they expect another works of blood against the royal party. But it never came, and the words though reaches the sorcerer’s ear, it is said that Lady Genna soothed the acts and words and let the issue to be made in the coming times. For all is in great distress and horror.

The Naga’s influence over the works of men is still too recent to be discussed nor to discuss anything to all that has become victims to the beasts’ horrid acts. The writhing corpses and the creatures of the depths lingered still on the coils of their minds.

Thus, one week time is agreed upon to be a time of respire…

And until then, all the lords and the king make time for schemes, intrigue and politics. Multitudes of question thrown to each other and an open feast to subdue away the distress was made, but the sorcerer would not be found among them, and so does Lady Genna’s presence is few in attendance. With only her brother having seen her in often.

Scouts travelled around the island, for more oddities to be found, and there they found more than a few. Most of all are the corpses of the Naga still scattered across the seas… creating new islands and a continent.

Remains of sea creatures blanketed parts of the soil, retrieved for further studies…

And the head of the Naga, still alive on the shores, with none dared to approach…

Saved for one…

And maybe two…

As for the rest… they have to compromise and looked to the gate of hell that remains upon them. Watching with intense curiosity.

---XxxxxX---

“Are you ready?”

“Then you have no more questions?”

“No.”

“Then let our forces be joined.”

A Sun’s gleam is shone, and the Naga’s head turns to a small orb the size of a man’s torso…

Here shall kinship be made as hard as earth and wind blew the banners of the water’s surface…

The light is grasp and along came the thunder of brawn, there the beast roared once more upon his hand, foaming the shore with the quavers. He looks to be fey; the blood of his father ran wild upon his conquest…

Like the forefathers of old before Pluto divide the realm, his sapphire coat covered the land with its shadow, Lo! There he stands the very image of death, with a new weapon in hand.

Long in chain and just as steadfast and sturdy, writhed to infinity there upon its edge one would find a scythe longed to fell the worst of all foe. Taller than a dozen men it sprang. “Kusarigama.” The son of Sparda spoke.

Twist and flail like a whip he made the weapon to use, all that touches the chain is stroked and choked and those who met the edge of the bladed curved steel is swept into dust of crimson…

Standing upon the sand he is no longer, assailing the air as the wind becomes him…

He stopped the momentum of the force and see the weapon writhed itself on his arm, with the blade rested squarely above his palm…

And the wind that carried with the weapon is now fallen along with the sands…

“Not very classy… but I can make use of it…”

He made his way to his domain on former Naga’s Hall, returning to those who would call him master…

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

its been a month but i think i am going to be honest with this, i've hit a semi-writers block (I think thats that right thing to called it). The image of how the fight would go has been in my mind this last month, and honestly i think i didnt do it justice as i see it in my imagination. I've been re-reading the Lord of the rings and Silmarillion as an inspiration and example to find the proper way to describe the battle epically but honestly, i think i'm still lacking on that.

I actually know how this first part/arc/season? would end, and i presume that i actually have enough lines of the story in my head to make at least thirty chapters. I'm just struggling to find the proper words to describe them. woe is me for being a fan of how Tolkien is very fantastically descriptive in his story telling, the man is legendary in that skillset. This is actually the reason for the pseudo-long hiatus.

In truth not as many things happening in this chapter, as the intrigue and politics would heavily take place in the next chapter. I hope that is swell for you guys, i believe that the next one would have a waterfall's worth of words for me to make for all of you ASOIAF fellers. This chapter seems to have a tad bit more DMC from what i can surmise.

Also, something for the ASOIAF fan to know, i made a tad mistake and make some changes for it. Tygett is actually supposed to be Ten or eleven years old in the time the story take place in canon, so i altered it, making him only a year young than kevan and two years younger than Tywin. (Tywin is 18). Thats it, there are no other changers than the ones Vergil has forced naturally...

Know that i am actually working on another fic that is still in writing but that doesnt mean i'm hiatusing this story. Its still going to be updated, though i cant make any promises for when, cause apparently, i cant seem to keep my word on that regard.

Tell me if you guys can understand this chapter, i hope i describe the weapon and the battle well. Grammars all and what not...

Chapter 17: Schemes arising, Part 1

Summary:

Short respite after the fall of the great beast, time and rest enough for the mind to make moves before the body can act.

---XxxxxX---

Blue skies, Heavy colors of green to the horizon and the sounds of the sea, peaceful and wavy, dissimilar to the air that surrounds everything before. There are seldom no longer any signs of demonic entity, save for the gathered corpses and trinkets shattered. All have fled, they fled in droves unrelenting to the depths of water, even before the Naga’s head touches the sand.

Men have gathered above the ruins of the Grey king’s Hall, Tents and Placements of various colors, more of Red and Grey and Black, Lions and Krakens with a tint of a Dragon near the centre. Drums of footsteps as heavy as the free markets, loud talks of wonder of the recent kind. Great burden is the horror of yesterday, but there stands still a strange figure.

Seldom there are talks regarding evil corpses of vile origins, at least compared to the particular one of present company, and he is no corpse. Standing near the portal that lingers on without any moving form, Vergil watches on from its outskirts, his thin blade still pierced to the floor in the middle of a runic circle.

Only the remains of an odd weapon circling his arms, An Iron chain with a short blade on its edge.

“The King wants to see you.” Genna spoke, hands twirled in front of her, slight angst in bothering him.

“No.” Vergil answered.

“He will come here himself.”

“Then your King will die, act accordingly.” He answered simply, eyes still on the hell gate, lips thin and straight.

Genna sighed, Vergil disregard it. she walked back to her tent, where there are family present now stranded with her on this oddity of an event. Kevan stands with hands behind him, formal and amusing to her, Tygett sits on a nearby chair, stern faced and hand still on grip with his steel, protective. “Progress?” The latter asked.

“None…” She answered just as quickly, taking a nearby chair beside his younger brother, leaning back with subtle frustration. Her attire is simpler now, a loose blouse that covers from beneath the neck to thigh, with a tight trouser for ease of movement. Both brothers’ winces at the sight at first, rare to none are the days they see her costumed in a modest kind.

Though it was a brief argument on that, both boys spoke in scolding and then they turn to threat upon the sorcerer himself, thinking that Vergil has put her in a most blatant peasantry position. She walks them back softly with words half a whisper and soft, concise as well as her mother did despite the raising voices of her brothers. They meant well, and she appreciates it so.

They will do their part either for love or duty or both.

A blue hue covered the nearest mug filled with wine, it flew to Genna’s hand with a well-trained precision, the air struck to the brothers’ throat, the view of magic still an awe to them, despite the gargantuan spectacle the days before. “It will take time for us to get use to that…” Tygett said, as Genna emptied the wine, the heavy gulp shows well enough of her thirst.

“It took a week for me, so you just need to wait four more days.” She let out an exhale, a composed one, an air that comes from a job well done. “Even now I still in disbelief on what I can do, I woke up everyday to practice it immediately to make sure it was real. I hate it to be a dream I awake from…”

She said so as she twirls the empty mug in front of her, sitting in a kingly manner, her head droop beneath the collar of her blouse.

There are no days passed without her practicing her ability, each tint of trial made her feel free, secure and proud. The progress has been more than a great success, at least to her. At Pyke she could only lift a heavy piece of meat, now she has lifted a table, a chest and three swords and shields all the same time.

Genna has been dancing mad outside and inside the tent, like a maiden blessed by every god each morning. Once she pushed three men that mistook her for a common lass of a great comely figure, it was no ordinary push, once she extends her hand with certainty, all those flocks of vile men are impacted with a force of an elephant tusk.

Two of them swiftly fainted, the one that remains panted with great pain, once he sees the golden locks and green eyes of a lionheart, he immediately turns to forgiveness, her attire is the reason for their approach. Her heart was fluttered with ecstatic pride then, head held high over her magical act made with instinct. There she is certain great progress has been made, so she let them go free due to her own great mood.

After she reports to Tygett and Kevan, naturally the slight cannot go unheeded, and the very same men that intended to assault has been put to the gallows by Quellon’s prerogative, both brothers made sure of it. In truth Genna scolded herself to let her merry heart and moment let her shield waver, had all those men survived they would’ve aimed against a meeker lass.

It will not happen again.

