Götterdämmerung

by SomeDickhead

Summary:

Years after being shunted into the body of the God-Queen Marika, a self-insert bumbles her way across Westeros.

Chapter 1

I rolled the stem of the wineglass between my fingers and studied the gently rippling pinot something or other.

 

This particular vintage – whatever the hell it was called – was a touch fruitier than the others I'd tried, and no less sumptuous, with a heady aroma and little golden specks of sediment. Personally, I never really liked the stuff, but this body had a taste for it and, in my eyes, the circumstances reasonably entitled me to a drink or six. 

 

So as the sounds of boots scuffing and armor clanking drew ever closer, I raised the glass and took a sip. 

 

Radagon, sword sheathed at his belt, marched up the stairs into the bedchamber. His black enamel plate, engraved and embellished with gold leaf, shimmered in the candlelight, and his fiery red hair hung in a tight braid down to the middle of his back. A handful of knights with tall crested helmets and golden surcoats marched close behind him, their spears and shields held at the ready. 

 

Planting himself in the center of the room, the knights loosely fanned around the archway, he fixed me with a suspicious glare, his brow furrowed and lips pressed flat. Maybe he expected a smoking black stain, or a collection of corpses, anything more dramatic than the sight of me reclining atop the rough stone slab that his wife dared to call a bed, surrounded by a couple dozen bottles of wine. 

 

"Leave us." 

 

Giving each other sideways glances, they nevertheless obeyed the Elden Lord’s order. As the last of the knights shuffled from the bedchamber, Radagon waved his hand, and a shining golden barrier blocked the entryway – his way of ensuring our privacy. 

 

"Thou art not Marika." It wasn’t so much an accusation as a simple statement of fact.

 

I wasn't surprised he could tell, not really. They were the same person, after all, two minds and bodies sharing the same soul, and his quite literal other half's absence must have felt like a massive hole in the center of his being. Truth be told, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the guy – however contentious their relationship was, she was still a part of him, and that sort of bond always sparks at least some small embers of affection.

 

"No, I'm not." I shifted a bit, very consciously ignoring the disconcerting emptiness between my legs. That I'd also gained an accent – some vaguely Welsh thing just as foreign as it was automatic – barely even phased me. "I’d introduce myself, but my name got lost in the move."

 

He narrowed his eyes and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I see. And how, pray tell, didst thee contrive to usurp my lady's form? Surely 'twas no small feat."

 

While by no means routine, this sort of thing was not unheard of in the Lands Between – quite the opposite, from primal glinstones to simple, brute-force possessions, transposing one's soul was practically an artform among those with more power than scruples. A rather distasteful art form, sure, but one that Radagon undoubtedly recognized when it stared him right in the face. 

 

I scoffed, flashing him a bitter thing almost resembling a smirk, then swirled the glass and took another sip. "This wasn't my idea, it was hers. Entirely hers. Christ, she didn't even say hello. Just, well … " My free hand motioned towards the body I'd been shunted into. 

 

Glower darkening to a scowl, his grip on the sword tightened. "Thine words do naught to assuage my incredulity."

 

I raked my too-slender fingers through my too-long hair and finished off the glass, resting it down on the slab. Rummaging through the sprawl of bottles, I found one that hadn’t been opened yet, then popped out the cork with a quick flash of grace – my newfound divinity was good for something, at least. I motioned to pour it into the glass but hesitated just as the liquid within peeked over the lip, and instead, after a moment of deliberation, took a deep swig right from the bottle. 

 

If Radagon wanted the full, unfiltered truth, then he could have it. What motive, frankly, did I have to lie? Not like there was much more I could lose at that point. 

 

"Her Worshipfulness was kind enough to leave me a copy of her memories." Well, not exactly – more like she didn’t bother to pack before tossing me the keys. "Her original plan was to shatter the Elden Ring. Literally, with a hammer." 

 

The mere thought of it hit him like a truck, and he visibly staggered, eyes wide and mouth agape.

 

"What … ?" 

 

"Yup." I mimed the appropriate hammer motions, complete with sound effects. "There’d be a civil war, of course, ambition and whatnot, and eventually someone would come along and burn the Erdtree, kill the Elden Beast, and … well, she wasn't picky about what came after, so long as it wasn't the Golden Order." A snort. "Didn't matter who'd win, only that they were worthy enough to win. Bit like Alexander, you know? 'To the strongest!'"

 

I chuckled, and Radagon stiffened, his face plastered with the sort of look specially reserved for when your entire life comes crashing down, and the whole world succumbs to madness.

 

"Anyways, she chickened out at the last second. Realized that the whole thing might get her killed, which wouldn't be a good look for a woman who calls herself eternal, you see. So she figured if she couldn't fight, she'd run, and make it someone else's problem." I took another mouthful. "Fucking bitch."

 

For a minute or so, he was like a statue, body stock-still as he digested what I'd said, but it wasn't long before his teeth grit and muscles clenched and abject horror gave way to incandescent rage. With an ear-splitting roar, he started to batter the solid limestone wall, chunks of masonry falling to the floor and clouds of dust choking the air.