“So, you’ve decided then.” Kevan spoke. “You will stay…”

“Its not as if we have any other choice. I have been given more gift in this one year, than any gold of our mines could give us tenfold over.” She answered, soft glee with her. “There is much here that Tywin have not seen, and just as I presume, he has seen much of the change in Lannisport due to Vergil’s coming. He may doubt still now, and thus that Is where you two come in.”

“He is always set in his mind; I doubt he’ll listen to me.” Tygett sighed. “I argued with him more than I should during the war, he’ll lend his ears less to me now.”

“Always speaking your mind everywhere, sweetheart.” Genna fixes some of Tygett’s hair away from his eyes as they droop. “Kevan told me at least you’ve deigned to do it in private on the stepstones.”

“Mostly…” Kevan adds.

Genna grin slightly before she continued “Don’t make assumptions that our brother’s anger is permanent, and present circumstances are unique. I scarce doubt you’ll have to wait before he starts asking questions… Especially with this one around.” She pointed at the other brother.

“Be that as it may, we’ll fare more better if you are around. You know much of the Sorcerer’s influence well than our words can reach.”

“Joan, was there with me as well, Kevan. You’ll find my knowledge equal to hers.”

“Bollocks, you are practicing magic as we speak!” Tygett replied incredulously. “Unless Joanna hides something from us as well…”

“No… You’re right” Jenna sighed. “Vergil speaks more to me than to her, I hardly can say otherwise with all of… these.” She put down all the furniture lifted from the ground with her mystic, standing up after to stretch herself. “Joan, looks from afar to ensure my safety around him… Most times…. Sometimes… but all that needs to be said, she can say just as well.”

As all the flying objects were placed well neatly onto their proper locations, the two brothers flinched. “Must you do that so—”

“Can I…” Tygett interjected before Kevan can says hie piece, standing up behind here with expectant eyes. “Is it… Can we…”

“I think you can…” Genna answered, hands on her hips, tone of suave as she usually has. “I mean, I did it, and I told you why it can be… I don’t think there’s a reason you cannot, unless it is a power given by chance…” The very second his sister mentioned the game of chance, Tygett’s features darkened slightly.

“No, it can’t be.” Tygett spoke, words aim to convince, to himself more than others. “The Targaryens ride dragons, brothers and sisters and parents all. If one blood of the same family can do it, then all can—”

“Let’s not make a hasty conclusion.” Kevan spoke next. “Magic is wild and unwieldy as the old tales suggests. Even the Targaryens have members that never held dragons before, and even then, they’ve lost the knowledge entirely. That was more than two hundred years ago.”

“Gods! We know little to none of the workings of the dragons and their riders, for all we know Jaeherys and his contemporaries could’ve just barred his children from the dragon pit for various reasons.” Tygett said, dissatisfaction dawning to him. “I’m speaking of the first Jaeherys of course. The records have been questioned many times and have all been discarded now after Baelor…”

“Sweety… I’m sure after all of thi—”

“You don’t need these workings of magic; you’ve done well so far with your sword for your family. your name is already etched on stone for your deeds on the Blackfyre war. We have other things to tend to, other than this… Devilry…”

“Kevan… Calling this Devilry is to—”

“Other things to tend to!? This is a power long bereft of touch from our family and you call this something trivial!? You saw what the sorcerer and our sister can do and you think this won’t serve our family well? I do wonder if you have the will to be any other things than just a servant, Kevan. The shadow becomes you.”

“YOU—”

“I have done nothing but to tolerate your outspoken manners, in war and in house. And now you speak to your elders this way! Perhaps Tywin has the right of it, Tygett, perhaps you move better with your sword hand than your own mouth! And if this is the course of our interaction to me and your brothers then just as well might you sleep in the barracks along with all your fitting kind.”

Before the argument could escalate to a brawl, Genna put her hands to the both of them, so close as the two men are face to face, close enough to buttheads. The building emotions within the younger brother however was too much to make him stay in place. Instead, Tygett swipe his head away from them and face himself on the wall of the tent.

Kevan’s lips fidget, but other than so, everything he carries are calm and collected, no indication of rage about to march out. Genna’s worried breathing becomes the loudest sound in the tent, none of them are willing to face her eyes, attention given to other mundane things instead. “Is this the kind of arguments that you mean as light? Should I even ask the number of times this has occurred in the war?”

None answered.

It has become unnumbered the amount of her sigh that has escape, a gesture that reliefs her for sure, but it tends to become stale. “Tygett, there is no reason to rise to anger over this. When the time comes, I’ll see what I can do…”

“You will? Will the sorcerer—”

“He won’t… He already told me that I would be the only one he taught. For my service granted that is.” She hugged him from behind. “But after all is said and done, and all these issues we have has been resolved. Then I could spread it to the rest of the family.”

Kevan quirked his eyes on that statement, flicking his brow. They spent a moment of awkward silence until Kevan sat on the other end of their sits and Tygett returning to his. The wind blowing into their current abode, as Genna pour wine onto their mugs. “Cooler heads prevail.” She said simply, smiling as she met their faces.

“How about a spar? I want to see how it could be done in battle.”

“Tygett?” Genna chuckled disbelievingly.

“You’ve slain one monster with your magic, no? Try it with me, all non-lethal like naturally. I want to see—”

“Outrageous request aside… Such as trying to put our sister in harms way.” Kevan intercepted once more, glaring to his brother with disapproving stare. Tygett scoffed and put his words aside before Kevan continued “You know what this means… Your abilities and your connection to the sorcerer alike, you know what needs to be done, surely?”

The room becomes cooler, Genna look to him with eyes lazy and attentive. A silent moment between them, their mouths quivered, unsure of what is next to say. “There are many implications of what you say, Kevan. Say it as it is.”

Kevan gathered his breath before speaking. “This power, we… that you have acquired. It cannot fall or spread into another hand.”

“So we ARE agreeable then…” Tygett adds, grinning as he laid back.

“What I mean to say is that now the sorcerer is in another land outside of Lannister’s influence… If anyone else could—”

Genna spoke before his turn “Reductive… The Iron Islands is heavily in our partial control, one-fourth of the men here are Lannister’s now, small by face value but we are—”

“Yet still we stand on foreign ground with heavier foreign influence.” Kevan halted her, the wind breeze from the outside came strong and mighty to his aid. “All that needs to happen is for one convincing noble bard to persuade, and you’ll find us standing even on the ramparts with other names and houses.”

“Kevan, I have brought you no doubt thus far, pray… see me in a much more valuable light.” Genna replied, eyes rolling. “His patience is equal to our eldest brother, if not less so. He found merit in my decision-making ability on the works of silver tongue and ladders. As such, he will find no reason to make use of other influences so close to his hand, for he has other interest entirely.”

“Other interests… such as…”

“I…” Mind flung onto the pit of the unknown, still she stands in the middle. “I don’t know… You already seen the portal, its higher works, one still far from my knowledge.”

“It’s a HELL gate.” Tygett Spoke. “In the middle of the ruins of ye old king of reavers and banditry. I know this from the whispers of all knights and iron men present here. Your skill is valuable but one need to ask the present dangers. Should we not be wary of what may come through?”

“Whatever comes through he will handle it.”

“Genna, we’ve seen the giant leviathan dragon soaring in the skies days ago… How quick do you think he will reach you if its to be so again?”

“He’ll not only do so, but he will do it immaculately…”

“I did not know you’ve placed this great trust upon his word… or is it his skill, Genna?”

“If only I could show you, Kevan. We are all…” Words hard to give away from her own high blood of men.

Her birth and rights have always been stated in great droves by lords and common alike. When a word comes from a Lannister’s mouth there can be nothing else given but the expected discipline and stern stoic works of servants and soldiers alike. When blood runs high in the order of lords, you control the fate of a kingdom moving as one to affect the others as well.

Descendant of first-men or Andals, and Rhoynar. They submit to life’s cruel nature; all things have a price and death and illness comes naturally to those unwilling to pay or incapable. Out of power they came, whether by money, steel or oath. Then out of the blade of grass hidden by the Westerlands hill he came. The sorcerer, the son of a greater that indeed has been dreaded as death.

When any manners of army or steel can be swat away from a turn of the sword by his hands, what use are the order of things and Westeros. Then he faces a demonic entity in guise of a dragon, bringing beauty and terror in the field of battle, until eventually the beast also met its end. Against such powers what use is an army of men with meager steel and even lesser flesh.

Thus far, he has never even seen Vergil wounded or scarred. Skin left unblemished, that a woman of high standing will always covet, and strength undiminished that man of great lords’ stare in envy. The corpse of Reynard Reyne rung still in her memories. And she could never forget the smell of the deaths on Pyke. Terrible atrocities no mortal tongue can tell.