 

The tantrum was, perhaps, a touch uncharacteristic – Radagon had always been by far the more intellectual of the two – but things being what they were, I couldn't really fault him for it. 

 

His blows petered out, and he leaned and panted against the crumbling remains of the wall on a closed fist. 

 

"Hey."

 

A dead-eyed stare wandered in my general direction, and I offered Radagon the bottle. 

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Let it not be said that I'm a good sailor.

 

However comfortable I might feel on the water, the finer details of booms and jibs and other silly words have always eluded me, consigned to foggy, half-forgotten memories of travel novels and summer camps. 

 

Still, I like to think that I managed well enough, my sailboat puttering unmolested through the embattled harbor; and I considered it a victory when the bow smacked against an embankment, letting me clamber up onto a creaky wooden pier, all the resulting scraping and groaning buried under the cacophony of roaring fires and ringing bells.

 

For a moment, I looked back and contemplated mooring it, but the merchant galleys and warships burning at their anchors, smoke billowing up into the cloudless summer sky, told me that there wasn't much of a point in doing so. Besides, I didn't exactly have good reason to even want to protect it in the first place, pissy little dinghy that it was. So stepping over puddles of blood and patches of flame, I washed my hands of it and made my way off the pier and across the cobblestone wharf. 

 

A tall brick warehouse then exploded, sending flaming splashes of whale oil raining down onto the pavement, and flattening the neighboring taverns and guildhalls. Cheers rose from the raiders who'd been tearing through the streets, gold and women hauled over their shoulders, while the terrified inhabitants who'd managed to survive fled deeper into the city.

 

It was just my luck, really, to make landfall right in the middle of a sack. 

 

Honestly, if you're going to fight a war, do it cleanly, or at least hide your 'extracurriculars' behind a couple layers of bureaucracy – don't just rampage about like a bloody Gothic horde. Even Godfrey, barbarian that he was, understood that much. 

 

"Oi! Blondie!"

 

Pausing beside a burnt-out stall, I raised my eyebrow and turned towards the shout.

 

One of the raiders, clad in a rusted ringmail shirt and moldy grey surcoat, pried his axe from a dockworker's skull and strode in my direction. With his beard all matted and yellow teeth bared in a grin, he appeared the consummate reaver, straight from central casting, and a handful of his equally savage associates had slowed their pillaging to see what the fuss was about.

 

I didn't have to acknowledge him. I could've – and probably should've – just kept walking, and hoped that he'd write me off.

 

"Yes?" 

 

But some stupid, naive, first-world part of me clung to a belief in man's better angels, no matter how hard I tried to bludgeon and bury it. 

 

His eyes roamed up and down my body. Being half again as tall as him, all statuesque and leggy, I made for a striking figure, and I imagine he liked what he saw. "Big bitch like you's gotta have a big cunt. Might not fit me, though." He grabbed at his crotch and turned to his buddies, who broke out into laughter. "Let's find out, eh? Strip. Or I'll gut you right here and have my fun anyways."

 

Charming.

 

Now, since being given the Tireseas treatment, I'd received no small amount of sideways glances and subtle stares, and – at least from the denizens of the Lands Between – a sort of incessant, obsequious praise of my 'radiant beauty.' The original, after all, had in her (admittedly justified) vanity declared herself an object of worship, and had no real qualms about showing it all off with high slits and plunging necklines. But such attention, however mortifying, was in the end harmless, and certainly nowhere near as blunt and colorful as this particular interaction. Truthfully, I'd until then been skeptical that people even talked like that outside of cliche fantasy stories, or tasteless pornography. 

 

For all the undeniable novelty, I can't say I much enjoyed it. 

 

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

 

Licking his lips, he nodded. "Might even take you as a salt wife, if you, heh, manage to convince me. If not, well … " He chuckled some more and shook his axe at me. "C'mon then, let's see those – "

 

The raider stepped closer, a hand reached out to fondle my breasts, and I caught him by the wrist. He didn’t immediately register this, drunk as he was on lust and plunder, but when he did, his brow furrowed and he tried to wrench his arm away from me.

 

I squeezed.

 

Bones splintering, he let out a shriek and collapsed onto his knees, his free arm beating desperately against my grip. His buddies recoiled, reaching for their weapons as his cries grew louder and struggling grew more frantic. I studied the vague mustard blob peeking through the grime on his surcoat before comparing it to the proud golden krakens on the sails of the longships bunched pell-mell in the harbor, then in turn the singed red and gold lion banners flailing atop the burning buildings.

 

By now, it seemed rather obvious where I’d ended up, but intuition isn't confirmation – and this seemed as good a time as any to get some. 

 

I freed the raider’s wrist and he scurried away from me, his injury cradled close to his stomach. Pivoting towards the leftmost raider of the group – a skinny little twig of a kid, no more than 16, wearing a beaten old cuirass – I (figuratively) pinned him in place with a look.

 

“You.”