But is the price that has been paid, for is it not the trade the Ironborn covet in their sayings? To pay the iron price. It is in due time it came to their hands instead, and here they all stand no different a slave to nature’s cruel law just the same as any other men but one. Fall to ruins and hurled backwards to the forgotten annals, now what remains are the new dawn of steel.

Much needs to be said to Quellon Greyjoy, the men that stands and surrounds him now are golden armed aimed for the interest of Westeros civilized way. They are in peril not, for there is little to be said of where they stand. flocks of the overlord himself, of trade and planning and schemes. Brutal and blunt as the Ironborn has always been but with none with the harsh hunger.

Least for now and for what I’ve seen, Genna thought. Salt wives are still taken from the stepstones and reaving came just as strong. Even the great lords must compromise against numbers of traditions.

“This is still outrageous…” Hear the voice of Tygett, standing and pacing on the shadows. “Gods… of magics and demons and dragons… All in one island, and in our own very home. This is madness, madness… This is not a story we can easily tell to anyone! Much less to Tywin! I do not doubt what comes next…. The Seven Kingdom will change…”

Sometimes Tygett wanders to close to Genna on his pacing, in that moment she rubbed his back in comfort with a hand and a word. “I will write a letter to Casterly Rock. We will write the contents together, and after which you two will go home…”

Her name’s exclusion to the journey back brought toils of worry. “I am staying…”

“Tygett!?” eyes wide and a sigh came from Kevan.

“We are here to retrieve her, she decided to stay, we see her making progress for our family’s value, so ill stay to ensure her safety… I take this duty on my own, and I will not hear anything else from him, any labors or cares he intends to give me, he shall burden it to someone else.”

Kevan stood for a time, eyes wander from brother to sister in pace. In heart, there he knows the decision has been made. And better he made the brother to be her neighbor, not the rogue men of iron that cavalcades on this island. Indeed, Tygett alone may not rue the sorcerer’s whims but for a relief of heart… perhaps…

“As usual… You leave the responsibility to reason with Tywin, to me… alone…”

“Everytime, he lifts his eyes from the paper or his sword they wander to you.” Tygett scoffed. “He’ll not second guess…”

“A gargantuan corpse of a dragon still encircled the Iron Islands, if he still wants proof he’ll sail—”

A messenger came before Genna’s last word spilled “My lady” He huffed “The King wishes to see you, now…”

Eyes widened and dread, she made her sight wander to all eyes in the tent, standing up and gathering her bearings, she marched to the exit until a hand in the shoulder stilled her so. “Wait.” Kevan said. “Wear this… At the very least make yourself look presentable.” A red coat is summoned with a Lannister Lion on its back, made of good leather and sleeked with wealth, Tygett put it on her.

“I brought it in case I tire on armor.” He says, the coat is only as long to her knees rather than ankle. The black fur on the collar brings out her blonde hair just as its dark red color brightens her skin. “Looks good, a mane and red.”

“Alright, thank you.” Genna spoke. “Now wait here—”

“No.” Tygett says. “We are coming with you.”

---XxxxxX---

Quellon can still hear the vibrating sound of the damned gate. A ripple of water and air conjoined into a whirlpool that lingers in the air, that is the only apt way for him to intricate it. So close is his tent to it, the sound made it difficult to slumber on, much less the fact that he stood so close to it more than the others.

All encampments of various houses surround it in truth, but Quellon made a gesture to stay as close to the Grey King’s Hall as courage permits, Portal to hell be damned. Still the others of his vassals followed suit, Stonetree and Tawney is as close to his large tent as he is to the gate as the gate is to the sorcerer.

If there is a rise of an event, the Ironborn will be the first to know and the first to act.

With armor ceremonial in style and a coat as black as the shadow hovering over it, Quellon spewed out from his tent. Blinded half a second by the light of the morning, he moves forward towards the man himself, still facing the hell gate unmoving and without rest, or perhaps this is his ways of resting, no different than a statue staring at its foe, like those gargoyles of the Citadel.

Quellon moves partly in forced courage and a tint of scrutiny, T’was a simple notion for the mind to escape to the baser instinct, how often have he returned his thoughts to simply have himself return to Pyke and simply leaves the issue of the sorcerer to the vassals. But many things have been laid bare, and the marching that he made thus far has shown clearly of the impact too large for him to ignore.

A man with the kind of strength to move part of the world such as he did will eventually gain strength of many kinds just so, a following and believers, of offers and tributes to appease and to make way for appeal. Had the circumstances aligned of a different kind perhaps there are salvageable conclusion for his people, but some have their own share of pride…

And thus, they make way to suffer themselves for others behalf…

Harken Harlaw’s attack has been devastating to the confident the other Kingdoms have to the Ironborn, whatever faith do they have left even before that and insofar. Golden opportunities have revealed themselves and more than some are taken, Iron and lead have their demands on the east, and the Iron islands have more than a share to provide.

One thought over many for him to contemplate to… How many have gone to ashes due to this simple yet colossal breaking of trust. Slight hope Quellon have that whatever happened in the west most continent of the world, will be taken as lightly as it could possibly be for his dealings on Essos.

That is if he could even survive this one exchange with the sorcerer and the many more to come in the coming days…

“Lord Sorcerer…” Quellon called, even tone and spine straight as the winds from the gate came to bellow his coat and shadow.

It was a speck of a turn, a movement so petty and short one could only notice it if they truly scrutinize. The largest of its sign being the one strand of hair falling to his forehead that shows the slight turn to Quellon, the only indication that he truly does hear his voice. “My man told me you have need of me?” Quellon simply states, even in fear his deep voice still vibrates on the hall.

“I have orders for you and for your men, deliver them to me concisely and as quickly as you can or face imminent death by yours truly…” The sorcerer states his warnings. It was with no tone of demand that it has be given, no slight sound of authority, spoken as if it is an absolute truth in the making.

Perhaps it is the way of it was in the home of the lord sorcerer, to say and to be obeyed, a will that if rebelled could only lead to no proper end. To be reminded that for all the lands owned by blood writ by ancient ancestors, Quellon held no power other than what is bestowed and even that is in this time being tested each second. He did not bother to say a word, only silence that tells the sorcerer he is listening.

“Gather as many men as you can here, on to this island. Fighting men, Smiths, children and even woman that you can without compromising these islands health.” The Sorcerer spoke, his back still turned towards the lord paramount. Shorts words given unquestionably, silent came forth, no further voices necessary to explain himself.

“For what purpose?” A question delivered with whispered breath.

In intervals the dead silence always comes, unknown to Quellon if its to let the heavy burden of authority to overwhelm him of if the Sorcerer is truly in deep thought on the request. “For war…” he shortly spoke, nothing more that is to come.

“I…” Quellon’s eyes are stalemated to Vergil’s figure, though the temptation to look away for any illusion of safety is strong, he braved through. “Against the Seven Kingdoms?” He asked still, composed voice barely retained. The king is near, as the bold demand is made. Yet events that has occurred made it seems such a lesser made order.

“For any war…” The sorcerer simply said. “That is all, depart.”

The wind strengthened, both capes and coat fluttered by its strong breeze, drying whatever drench of sweat that fall to Quellon’s forehead. A small man, he thought of himself, standing before a being of unknown limit. Should this development not be said in the presence of the Lady Lannister? Quellon thought, as the usual procedure have her make a more balanced request.

Yet the other hand is revealed to him, for would it not empower his position to take this request without any other authority. Details in and out would be under his control, as much control as the order pertain it to have. “And after the gathering? What would you have me and my people do?”

Vergil finally turns his eyes towards him…

Everything seems dark to Quellon…

---XxxxxX---

Carlen paced everywhere as the words escaped his liege’s lips. Distressing order, heavy as well, pressure came to his being, every itch known to a man’s body revealed itself to his scalp, his hand scratching them to appease any sense of confusion and wariness that came in great droves. “This would be a level of madness I should expect for a man of his caliber. Who would’ve thought…”

Victor eyed Carlen as he moves around, his own opinion is stated out loud. “These ends are known to us ever since the man intends to rule over us all.”

“Yes! But these burdens are unprecedented!” Carlen replied, a stern voice covered In whisper, even in quite the distance he feared the sense of the man himself. “Hundreds of thousands of people gathered in one island WITHIN one month!? This will destroy production! Trades! Dealings!” He looked to Quellon. “Quellon, we need more than a month!”