 

The ‘you’ in question blanched, his fellows inching away from him as he silently begged them for the slightest hint of assistance.

 

“Where are we?”

 

Swallowing, he forced himself to speak.

 

“We’re – ” 

 

The first raider, by this point, had regained just enough composure to draw a knife from his belt and lunge at me with a strained, scratchy warcry. A second before the blade reached my torso, I punched his skull in, and his body twisted as it fell to the ground, little spurts of blood and air sputtering from the mangled pulp that was once his head.

 

Wisps of grace vaporized the bits of gore that had splattered onto me, and I crossed my arms over my chest.

 

“Go on.”

 

The kid closed his eyes as if muttering a prayer, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

 

“L-lannisport, m’lady. We’re in Lannisport.”

 

Horrendous violence has a wonderful way of loosening tongues. 

 

“And who’s the king?”

 

"Balon Greyjoy, m’lady."

 

If his flinch was any indication, the face I gave him in response was more than a little flat. 

 

“The stormlord.” Another swallow. "Robert."

 

So I stumbled from one grimdark Martin setting to another. Hardly ideal, but it could've been much, much worse. I wasn't trapped in some colorless, featureless space between spaces, nor was I in any real danger from a bunch of hairy men with pointed sticks, and Planetos(?) was, by all accounts, a hell of a lot nicer than Lordran and Yharnam and the like. 

 

But that still left the question of what to do about it – and what to do about all these raiders in particular.

 

From what I remembered, the Iron Islands had made the baffling decision to rebel against the entirety of the continent about a decade before the start of the plot, and announced this to the world by sucker-punching Tywin Lannister, a man famous for violently murdering the families of those who spite him. For as much as the whole affair was informed by culture and tradition and wider political developments, it appeared, more than anything, an excuse to indulge in rape and pillage. The combined armies of Westeros would go on to quash it after only a couple of months, leaving the Ironborn somehow even more impoverished, reviled, and bitter. 

 

In other words, the raiders were a losing bet, if ever was one – easy, acceptable targets who'd made quite a lot of enemies out of quite a lot of powerful men. And seeing as I'd already burst one's head like a watermelon, it only seemed appropriate to commit.

 

I gave the kid a nod.

 

"Thank you."

 

With a wave and a thought, a scattershot of golden bolts – shining, crackling things, as thick as an arm and as long as a spear – plunged into the group of raiders, piercing flesh and severing limbs.

 

They then kept going, peeling off from each other and streaking towards the rest of the Ironborn littered about the docks. Some tried to run, others stood their ground, but the bolts all hit their marks, and weaved through the mob like needles through a napkin. By the time they evaporated into little motes of light, the bolts had extracted quite a toll, and the wounded screamed as those survivors that could retreated back to their longships.

 

The light show, of course, hadn't escaped the notice of the Ironborn fleet clumped in the harbor. Deck crews sounded the alarms and scrambled to their posts as their respective captains shouted clashing orders – "Make for open water! Starboard to shore! Hold and ready artillery!" Crowded as the port was, it soon degenerated into a quagmire, and hulls raked against each other as oars dueled and sails entangled. The flagship rammed a friendly longship before getting wedged between the burning hulks of two Lannister dromonds – it promptly ignited, and the sailors on board were given the choice between burning and drowning. And amidst the confusion, some of the nearby vessels managed to fire their scorpions at me, heavy barbed arrows whistling past my head and skidding along the cobblestones. 

 

I briefly considered walking away and letting them sink themselves, or giving them the time to slapdash a rout, but my sympathy only went so far. 

 

Strolling down to the waterfront, I raised my arm and loosed a coruscating wave of gold. As it radiated outwards, water churning and steaming in its wake, it slammed through the longships, shattering them into splinters and nails, torn canvas and shredded rope. All the wreckage billowed and blended into something like an avalanche, which screened the shimmering grace as it scoured the harbor. Those few ships out past the edges, just beyond the wave's reach, were crushed by flying sterns and lanced by soaring masts and dragged underneath the roiling waters. 

 

The golden wave blasted forth until it reached the open sea, and all that remained of the Iron Fleet were bobbing corpses and patches of debris.

 

It didn't take long for the leading elements of the Lannister household guard, with their red woolen cloaks and thick steel half-plate, to slowly, steadily, pour from the streets out onto the docks. For medieval men-at-arms, they had a certain polish about them, their fairly tight columns marching in passable lockstep, swords held firm and shields raised high. Having so far only encountered sporadic resistance from roving handfuls of raiders, they seemed, in a word, confident – perhaps overly so. 

 

"Sir, look!"

 

"What happened?"

 

"Gods preserve us … "

 

But their courage quickly disappeared, advance stalling and lines crumbling, when they found the Ironborn horde sprawled on the ground dead and dying, and the harbor more flotsam than water. 

 

I cleared my throat.

 

The footmen wavered as commands died on the serjeants' tongues. They kept their distance, gasps and whispers flitting across the no man's land, and in their disquietude dared not so much as sneeze at me.