“The first demand was actually a week…” Quellon answered, Victor and Carlen eyes widened as they hear, silenced until the flap of the tents becomes a calming sound. “And he expected… a million.” He smiled as he stated the figure, the absurdity of the circumstances would be humorous if not for its devastating implications. “Had I not haggled, we will be in a cage with no way to escape but to discard our nobility…”

“Why!? What kind of war!?” Carlen questioned, even hunching his back with a look of desperation. “Besting The Seven Kingdoms does not need to have that many number! And with his own strength, he might not need any number at all! With the Lannisters on his hand as well, the battle is already won! NO ONE CAN SLAY HIM!”

Quellon look forward as thoughts ran through every wrinkle of his mind, both men present watch on as they stare him being still and unblinking. The Stonetree lord made a sigh, though Carlen still keeps to focus on his lord paramount. “Surely he—”

“After the gathering, he intends to teach us his ways of war.” Quellon spoke, a hopeful raised of a brow as he moves his lips.” He would have us be ready for the fights to come, immediately with no ceremony or any kind of formality. Everything he can, from magics to the body itself. I know not the intricacies of his training, and I would ask for more comes time, but I have tested his patience and not dare to tread more…”

They all look to each other, Victor Stonetree finally stood from his sit, hungry eyes came through. “He would teach us… Just as he did the Lannister Witch?” Lady Genna’s capabilities are now well known to those who spectate the sorcerer’s venture. Where groups of men struggle to kill a demonic beast, she would do so with a wave of a hand.

And just so, images of kings and gods of men wringed through their minds and dreams. Of lords holding powers upon their own throne, on top of mountains and wills made true through a wave of their hand. Of great lineage of unstoppable strength, came from teachings of great arts and mystic. A kingdom made through rulers of most divine…

Each of these lords have think these same things yes, of ambition and pride that reaches the sun, and in time perhaps they will reach it in body as well…

They questioned if the Valyrians of ye olden times have had these kinds of strength beyond human reckoning, to have the powers to cleave a land in two, where hundreds of thousands might live and think the land itself will never fall beneath the sea, to live with the presence of such being that could do so and they not know it. The power of the absolute.

But this could not be so, for even the Valyrians have their limits. Is the doom as devastating as the great beast Naga that the Sorcerer have disposed not a while ago? they questioned. Would the same doom that has befallen the Freehold, the great home of Valyrian that has been taken by fire and ash, could end the sorcerer as it did them?

Even then, if such being exist, some should have survived such disasters. Would they not have the power to reclaim the world or retain it as it was? If a margin of the strength summoned by Vergil is under the behest of those that came from Dragons, surely the Century of blood, where Valyrians are eliminated by the droves, would not have happened… they should have been unstoppable.

“No…” Carlen said outright. “This is a new power… Unknown to the known world…”

“This could be our chance…” Victor adds

Both men looked to their paramount again, half a smile but fear still linger on the edges of his hair. “We stand now in the entries of a new era… Short the time has been for these kinds of advance may be… But it is here, and it is so close to us. I must agree to his demands…”

Else the Iron Islands will be subject to the Iron Thrones will

The Lannisters already have an early start towards this power, there is no time to waste.

“We must move immediately!”

“Not yet Carlen…” Quellon interjects. “The king will speak to the sorcerer; we will hear what he has to say…”

“When…”

“Now…” Quellon answered him. “They are moving now.”

Unknown to them however, Genna has reached Vergil first, and has been told of the order he gave to the Ironborn…

She was not amused…

---XxxxxX---

Notes:

Let me explain myself, and honestly, ill put it short. My laptop gets botched on the new years eve, its fan was rattling for a few months before it, I thought that it would all be fine since i am using it strictly for writing and documentation (So no heavy programs), thus i ignore it. Woe is me, it turns to smoke one day and all my files got deleted with it, along with the fanfics and work stuff that leads me being off the grid and have to put focus on my work since i am at the edge of being fired.

Over thirty chapters is lost... months worth of work, and i didnt save it to my cloud/drive.

Fortunately the plotline is still in my head, so it would still be a smooth sailing from here, as im now typing on road already traveled.

Apologies for the delay.

ANOTHER THING ABOUT THIS CHAPTER:

In truth, this one is supposed to have more words than what ive given to you right now, but since one of you has been waiting so long enough to ask if the fic is abandoned, i felt bad and upload half of the chapter here and will continue to write the rest and finish it in a few days.

Im sorry if it seems short to you, i just want you all to see that the story is not dead.

There will be developments between the king, Lannister and the Iron Island on the next one. This one is to establish the offer and early plans, more to come later/

Also... Grammar, etc. Lemme know.

Chapter 18: Schemes arising, Part 2

Summary:

Nothing going as planned, sharp schemes turned blunt after first contact with the sorcerer.

---XxxxxX---

Specks of sounds is not a notion that would bother the Son of Sparda in his usual routine, as one would travel the lands of the earth, it comes naturally that diverse noises of the milieu would parade through his ears with every step of his sole. Despite the grim journey that he settled to have for himself, it is not uncommon for him to appreciate what comes around him.

It came to him many times at night more than in the hours beneath the sun, when darkness travels farther than the light may shine, other senses make themselves stronger in turn. Respite comes rarely to Vergil, and when they come, they stayed briefly until discipline demands him to continue his journey once more.

He sees and hear so much more than the nature and training of human man can ever be capable to do, the limits are simply the horizon, but he has no eyes on the back of his head, and some creatures hides well in the nights and shadows. Amongst the hunt of demons and practice of swords, he never did deign to entertain his curiosity. There are things more important at hand to pursue.

Thus, in his venture he would either continue on moving, or train mid-way as he walk or ran…

Knowing little, and understanding even less on what is around him. Click of crickets, growls on the shadows, the packs wolves thinking he could not see or hear them, sound of brimming fires from afar or signs of a village with laughter of children confirming his judgement. At times he would walk besides modernity, passing cars and bikes and the talks of people and radio overflowing with news from afar…

At times as well he would stand still to listen on to the rumors and news from the latter, technologies have a knack to show what the medium of taverns cannot. Despite hiding in plain sight or otherwise, demons and monsters of any kind would crack through to be foretold by the news anchors. Most would find them gibberish of madness, Vergil knows better.

There is nothing like such now in this new world he is trapped into, everything is returned to the days of yore. Where steel swung still reign before the advent of firearm, Birds carry messages instead of lines of pole and stereo, and the gap of power and their voices is wider than he remembered, kings and peasants.

Vergil finds a great merit underneath all the mundane however, new world comes with new knowledge, and from what he has learned perhaps the mundane is only for those who do not seek the strength he believes to be amongst the ruins and castles of these petty man. Regardless of the primitive stature of this place, he will always appreciate scholarly works, books or scrolls.

Though he cannot ignore the voices as he did when he was but a wanderer now, plans has been made and he is no longer only responsible for himself. He is facing a hell gate with tents of proclaimed nobles stood behind him. With only a large handful of them he can claim under his domain and control, and the rest he deems to be unnecessary clutter.

He listened for it is necessary now, he has plans for each one of them, bar the fold of the king…

And now a familiar footstep came near…

Genna came with a coat of red fitting her shoulders and her waist, still she wore the ordinary fit beneath it, shirts and trouser of the dull kind, but considering the noble figure of shining hair and green fleck as her eyes, any outfit would seem glorious it seems. Upbringing between the high-class leads to better growth I suppose… Vergil thought.

Despite how all humans bleed the same, some wear better skin than other it seems. Genna’s figure seems to be just as unblemished and shapely as Vergil thought a noble would be, somethings just cannot be hidden. That is simply just a fact… Vergil thought, nothing less or more… right?

“So…” Genna voiced herself, Vergil is awakened from a half of his stupor. “I saw Lord Quellon speaking to you from afar as I walked here, what did he want?”

“Did you speak to the king?”

“What did Quellon want?”

“…”

“…”

In his eyes, Genna has become more challenging as the days passed as well, there is always a wildfire within her, just as they are to many he met of course. Despite the apparent weakness they have, humans having bravado is a common thing to happen. A shame that in his eyes, it does not often equate to wisdom in turn, a weakness Genna seemingly have in balance with her good stratagems.

“This is where I stand until you speak a word…” Genna dared.