 

Looming as I was over the desolation, my stature inhuman and eyes shining gold, unblinking and unbreathing (I'd long since transcended the need to do either), this reaction didn't come as much of a surprise – especially considering how much grace I'd been throwing around. 

 

Magic, after all, doesn’t just dissipate once a spell runs its course. Rather, it lingers, clinging and diffusing, and in sufficient quantities over time warps both the environment itself and the living beings within it. The power that I'd learned to call my own was a thing of awe and grandeur, strength and dominance – more Old Testament than New – and the air was practically heaving with the stuff. 

 

To the soldiers, it must have felt like a mountain was pressing down on their very souls.

 

A troop of riders approached the thickest part of the crowd, and the guardsmen, genuflecting and saluting, parted like the Red Sea. Mounted atop a thick black destrier and attended by his staff and retinue, Tywin Lannister rode through the gap and planted himself at the fore. Between his bushy golden mutton chops and enameled crimson armor, he appeared the singular model of self-assured regality, and the lions festooned on every plate and ribbon left not a single doubt as to his allegiance (namely, himself) – combined, everything spoke to a chronic shortage of restraint. 

 

Though his eyes conveyed a vindictive satisfaction that the raiders had been so thoroughly trounced, the way he stiffened and clutched at the reins betrayed his nervy unease. 

 

With a genial smile, I rested my hands on my hips. "Lord Lannister, I presume?"

 

The murmurings ceased.

 

It took Tywin a moment to register that I'd addressed him. Lips pursed, he answered with noticeably affected composure. "Yes."

 

My smile brightened to show some teeth. "Just sailed in from" – I made a vague gesture towards the sea – "over there, and let me say it's wonderful to meet you. I am Marika, Sovereign Eternal of the Lands Between, God-Queen of Leyndell, et cetera, et cetera." Hand on my waist, I stared down at my feet in thought, before turning back up and tilting my head in acquiescence. "Well, Sovereign Emeritus, at least." 

 

If nothing else, the whole 'divine royalty' angle would open a few doors, the Westerosi being as status-obsessed as they were.

 

His brow furrowed and he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it, and fell back to his courtly training – it'd be better for his health, he likely surmised, to simply go along with it. "I welcome you to the Westerlands, Your Grace, and apologize for the … disturbance."

 

I'm sure that sounded just as lame to him, but it didn't seem polite to call him out on it. "Thank you." I surveyed my handiwork, a move I'll concede was mostly for show. "Wasn't too much trouble. Got most of them, I think. Is it always this exciting around here?"

 

From the look of it, his already wounded pride nearly took my question as an insult. "No."

 

"Unfortunate timing on my part, then." I chuckled, my smile sharpening to a smirk. "The joys of travel, eh?" A burning customs house collapsed in on itself as if to punctuate my observation.

 

Apparently, Tywin didn't find the humor in it.

 

Eyeing the huddled mass of guardsmen, I clapped my hands together. "Anyways, it seems you lot have quite a bit of work to do. Fires to douse, stragglers to catch, that sort of thing. Don't let me keep you." 

 

His gaze fixed firmly on me – and more than willing to regain some semblance of control – Tywin gestured at the officers clustered around him, who, after a few moments of hesitation, rode out in front of the crowd. "Get moving!" one shouted, and the guardsmen shuffled onwards to strip the dead and execute the wounded and capture any surviving nobles for ransom – the usual drudgery of a victorious army. 

 

Mind, that didn't stop them from 'forgetting' the bodies closest to me, or 'discovering' a pressing issue that required their immediate attention on the opposite side of the docks, or scrounging up some other excuse to ignore my existence, and assumably pray I'd evaporate into the aether or something.

 

The staredown between Tywin and I lasted until he squeezed his knees against his mount and closed a couple yards of the distance separating us – not much, at any rate, but enough to be noticeable. He was, it seems, made of sterner stuff than his subordinates (or better at pretending), and his stiff voice raised over the treading of their boots and the jangling of their kit. "Are you in need of accommodations, Your Grace? At the risk of presumption, you appear to be traveling rather lightly."

 

Probably the most polite way to be called a vagabond. Still, he had a point. "Looks that way. I take it you're offering?"

 

He offered a slow, respectful nod. "It would be my privilege to host you at Casterly Rock."

 

I couldn't exactly place his rationale for the offer. Was it a reward for solving his Ironborn problem? A move to ingratiate his house with a potential future player? An attempt to appease the strange wandering divinity before it started smiting people? 

 

Maybe some muddled combination of all three.

 

"You are welcome to stay for as long as you wish, and will be afforded every hospitality."

 

Whatever the case, I figured there'd be no harm in humoring him – if worst came to worst, he was just as mortal as the Ironborn. Besides, it's not like I had anything better to do, and a man as rich as him was bound to have comfortable guestrooms. 

 

"Sure, why not?"

 

A second, much firmer nod, and a slight, stilted bend that could almost be called a smile. "Allow me to escort you."

 

How very chivalrous – if he wasn't who he was, I'd have almost believed him a gentleman.