Its easy for her to develop her skill as a noblesse, the common man would have no proper training nor education to make use of their spirit. Genna has no such blunt and dullness, to her it has been this way ever since the first year of her mother sharpening her, and as the years passed, she grows all the clearer.

She talks often of her mother to him, of her grace, beauty and skill as a lady. He could recall some of it, she spoke often about it during magical practice when they are resting, all things that are sensical as a daughter would have. He numbed his ears every time she would bloat on about it, but once in a while some knowledge seems interesting to him…

She spoke of her mother’s eyes staring proud, and of heroism only a lady could have. What was it again I wonder? Vergil thought, something did take his attention as she spoke about her mother… Something essential, a thing that summons goosebump that even his hair stand as she droll on about it. Why did I forget it? Vergil wondered.

It must be important…

“Your eyes didn’t even bother to wander…” Genna awakened him again from his stare. “Does this coat make me look fat?”

“I summoned Quellon.” Vergil answered. “I gave him orders…”

“You… what…” Whenever she has her eyes widened, usually when events of awe occurred. He recalled every progress she made, every level she broke through and potential reached. Its as if she returned to a childish ecstasy again, with giggles and vibrant movement to match. He remembered the first time she manages to lift a book with her magic.

She had hugged him then, and he despaired by the touch, it was warmer than he liked, heart beats faster. It is only a feeling he ever have when he fought an enemy, it should not come at such occurrences. He growled then, and she let go immediately with a whelp.

It happened a second time when she broke through another ceiling. Though a growl didn’t stop her, he actually had to push her then.

Though now is not the time to recall of that droll. Vergil thought

“You make decisions without me!?” Genna said, temper rising. “I… Why have you done that!?” There was more than a tad bit of quiver as she learns what she wants. No fear, but frustration beyond ken, at least not one Vergil is interested to know. She starts touching her hair, long and golden, fallen to her shoulder and almost to the waist.

“Relax…” Vergil said. “It’s a simple order, nothing complex.”

“Well, what was it!?”

He told her of course, lightly and smoothly, with the straight tone he always equips, with the rhythm up and down as he usually has. He told her of his demand to gather well and fit men and women to the island that they now stand, of the time he wishes for them to arrive, and of course on his plan on what to do with them all.

All people waiting to be molded for his plans.

Genna’s figure grew straighter after every word that came from his mouth, fingers vibrating, the breeze did not ease the pain that is numbing her head. Had she lack a modicum of self-control, her nails would’ve dug up to her face and scratch with the hardness of an escaping cat. But she kept her ice, and all that came from her frustration are sweats on her forehead and shaking hands.

“Why… Why would you demand such a thing!?” She asked, there is vibration behind her throat, hoping that she could spit fire to show her anger. “Why did you not wait for me!? Do you understand the heavy choices you’ve made!? The opportunities you’ve squander by forgoing further negotiations!?”

“I don’t need further benefits, I will see them obey me now, if not then they are of no use to me.”

“You haven’t told me WHY!?”

“I need to know their self-restraint, their discipline…” Vergil answered, eyes closed again and turning away from her, her chastisement are often exhausting to him. “If they fail on my demands then it says much about them, and I shall know their worth.”

“So, you pushed for a mountainous gathering here!? All in a month!?” Bewildered she further asked. “On a war, that you have not told me at all! And that you have told Quellon first? Why haven’t you told me this before!? We could have planned this!”

“I don’t need them going to you for every will I wish to give them…” Vergil relied, the first words came with a sudden shout to silence her, it worked. “They are here under my command, they will learn to obey, under My command.”

There was a moment of silence after his stern voice, he lifts his head to look at her to find her fidgeting and filching after his raised voice. Vergil sighed as he recalled she is just two years younger than him, sixteen years of age Genna is, and honestly still be a child by his view. Though he sees himself more mature due to his more unique circumstances… but then again, doesn’t she share those circumstances as well?

She managed to find her voice. “I’ve repeated myself so many times of our plans, delicate as they are, they are imperative to make great things flow. We could have made your demands more sophisticated than they are now… Would you not want you rule to be abided effortlessly?” She said so which such softness of a whisper.

“My sit as their leader is not enough.” Vergil said, cooly. “Understand that you are all humans, humans with human limitation, and you will all learn to take unnatural order at a moment notice or even in a less ideal situation than that. This would be my first order to test it, it is not even demanding that it would shatter your lives, that comes later. For now, I wish for my subjects to be here, fast.”

“What… Tests?”

“You don’t think I came here for some petty place for me to rule, did you?” Vergil asked, a dreaded thing came now after he said the words. Turning himself to her again, their eyes met.

“You saw me killing a giant dragon leviathan, a hell gate now kept open in here, before you right now…” he continued. “What… you don’t actually believe im here for simple rulership, do you?”

He walked in circle around her, eyes only halfly opened as his mouth scrunched up in amusement, hands behind his back with Yamato on his grip. Genna never let her eyes wander to anything else as she follows his movement, eventually he stopped where Genna would turn her back to the Hell Gate. Until of course, Vergil grabbed her by the shoulders with his hands and forcibly turn her back to the gate.

She yelps…

“What do you think is hiding behind that?” He asked, another rare find of a smile grace his face. “What do you think I’m planning? Letting such a thing freely floating in the middle of this dreary grey island?”

Had circumstances been different, perhaps Genna would confront his smile as another sign for her to pursue for more prying, to know more of him and his history, A delighted man is a vulnerable man, they will see the best in you and intend to for you to see the same to him, her mother once told her. But the movement behind the gate takes her attention more than he is as of now.

Shapes of all kinds wrapping and encircling the lands beyond it, of creatures of many origins awaiting challenge or the satiation of their urges…

“What is… What is in there?”

“You really want to know now? With so little you have for yourself? I admit you succeeded in slaying that petty demon before, but I don’t think you are ready to face whatever is hiding behind that gate… not yet at least…”

It was paltry if he has to say anything about it…

From the history and experienced that he has learn, Hell was often a word filled with tales and warning of woes from various dangers. From the complexities of diseases and addling of mind, to the usual destruction wrought by its own denizen, to men and other creatures both. Regardless of which, naturally it would be a sign of power, influence no matter dastard or shadow by nature, if it can change the will of the world then it is power to Vergil.

I don’t feel anything impressive… Vergil thought…

Though it has been quite a while after his bout on Teme-Ni-Gru, enough whiles have passed for his power to grow enough to see many things as speck, grow quickly but not quickly enough. And yet, too quick for the portal before him to accommodate. The rules of the otherworld are as fickle as it is complex, a living portal to another world that is also alive, yet as well can only allow creatures that has equal or less power than it to enter, else that it would spurn into destruction attempting to transfer a strength beyond its limit.

It twists him to a scowl knowing that the entrance to more strength is barred ironically due to his own.

Temen-Ni-Gru has no such restrictions, weak or powerful alike, they can all enter the hell gate that came with it regardless. I suppose all things have a cost Vergil thought, sacrifices are not an unfamiliar prospect for the son of Sparda. Thus, now he waits here in length, for any other development to come. Which of course, came forth not a while after his contemplation.

He looked back to Genna and realize his last words to her have not been taken well, a thing all elites often have. a simple criticism or any words that points out their flaws would be taken with animosity.

“Try not to be angry…” Vergil warned. “I’m not in an amused state as well if you must know.”

She was still enamored between what lies behind the gate, but duty calls and with discipline long instilled by family and old habit she went back to the case. Yet she hears the calling, despite the words she wishes to speak to the man before her. There is something behind that gate, a familiar felling, a voice she often heard. What was it? she thought, for there is an allure, and her sight becomes wobbly as she puts it into focus.

“Why don’t you focus on me…” Vergil said, striding to block her view from the portal. And whatever appeal that came from that entrance to hell, something else has shielded her. She sees it faint as it is, a blue spark and hue that glows around him. Vergil seems like a wall in front of her, lean and giant at the same time. Is there a difference between him and the rising sun?

Whatever thought came on that regard, it squashed away with business falling to her head yet again.

She shrugged and rubbed her face. “Damn this, we’ll have to focus on the topic at hand… Why did you offer to train Quellon’s army?” Genna asked, no matter how slight, Vergil can always pick up her condescension. “You do realize what that means in all things that we have to do… what it means to the Seven Kingdoms, the people here, my people and let’s not forget out plans!? What could spur you into this I wonder?”

“You don’t need to know anything but the fact that I need an army” He simply said, not bothering to turn himself towards her.

“An army…” She scoffed, slumped with frustration. “You already have an army, why would there be a need to train them?”

“This army?” Vergil scoffed in reply. “What army do you see? If all this rabble of violators and bandits is enough for you to offer as an army than it is a poor offer.” Hands resting behind his back, a sideline turn for one of his eyes to meet her before he continues. “I need men, real men. Not these poor excuses of a flock that forgets which part of the axe to hold. If not for the sheer necessity of effectiveness, I’ll do it for the class.”

Genna halfly agape on his word, a feature of an awed smile before aloofness comes reigning in again. “Oh, I see…” Her tone came like music, a subtle mockery. “Do tell me how is it that training and giving power to thousands of people with history of rape and pillaging can be of interest to you, your grace. Oh, I am sure you have a very refined answer waiting for me.”

“I don’t have to answer.” Vergil said, brows raised. “You just have to follow suit and do as I say as I make my way to my cause. Even if it leads to a… numerous amounts of immoral acts, it’s their fault for being weak anyway. They deserved to be plundered and violated.” He turned his back towards her again, although he faces her again with a glance before that and say the words. “Also, that red coat looks horrible on you…”

“I… You…” Genna stuttered with the sudden quip on the end, she finds her will with quick pace again, naturally. “And what makes you think I will allow this to happen!? You saw what they have done to my people, to Lannisport! You personally take care of it yourself and then you do… THIS? What is the matter with—”

“Relax, this outburst is just pathetic…” Vergil interjected. “I was joking…”

He says…

His face unchanged…

Not a smile to be seen…

With the most serious tone imaginable…

In front of a hell gate…

I can never read this man… Genna thought, as the silence fills into a droll awkwardness. She slumped, her spirit having been carried and thrown around with all the intrigue she has to face over all these times. “Will you please just tell me your plans on this whole thing, if not that, at least on this training you’re planning for the Ironborn. Give me a peace of mind for heaven’s sake…”

“Oh, I see how it is…” Vergil said, finally a playful tone came to him.

“You do?” Genna asked, halfly rhetorical, one brow raised.

“Yes…” Hands behind his back still, though now with a quirk of a smile as he faced her again.

Oh no, what is he thinking this time?  Genna thought.

“You… are worried.” He says, chin raised. “You think I would give them the same treatment as you have, magic and might and all.” Genna stilled herself, all the answers and words are prepared on the base of her throat, ready to shut down any schemes against her. Vergil continued. “Well, no need to lose your sleep over that, I have a different training in mind…”

“…How so…” She asked, barely even a whisper, perhaps too afraid to hear what comes next. She saw him scrunched his mouth, going back and forth from the hell gate to the encampment and back again to her.

“I need infantries, troops. Men to men guarding my bases.” Vergil said, striding all around her, looking at the ground as if it were a map, with legends and lines all over. “I need someone to hold the centers as I march forward, perhaps not enough to win, but enough to hold until I arrive. Enough for there to be a net gain, enough so this war is actually a war with an end.”

He looked back to her briefly, Genna twirled her fingers in front of her waist, her eyes look no different than a kicked puppy, now why would she feel that way? Vergil thought, perhaps the throngs of war is not an appealing possibility, in that he supposes he can understand. Regardless he continued his words.

“I need men that are not just men, they need to exceed not only the expectation a human should have, but mine as well. Being strong is not enough, they have to be abnormal.” The last word he says with a stern narrowed eye, emphasizing of what he wishes to will. “For they are not going to fight against the usual petty men, I need them ready to fight demons.”

“What… Demons…” Genna said, incredulous.

“Yes, demons. No more of this Seven kingdoms who are one idiocy, I will hear none of it.” Vergil said, a disregard wave comes from his hand. “All of these people can twist and turn fighting for lands and soil, as long as it is away from these islands that I have taken. Just leave me out of it… and any of my interests and subjects…”

“So… You’re not planning to invade the seven kingdoms…” She said the words with a relief, a subtle smile came to her.

“Yes… I don’t need lands, especially lands that are of no use to me.” He scoffed. “In truth, I have more than everything in these Iron Islands, by the time the few years comes to pass, this nation will be the very place POWER congregates.” He finished with a tone that suggest craving.  “Tell your king to leave us be, and have his way with the rest of the peace I would bring upon his useless kingdom. There will be no reaving when I am in command.”

The bliss of relief almost came to her as revelation comes that her family and the kingdoms might not be in danger…

Almost… her worries are gone only to be overpowered with another…

“We’ll fight against hell?” Genna asked, the worse is about to come and she knows it. “What do you mean hell, what do you… You mean, like those creatures we fought!?”

“Yes? It wasn’t long ago you faced them; you will face them again.” Vergil said, a rhythm of a lecture as he says so. “Though I admit perhaps there will be a much more… Varied danger as the forces of the otherworld comes to clash with us. Though I am sure it will be no problem to you considering you have most of my priority, second only to my ambition.

Perhaps many will die in the Ironborn side, but that is to be expected, not all will succeed, and those who die means they are never of use in the first place.”

“This is just… one thing after the other…” Genna voiced herself out loud, a faint is slowly coming to her.

As the days passed notions that she has never known all her life has been barraging her without any proper respite, all she knows that she has done thus far are making use of the teaching labored onto her by her mother. All those works of words and schemes working and manipulating the hearts and hierarchy of the kingdoms just to ensure the sensical would make way and to ease Vergil’s unknown ambition even to her.

Now she has to contend with hell as well in this journey, against another unknown aspect that could potentially maim the world at best, or kill her at least. “Tell me how would you prepare the Ironborn?”

“Nothing that would escalate dramatically.” He says as he exhales a breath. “After you help me gather and manage all the men and women here to form up, I will relay to you all the plans and procedures of the training. All must be immaculate, each soldier a testament of peak strength as they could be, and if its possible to be more than even that.”

He continued. “No need to believe they would be as capable as you, though, if at all. I’ve been spreading my senses to all these islands these last few days and I have to say, not all of them have the… potential that you have on our endeavor and teachings, that is to say, not all of them… but I have no interest to have any more trivial pupils. One is more than enough the rest have to make due being a simple drop in my army… Does that quell away your fears, Genna Lannister?”

She sighed, not all of them? Genna asked in thought. She had hoped that her powers and magics that she has gained to be an occurrence unique to her family. Though with the dragons that used to live by the Targaryens call and the seemingly mystical lineage the Baratheons and Starks would have, at the very least the numbers would be minimal…

Bastards and cadet houses… She surmised; she is a Lannister but she is not the only Lannister. And the Iron Islands have their own annals of magic as well, The Naga’s corpse already says much on that regard. But as she learns now and has been speculated in her contemplation, the magic can fall to any hands. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be worried as much as I was.” She simply says.

“Or at all.” Vergil replied. “But I understand on being cautions, one mistake is all it takes for great lost, but I digress.” He breathes out a fatigue air. “We will speak of this later, I am in a particularly good mood this day, I like to take a brief respite and eat something grand for today. Tell whatever servant that lies in that ruin castle there to prepare their dining room. Whatever food they have it better be more than adequate… I tire of eating raw meat and rats.”

“Raw me— I’ve given you food on Lannisport!?”

“I never ate them; I told the servants to take that waste and eat it for themselves.”

“Oh- you… The maids never—”

“Yes, they’ve never told you because I told them not to.” Vergil sighed. “The last thing I want is for you to runover the door and scold me on pointless etiquettes. No need to doubt their loyalty as well if you must know, it was due to my duress they obey me after all.”

All they both have done these days have apparently been gestures of good and bad that ends with frustration in the end aside from the major events, at least in Genna’s view. All those works in order to break away the layers of wall that shields him from her is not as quick to shatter as she expects, but perhaps this might her chance. “Dinner on Naga’s Hall then… in the castle that is…”

“Good… it’s about time I tell you the full plan of my being here. Now with the slaying of the Naga and my escapade on Pyke there will be no more doubts from you, this is the time for you to take this as seriously as I need you to be.” He says, now facing himself to the portal again.

In truth Genna has never been to doubt him, especially after his teachings on magic. But whatever skepticism left, it died the second that great draconic beast fell into the waters of the Islands. “Also, it’s about time we talk about your magical inclinations and your role to play on my true goal. There will be little to no rest after your King has left from thi- my domain, at least no more rest than necessary.”