 

Tywin regarded his knightly bodyguards, faintly shaking his head, before motioning over a broad, bearded fellow in armor only a touch or two plainer than his own. "Ser Kevan, lend Her Grace your horse, and take command until I return."

 

Kevan gave an obedient bow, though not without a bit of a sigh. "My Lord." 

 

As his foot left the stirrup, I waved them off, laughing good-naturedly. "No, no, there's no need for that. I have my own." 

 

I put my hand to my lips and whistled into a delicate golden ring. A tall, snow-white horse with spiral horns materialized through swirling clouds of twinkling plasma, neighing and scraping a forehoof against the cobblestones. Given as a gift to the original by the Carian royals, his name was Typhoon, and I stroked his neck to calm him down before hopping up into the black leather saddle.

 

Both of the Lannisters – and the guardsmen whose curiosity trumped their apprehension – struggled to contain their astonishment. It was one thing, I suppose, to see the aftereffects of a force like magic, another thing entirely to glimpse firsthand its actual use. 

 

Trotting towards my host, I overheard a stream of whimpers bubbling up from the pavement. With a quick tug on Typhoon's reins, I slowed to a halt and spotted the Ironborn kid from before, curled into a writhing, shivering ball. Compared to the rest of them, he'd gotten off lucky, the only new addition (well, subtraction) a cauterized stump where his left knee used to be. When his red-rimmed eyes landed on me, he choked and tightened, unable to run yet unwilling to die. 

 

War is a messy, nasty business, and I'd long since learned that there's no use angsting about it – rather, if you steel yourself and fight that much harder, it'll end that much quicker. But seeing that kid was a bit like seeing a wounded puppy, and it just didn't seem right to leave him there. Besides, I had to pay him back for answering my questions somehow.

 

A teaspoon of magic – the floaty, purplish sort that Miquella liked to sprinkle around – was all it took for the kid to fall asleep. I levitated him up onto Typhoon and draped him right behind the saddle, before shooting Tywin another cheery grin. "Right then, lead on."

 

Glancing at the kid, then back at me, his expression teetered between an outward repose of dignified civility and a disdainful sneer; he eventually settled somewhere in the middle, on an unfortunate, inscrutable grimace. He turned around, pausing until I caught up next to him, then proceeded with me through the streets, shadowed by his twitchy bodyguards.

 

The tightly-packed rows of shops and houses had made for perfect tinder, and by now, nearly a third of the city was burning, the rest assaulted by choking torrents of smoke. 

 

Watchmen and volunteers with buckets and hooks hurled water at the flames and demolished those structures too far gone in the vain hope of stemming the tide. Some of the braver ones, their clothes charred and tattered, would sprint inside and drag out survivors, but their numbers slowly dwindled as they were strangled by the fumes or pinned beneath falling debris. Of course, this didn't stop the opportunists from stealing away with pocketfuls of jewelry and coin (or entire chests, if they were ambitious enough).

 

In the middle of the soot-blackened road, meanwhile, women sobbed over lifeless infants and men grasped their few remaining possessions. Helpless children and infirm elderly crawled and hobbled as swiftly as they could, and a few who had lost everything simply let the fires take them. Two bodyguards rode ahead of us and took it upon themselves to clear the path forward – "Make way for Lord Tywin!" they shouted, and beat the despondent citizenry with the flats of their swords.

 

"Unfortunate timing, indeed." This wasn't the worst I'd seen – far from it – but it certainly couldn't be described as pleasant.

 

The expression on Tywin's face was, in a word, incensed – not so much at the destruction itself, mind, but that it was inflicted on his city. Without even an ounce of warning, those savages had given him a hell of a thrashing, and forever tarnished the image of the invincible, implacable 'Great Lion.'

 

And in plain view of visiting royalty, no less. 

 

He steadied himself with a deep breath. "Your Grace, Lannisport has been burned before. Three times, in fact, and sacked two dozen more. Yet, it remains the wealthiest port on the Sunset Sea, comparable only to Oldtown."

 

I watched as a portly, well-dressed bloke tried his chances at jumping from a blazing townhouse; his feet snagged on the balcony, and he spun through the air before splattering his brains across the pavement. "Oh?"

 

Tywin continued with his boastings – something about trade routes and goldsmiths – and I nodded and hummed at the appropriate intervals as they blended into the background noise. 

 

For a man as conceited as he was, the entire situation must have felt nothing short of torturous.

 

Before long, we departed through the city's northern gate, going past the desperate refugees littering the surrounding fields, and reached the castle's outer wall. The guardsmen manning the gatehouse – a five-story stack of heavy sandstone blocks – raised the portcullis and eyed us through the murder holes as we passed to the other side. Here, inside the walls, the road widened and sloped into a great, broad stairway, a pair of colossal bronze lions – ears perked and eyes wide – reclined on either side. And at the top loomed Casterly Rock itself, a limestone monolith that jutted from the rocks and waves, and cast tall shadows on the adjacent city.

 

We rode up the stairway to a gaping black maw in the rock face, stalactites hanging from the roof like fangs – the locals, with their odd penchant for heraldry metaphors, called it the 'Lion's Mouth.' 

 

A massive cavern had been carved into the limestone, then gradually expanded over millennia of habitation. Illuminated by iron braziers and braced by granite columns, it was home to stockpiles and arsenals, farriers and smiths, and all the other logistical necessities of a seat the size of the Rock. Servants and soldiers and other such menials rushed about the place on urgent business, and off to the side, where the cave dipped to meet the sea, spread a complex of jetties and drydocks, packed with the handful of Lannister warships that had escaped the inferno.

 

The party approached the stables, and pulled to a stop at the chiseled stone stalls reserved for the lord and his immediate household. Tywin dismounted, a stablehand taking control of the reins, then offered me his hand. With the height difference, it was almost comical, like a child playing at maturity, and I engulfed the limb in my own as I slid from the saddle. 

 

Some flushed and harried Lannister cousin in red doublet (who I later learned was the castellan) panted over to greet us. He gawked for a moment when he caught sight of me, but shortly recovered what poise he had and met Tywin in the eyes. "My Lord, I – "

 

Said lord silenced him with a raised hand and started issuing orders, occasionally shifting to look in my direction.

 

Another stablehand came over to grab Typhoon's reins, but the animal took exception to that, and bit at his fingers when they drew near. He tried again, and Typhoon bit again, and before it devolved any further I let out a shrill whistle. "Stop that." I pointed towards the kid lolling on my horse's back. "Make yourself useful, get him off there."

 

It took a bit of grappling, but the stablehand managed to haul the kid to the ground, buckling and trembling as he labored to prop him up by the armpits. I rubbed Typhoon's ears, crooning a bit of baby talk nonsense, then let him dissolve back into starstuff. With a flick, the kid floated up a few feet, and the stablehand all but fainted as he bowed and scurried away. 

 

"Good." Tywin marched back to his horse and motioned for a servant to fetch a stepstool. The fidgety castellan waited close behind him, dobbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "Ser Camryn will situate you, Your Grace, and attend to your needs. I myself must attend to the city."

 

Understandable, really. "By all means." 

 

Perched on his steed, he slipped me one last lingering look, before flicking his reins and poking his spurs and cantering back out through the maw. 

 

Camryn cleared his throat and gestured to the side. "Your Grace." Dodging the aforementioned menials – and very deliberately keeping his distance from the insensate kid hovering beside me – he led us towards a lift, which conveyed us through a lightless shaft into an elaborate atrium. 

 

Marble reliefs lined the walls, interspersed with portraits and tapestries, and lacquered mahogany benches sat arrayed around fountains and statues, all of it liberally slathered in gold leaf and lions, and so on and so forth. 

 

Frankly, it was all rather gaudy, but I suppose you can afford to be when you live in a gold mine. 

 

The three of us hiked through the Rock's winding corridors and bustling halls until we reached a pair of tall, carved wooden doors. Camryn unlocked them and watched me survey the well-furnished apartment, before indicating towards a velvet cord dangling from a hole in the ceiling. "If you require anything, please ring the bell, and a maid will be here shortly." Then, he bowed and departed, shutting the doors behind him. 

 

I dumped the kid onto a plush-looking chaise lounge and flopped bonelessly into an armchair.

 

After however many years, I'd all but forgotten the feeling of freedom – at that moment, unburdened as I now was, I had to admit I quite enjoyed it.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Come the next morning, after I rolled from the canopied feather bed (and wasn't that wonderful, a proper, carefree sleep), I found the kid still slumped in the same position I'd left him the day before.

 

That teaspoon, in hindsight, was probably overdoing it.

 

After all, this world's magic felt diluted, decayed – its anemic currents impelled by their own dwindling inertia, and propped by regular infusions of sacrifices. It stood to reason that the locals (relative to the natives of the thoroughly saturated Lands Between) hadn't a lot of real, regular exposure to the stuff; and it wasn’t much of a stretch to say were markedly vulnerable to its effects, their resistance nominal at best.

 

Simply put, using magic on that kid was like coughing on an Indian.

 

But that still left the question of how to rouse him. Though it took a bit of hemming and hawing, I shortly reckoned the simplest solution was best and divine fiat would patch any holes – crouching beside him, I nudged his shoulder and snapped in his ear, and once or twice flicked him on the forehead.

 

With a groan, his groggy eyes peeled open, then he rubbed them with his palms as they caught the morning sunlight. 

 

"Come on, wake up."

 

Blinking through starbursts, he pondered me for a moment, his cloudy slip of a mind attempting to place how, exactly, it recognized me.

 

"Good morning." I gave him what I believed to be a friendly smile.

 

His thoughts quickly fell into place – I could tell from how his eyes widened and nostrils flared and mouth wrenched open. He recoiled away from me, gripping onto the back of the lounge, but it seems he'd forgotten that his leg was missing and spilled in a heap onto the silk carpet.

 

I stood up.