“Right…” Genna replied, then it came again. The voices, multiple of them speaking at once, disorienting and alluring as they speak together. Her sight is pulled, no different than a headache urging her to look to a certain sight. It is like a daze, everything tilted yet the eyes don’t believe it to be so at the same time. She sees the curtain of the hell gate again, dozens of eyes looking towards her.

“Demons love human blood.” Vergil’s voice cuts through the delusion, a gravitas of recognition from the other side, as the eyes begins to dim, staring at him now instead of her. “Fuels them, empowers them, an addiction sweet enough for the most of them to forget their sense of survival. Which says much of its value, if not because of the sinful acts they’ve done, their will to live would’ve been commendable.”

The voices fades, just as the glowing eyes does as well. Deeper into the crevices where they came from, staying far away from Vergil as he approaches the entrance, he kept speaking.

“They have little merit to their existence save their lust for power and their desire to keep living until the end of time. There must be something so grandiose within a human blood for them to abandon such senses. They say it gives them power, but there are subtle and more effective ways to do so, they’ve done so in other things, why not the same in capturing human?”

He stood now at the front of the portal, the wave of voices dispersed like a sea cut in half, Vergil’s eyes are boring to her now as his head tilt, eyes staring, judging, still he speaks. “Only the greatest of the demons employ tactics, anything below them? Rampage and chaos the second they smell a human. Truth be told I never see the appeal to go so far for it… I don’t think I will ever do.”

There he stands on top of the seal he carved, Yamato rested on the center, he twisted and turn it, and just so the portal screamed. Whatever creatures lies before the gate now squirm and flee from it, only the dark landscape of ruins and blood lies behind it. Vergil let the Yamato rest in its place again, the portal’s scream slowly dispersed into a whisper until it eventually falls silent.

“At times if I squint, I see no difference between humans and demons. The second the things they value is seen or compromised they jump in panic. No elusiveness, no premeditation, just unrefined approach as they pursue their goals. As if the world will suddenly turn in their favor, believing that they made the right choice, and everything else will come into place.” Vergil scowled; something catches his sight. “I admit I’ve made these mistakes as well… and so have you…”

His voice is as far from amused as he can, eyes now on Genna, and they are growing displeased by the second…

“Why are you—"

“I told you I’ve no interest to meet your petty king…”

Enraptured, peaked in curiosity and entranced. Those are the words she would choose to describe her mistakes, so engrossed she is to the world of demons and divine that she so quickly forgotten her task here.

A sound of more than a dozen footsteps came from behind her.

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“Lord Tygett…”

“Your grace…”

The former bowed slightly at the coming of the sickly king, a subject that is a Lannister is still a Lannister. And Tygett despite being one of the youngest of them, retains still their pride. His bow is almost no different than a common greeting, a slight enough for Gerold Hightower to almost growl out if not for the king’s hand stopping him.

“I’ll not mince word; the sorcerer is above these stairs, no?” The king questioned, looking upon the rounds of stairs taller than three carriages, though he could hear the voices above.

“Yes, your grace. Though my sister would suggest you to stay. The sorcerer is fickle and petty, he does not wish to be bothered.”

“This is the king of the seven kingdoms.” Gerold replied, stern and proud, hand already on the hilt despite no enemies to be found yet. “And this is his jurisdiction, the sorcerer has no claim. Move Lannister…”

“My sister is up there, she is conversing with the sorcerer as we speak, I believe it is wise—”

Gerold unsheathed his blade, and Tygett in times forgotten his place in the grand scheme of things. Even in war of the Ninepenny kings, all men with red on their color would heed his orders, true commander or not. His uncle Jason Lannister leads the Lannister army, but all man with Lannister on their last name, especially so for the main branch would be heeded regardless of position. A habit created by worth of name, “I meant no insolence, your grace.” Tygett speaks.

“I know son, regardless, the idea of not meeting him is a far worse option than the alternative. Please move away…” The king said, softly, as if each word is slowly draining him away.

“None of your guards can protect you your grace, or my sister, please. Give her time, she’ll give you an answer so soon.”

“Whatever words needed to be exchanged it must be done so now. lest I will be stricken by my illness, and let myself unable to even stand.” The king says, holding back Gerold as he does with a slight raise of hand. The lord commander of the Kingsguard cringes at the crown’s proclamation, in his view, it was a show of weakness to the Lannister.

“You need not make excuses for this cub, your grace.” He speaks. “Let me put him in his place and we’ll be on our way.”

“Gerold, I see nothing but a boy with good will and meaning.” The king replied. “Will you push me away or bar me, lord Tygett.”

He did not answer, eyes terribly fidgety, struggling now in works of intrigue, very far from his habitat of war and swords. “Of course not, your grace.” Tygett answered.

“Then there is nothing you can do…” The king said again, a gentle smile on his face. He walked forward onto the first step of the stairs, passing through the young lion. “I will be well child, have no worries.” The young man can only stare at the ground, as the royal retinue slowly walks and going up passed him. A slow march as the Kingsguard around the king have him their hand as he struggles to walk up.

I tried Genna Tygett thought, and what a horrible attempt that was, he believes it so.

Despite the slow pace, he followed behind them, far away to not intrude, just to see the event at hand. And as his eye’s gazes upward, he sees Lord Quellon of house Greyjoy marching along with the royal fold. Theres no proud stride on him, neither there is any solemness as well. He looks guarded, cautious, weary, no strength, only a calm small step from one stair to the next.

An Ironborn lord with no undeserving pride in his wake is a strong sign as it is…

Tygett holds his breath…

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An attempt was made, Quellon was sure it was a sure try, but as sure as it was, it was not sure enough in his view to ensure a suitable result. There is always a hidden battle in the midst of lords, each conversation no matter how civil it looks to be, a measuring is always taking place at its turn. A battle Lady Genna and he and other lords always have when they bandy words. Whether to gauge each other’s capabilities and interest. The Ironborn is privy to this, regardless of their leanings.

He even breaks some of his layers into a plead, for more penalties over his vassals’ transgressions on Lannisport and for better agreements on iron resources, no matter how meagre and high it was, the opportunity the sorcerer brings is an offer he is prepared to pay any tangible price. Yet the king of the Seven Kingdoms persists to meet the king of the Iron Island now, Quellon traded one king for another, despite retaining his overlord status.

Despite their hidden battles, Him and Genna is in agreement on one thing, King Jaeherys cannot meet the sorcerer king. It will be two prides clashing each other, no matter which one ends in victory, war will come. But the real truth of the matter is, the victory is already known from the start. The thousands Ironborn corpse at Lannisport and Pyke, the great beast…

And the royal retinue barely reaches a hundred in men…

With Vergil at the helm, a sure victory will be acquired, but Quellon needed more than that. The other Iron lords may just jump at the opportunity to evoke such possibility, but strength comes in many things. If we have the magic whilst keeping the trades we will have gold and steel in both hands… he thought, this opportunity can be maximized, and he won’t let any petty lords making urging for some petty goals.

Alas, it was all a gamble. And now it ends on a loss. All he could do now is follow and listen what the two kings have to say…

Quellon have to see Jaeherys and even his Kingsguard making rounds of civil converse that hides meanings with many tails. Making offers of grand quantity and quality to no avail as the sorcerer’s scowl turns rigid by the seconds passed. Lady Genna intends to remedy the situation, Quellon followed her lead to gain ground. Alas their actions have been taken as a lapse, fickle is the crown no matter the head, and the lord commander made sure that we know of it.

“Your grace, the Iron Islands have no longer made themselves ravagers after these bouts. Surely that is ground for us to make negotiations…” Genna spoke. In truth these words are already fumbling in nature, her last bit of compromise that she has, after all logics and proposals that even in Quellon’s opinion are very good to make have failed. Especially after knowing what the sorcerer can do against the world itself. The king persisted.

“Your grace, the lord sorcerer is a might unparalleled by no other in these realms. I’ve never brought myself to this, but I plead to you right now.” A gesture from Quellon that brings oddity and surprise both to the dragon king, yet instead of seeing it as a sign of affirmation, he doubled his pursuit and grows demanding against the sorcerer king.

“You’ve sworn fealty so quickly to this foreigner lord Quellon, yet it wasn’t so long ago that I’ve concorded your trades and agreement with the Stepstones and the other kingdoms of the east and west. You will spite me this quickly and easily? Am I wrong to put my trust in you?”