 

If he wasn't roused before, he certainly was now. Heart beating in his chest, he pawed at his belt, only to find that his axe had, at some point, slipped from its loop. The kid whirled his head around and spotted a vase, reaching out and thrusting it above his head – maybe he figured tossing it at me would buy him some time.

 

Plucking it from his hands, I sighed. "Oh, calm down."

 

The kid didn't, of course, and started crawling over to the double doors, presumably in the hopes of making some grand escape. I allowed him a few yards, then flicked my hand, a golden barrier erupting out in front of him – damn useful, that one – and when it finally, emphatically registered that he was trapped, he braced his back against the solidified grace and slid to the floor.

 

"Are you quite finished?"

 

He shot me a look as hateful as it was terrified, but otherwise just panted there.

 

I floated a chair over and sat down, resting the vase by my feet. "Better. I don't suppose you could give me your name?"

 

" … Eddin."

 

Dreadful, and positively Westerosi.

 

"And mine is Marika." I slapped my hands against my thighs. "Now that we've introduced ourselves, let's talk."

 

His eyes took on an incredulous gleam.

 

I rolled my own. "Please, if I wanted to hurt you … " A quick look at his stump. " … well, any more, I wouldn't have bothered lugging you here." I leaned forwards. "The way I see it, you're my responsibility."

 

"Your thrall." Where was this spine yesterday?

 

Reclining back, I scoffed. "Nothing so gauche." I waved a hand to the side. "I've had enough slaves. Think of yourself as my traveling companion. Follow me around for a couple months – or until I get bored of Casterly Rock – carry some things and hold some doors, and then I'll send you on your merry way."

 

He straightened. "Why can't I just leave now?"

 

"Where would you go? Into the loving arms of Tywin Lannister, whose fleet you just burned and city you just razed?" I gave the question time to sink in. "Believe me, compared to the alternatives, my offer is downright generous."

 

"So I can either die free or live your pet. Want me to beg for treats, too?" he spat. 

 

I snorted. "You don't have to like me, just tolerate me, and be a touch more subtle in your loathing."

 

The back of his head bumped against the barrier. Eyes narrowed in thought, he closed them and let out a defeated sigh. "Fine."

 

A satisfied nod, then another look at this stump. "Have to do something about that leg of yours … "

 

Rising from the chair, I grabbed the vase and knelt by his stump – a smooth, clean cut right above his erstwhile knee – and held it down as he tried inching away. Eyeballing the length of the other leg, I channeled some grace into the vase, and it transformed into a prosthesis. I wobbled it around a bit to check the joints, then lined it up against the stump, and Ed (damned if I call him by that stupid bloody name) winced and hissed as the needles anchored into his flesh.

 

Stepping back, I gestured for him to get up. "See if it works." 

 

It did, of course – Miquella really knew his stuff – and the kid made an admirable effort at smothering his wonderment as he stood and took a few steps. His motions seemed fairly smooth, nearly natural from a distance, and enough practice would soon iron out any clumsiness.

 

For a moment, I appraised his haggard appearance, before changing his torn, dingy trousers and gambeson into spotless black cotton equivalents, and replacing the embossed kraken on his cuirass with a gilded tree – I wouldn't abide a scruff. "There." As he checked the damage, I offered a smile. "Now you almost look presentable."

 

A sharp knock at the doors.

 

We both paused until I dismissed the barrier and waved the kid on. "Go get that, would you?"

 

Ed eyed the doors, then turned back to me, before plodding over and opening them with a sigh.

 

Lumbering at the head of a team of maids was a thick, square woman in a tight red dress, her emerald eyes gleaming with one part determination, the other cunning – to indulge in metaphor, she appeared more elephant than cow. Gesturing the maids towards a coffee table (or whatever they called those here), she shot me a wry grin. "Am I interrupting anything, Your Grace?"

 

I matched her smile with one of my own, a subdued, tranquil thing I'd mastered through regular practice. "No, not at all. Perfect timing, actually, I was just about to ring the bell."

 

"Good, good, wouldn't want to be a bother." Closing the doors, she gave a shallow curtsey. "I am Genna Lannister, and my brother sent me to fawn and toady. It seems you've left quite the impression on him."

 

Well, honest of her to out and say it. "And I assume Lord Tywin is occupied with urgent business?"

 

"He's always been more of a commander than a fighter." Genna then beckoned towards the table, on which the maids had arranged an elaborate spread. "Whatever the case, would you like some breakfast?"

 

"Might as well." Walking over, I perched on one of the adjoining couches, a pastel piece embroidered with a forest idyll. Dishes laden with diced fruits and steaming pastries and fried bits of meat, I sent an amused glance at the banquet, then met Genna in the eyes. "Do you Lannisters always eat this much?"

 

Genna plumped herself down on the matching couch opposite my own, shoveling a helping of eggs onto her plate. "Only on special occasions. A Lannister would never dare to skimp on a distinguished personage such as yourself."

 

I forked a sausage. "Well then, with all the consideration you put into this, it'd be terribly rude not to have some."