Oh, how Quellon is squirming between fire and a steel wall, thoughts mingling on his head on how King Jaeherys cannot even see the position he is in. Words and evidence littered the ground all around them on what the sorcerer can do, but still the crown upon his head do more thinking and acting when common sensibilities should reign. Utter silence is all Quellon can give, frustration caving in his spirit.

Of course, it did not take long until Vergil found his limit.

Lady Genna in her hopeless endeavor tries to convince the sorcerer to let her handle the speaking, but for some odd reason Quellon cannot see as of yet, Vergil decides to stay and unmoved despite the lady’s push. The sorcerer does not appreciate arrogance… Quellon suspected, for whatever short interaction they have, one thing that he knows about the man is that he despised wasted time.

It did not take long for the lord commander to make his move and decide that this farce has gone for to long. He approaches the sorcerer with blade unsheathe, and just so right then and there Quellon is halfly glad and disappointed. With the two crowns openly having animosity, that means plans have to change yet again.

The trades will be lost… but at least now the learning of powers and magics can be isolated in the Iron Islands, Quellon thought. Of course, he surmised he must share it with the Lannister, an implication that means so many things…

“GEROLD HIGHTOWER! YOU ARE ENDANGERING YOUR KING!” Genna Lannister shouted, but no more heeded than the rest of her previous arguments. He marches forward and she shielded the way to the sorcerer. Quellon can see Vergil raised one brow from her action, but quickly spiral into the very same focus he equipped in war as little as Quellon know of it as he is, after Gerold about to tackle her away.

No matter how apparent and magnificent was the bout against the Naga was, a form of magic practiced is still a sight to behold even if it is little, especially if it occurs right in front of your faces…

With a little motion of a backhand, a great amount of force is summoned. Gerold flew from where he was, right onto the pillar of the ruin that once was one of the halls of the grey king’s abode. A smash loud enough to be mistaken for a thunder, hard enough to make a large dent to the Kingsguard armor. Gerold wailed in pain, holding and flexing his back to ease the pain on it.

Then it came the familiar sounds of conflict…

Dozens upon dozens of the shrill sounds of swords unsheathed…

The dozen Ironborn besides Quellon, readying their axes and steels of any kind, aiming it at the royal fold.

The royal fold does the same, almost more than a dozen of them as well, sword on top of their shield ready to pounce.

The young fierce Tygett stride quickly towards his sister, steel already in hand, though aimed downward, his eyes rotate to all parties, seeing enemies everywhere, even the sorcerer…

But no one dared to make a move forward, only silence comes for a long moment until the shouting match begun. threats and demands after the other, name of families is stated with the believe they hold power in these lands. Accusation eventually comes and Quellon find it natural, of course they would accuse the lady lion for witchcraft, they see the danger first before the opportunity…

Fearful as they are for their own power to be lost… but that is another matter no use speaking as of now to him…

Instead Quellon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, with no words said and watches everything unfold with eyes of laze as all the sounds of the wind is overcome by raging men. The king however, looks to be despondent, saying little as he orders his men to look after the fallen Kingsguard. Jaeherys wishes to make a claim with the sorcerer, for a share of strength and lot…

But he knows little of Vergil, and even less of what Vergil think of him…

Whatever songs of gold and glory the king of the seven presented, the man would swat it away with one word to describe it all, Droll. Now what was once a look of irritation has been traded instead for an infuriated one, a slow growl comes from his lips and Genna turn her head entirely to appease the man, much to the confusion of the rest of the crowd.

But Quellon knows, and the Ironborn around him knows as well. They began to take a step back, farther away from the incoming fallout. The rest of the flocks, whether royal or of houses accompanying the king, stayed and looked on in confusion.

Then another voice comes from behind Jaeherys, filthy words of mockery… and finally they march forward in anger…

Genna despaired…

Vergil unsheathe his blade, taking his turn…

It was one move. A release of the sleek sword going upward in a circle from his waist to his head and then downward back into the sheathe once more. And then the sorcerer sheathed it again, not a second have passed as he made his crescent like motion.

Confusion arises once more, but then the sorcerer spoke again. “Know that the reason that I did not kill you now is because this woman here suggest that you are all more useful to me alive. I intend to see if it is the truth…”

A truly miniscule twang sound came, and just so the bloodletting arrived once more.

Every man that held a blade on his hand have suddenly lost their fingers, each and every one of them, everyone except for the Ironborn and Tygett. The king of the seven is unharmed as well.

Quellon closed his eyes with a tint of discontent over it all, his hand still resting on his hilt, the rest of his men breathing hard as they are seeing the very same powerful act the sorcerer has shown them before. Whatever animosity then is now truly solidified, he simply sighed over it all. “Leave all of you…” Vergil said again. “I have no use for any of you to be in my sight.”

Quellon can hear more than some Ironborn speaking the name of the seven gods who are one beside him. It is the fact that often forgotten by him, those who worship the drowned God are mostly slain during the massacre on Pyke, what remains are only the very people that wishes to follow him on the path of trade. But he supposed they would take a different journey entirely now…

Time passes again and in-between, the soldiers and knights attempted to slay the sorcerer to no avail, the rest brought back the king to safety. Whatever happened to the those who dares is not a story worth telling, for it is a tale that has been put on repeat, their corpses now littered the stairs like ornaments on a house.

In that chaotic wake, Genna stride towards king Jaeherys and whispered something on his ear, Quellon doesn’t know.

Either way, many things have been decided…

The Iron Islands is now independent…

All lords of it will swear fealty and answer only to the powers derived from the sorcerer and his vassals…

Every trade the Iron Island have on Quellon’s venture has now mostly been annulled…

The Seven Kingdoms would most likely urge for war after the King’s return…

There will no longer be reaving, pillaging or anything of the old Ironborn ways…

The Lannister is now suspect of treachery…

As the king left and the sounds of their steps fades away into nothingness, only Quellon, Genna, her brother and the sorcerer remained in on the hall. The Hell gate twisting still behind them…

Quellon wondered what is going on, on the heads of those very people that have just arrived, Royal retinue or otherwise. Looking upon the hell gate, the corpse of the Naga and the works of magic Genna and Vergil has done recently. All those confusions that would turn either into interest or fear.

Will the Highgarden, the Tyrell come onto here as well, offering their own deal for the share of their power? What of the Riverlands, and their shared history with the Ironborn, what do they have to say on the matter? And of the Starks, would they not be wary of the escalation here as well?

The Lannister… With lady Genna actions being equal to treason, how would they fare and how would they go on the matter, especially now with more men knowing the withcraft she have.

“Disgusting…”

All turns their head to Vergil as he voiced himself, silently, waiting for the next part of his sentence. Instead, the man made a small sniff in where King Jaeherys once stands…

He almost wretch himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.

“Leukemia… Your king won’t live long…” He says, whatever that word means none now including Lady Genna knows it meaning except for the sorcerer.

“Prepare the dinner, my good mood is slowly eroding away… We have much to talk about regarding your magic, Genna. A lot of things need to be said.” before he faded like a blur, he made one last statement.

"Remember the deal Genna, i teach you magic and you make sure the administration and logistic of my conquest is up to par."

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Notes:

Alright, i should listen to what i say the first time and stopped making promises on when i will upload the next update. I fumbled a lot these days trying to jumble work and this fic, trying to find the proper words to relay on my story is truly difficult when you are struggling on trying to sleep and work at the same time (Its complicated). Anyways Grammar and what not, do tell.

(SPOILER BELOW, IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MY PLANS ON THE NEXT CHAPTER)(I SUGGEST YOU WAIT, BUT IF YOU ARE IMPATIENT FEEL FREE TO READ THE SHORT SENTENCE BELOW)

(SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER)

We finally going to see Vergil and Genna in a dinner scene next update, so to all who are wondering or waiting for there to be a relationship and character development or reveal, this would be it. what are they going to talk about? Family? Magic? Each other? Who knows...

We are also going to see Quellon, Carlen and Victor on a tour around the islands, will the rest of the minor and major lords of the Iron Islands heed their words and swore fealty to Vergil? Are they going to rebel? We will see...

Even the negotiations are not done, there is still one more player in the Naga's island, and the king havent left yet.

I hope i can push in the reaction of the other houses in the next chapter as well, that one is something i look forward to write.

(SPOILER OVER SPOILER OVER)

Thanks for reading...

Notes:

This is the second fanfic i worked on, i'm actually using it to practice my english. please tell me if i made a mistake in any regards (Story wise, prose or grammar).

Thanks.