 

Her smile remained unchanged, and she offered me a honeycake.

 

We kept going at it for a while, our ostensibly friendly pokes and jabs, however close, never truly entering the realm of proper shitflinging. And while I was having fun with it, a certain tension lurked beneath Genna's smile – despite her skill as an actress, she still left little tells, her jaw tightening and fingers tapping and eyes ever so slightly squinting.

 

From her end, a wild ape had been invited into her home, and she'd been told to mollify the thing before it started ripping arms off.

 

Setting a half-eaten plate of pear slices on the table, I rose to my feet – all this back and forth standing and sitting was getting tedious – and patted the area where, if I had organs, my stomach would've been. "Thank you, Lady Genna, I rather enjoyed that." She made the usual pleasantries, "You're very welcome" and the like, and I nodded along, resting a hand on my waist. "I don't mean to impose, but could I perhaps trouble you for a tour as well?"

 

She cocked her head. "A tour?"

 

"I've heard wonderful rumors about this place. Expansive, extravagant, you get the idea. Now that I've the chance, why not see if they're true?" I chuckled. "Besides, lovely as these rooms are, there's no sense lazing around all day."

 

At this, Genna became, if only for a second, visibly perturbed – it seems she was planning (or had been ordered) to do exactly that. Limit the damage, I suspect, to some tucked-away guest wing. Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she affected a cheerful enthusiasm. "A capital idea, Your Grace. Gods know I need the exercise. Do any particular rumors stand out? I'd show you the lot, but I don't think I'd last that long."

 

Watching her stir from the couch, I shook my head. Best not spook the poor mortals too much, I figured, no matter how amusing their reactions. "I'll trust your initiative." 

 

She straightened her dress and made for the doors, snapping at the maids to clear the spread; I followed her and told Ed (who'd been loitering in the corner) that he could help himself to the leftovers. As we departed into the winding corridors, a couple of her household guards fell in behind us. Genna freed the breath she'd been holding and minutely relaxed her shoulders – now she'd at least the illusion of security.

 

For the next couple hours, she escorted me through ballrooms and gardens, septs and galleries: a respectable slice of the unrestrained opulence stuffed into these untold miles of tunnels. Rather than deliberately, coherently designed, the place had been cobbled together higgledy-piggledy over generations, and furnished according to the transient whims of a bottomless treasury. Narrow caves, gold veins peeking through the rough-cut stone, gave way to gilded halls lined with portraits and statuary, which in turn branched off into tastelessly ornate parlors and cavernous chambers fit to seat an army. Aesthetically, in other words, Casterly Rock was a mess, a hodgepodge of disparate styles and moods and techniques united solely by a profusion of golden lions.

 

Even so, I suppose that was to be expected, given the Rock had served as the seat of highest nobility for six thousand years, give or take. The sheer weight of history had imposed a singular gravity, a palpable sense of tradition and lineage – every ancestor, every deed, was memorialized and commemorated, preserved somewhere within the grand record that was the family home. Mind, you can only hear so many permutations of 'King What's-His-Name' and 'the Battle of So-And-So' before it all blends into mush.

 

Not that I intended to tell my hosts any of this, of course – aristocrats get so touchy about that sort of thing. 

 

As Genna expounded on an arrangement of crystal chandeliers – she'd a passion for decorating – I noticed a set of black ironwood doors, nearly double my height, recessed into an alcove. They'd been shut tight, presumably locked, and whenever anyone drew near, the pair of guards posted out in front would firmly turn them away. We were right in the middle of a bustling thoroughfare, far from the vaults and dungeons and the like, so the whole thing struck me as peculiar. 

 

I tapped Genna on the shoulder, her speech trailing off, and pointed towards the alcove. "Where do those doors lead?"

 

She followed my finger and blinked, then adopted an expression I couldn't quite parse – resigned, maybe, and a smidge disappointed. "The library. One of them, as it were."

 

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? From the turnkeys, you'd think that's where the lepers are kept." I shot her a smirk. "Is Lord Tywin trying to hide something? A secret collection of bodice-rippers, perhaps?"

 

"I imagine so, Your Grace." After a moment, Genna rubbed her forehead with a bit of a sigh. "The hiding, not the collection."

 

"Shame, I'd have liked to see that."

 

Despite herself, she let out an amused huff. "Odds are it's my nephew. Tyrion, Twyin's third. When he isn't in his rooms, he's there, reading anything he can get his hands on. Positively voracious." She grimaced. "Tywin, well … he's too hard on the boy."

 

Having flicked through some of the books and sat through part of the show, I already knew there existed no small amount of enmity between the two; patricide, after all, is generally a sign of an unhealthy relationship. Though for however tragic such blatant dysfunction may be (my own parenting experience, both lived and inherited, taught me firsthand just how bad things can get), I'll admit that it has a certain base appeal – dumpster fires always make for the best entertainment.

 

I hummed. "How about we give him our respects?" Then, without waiting for a response, I marched straight for the doors. 

 

Those guards were apparently well-informed, and gulped and stiffened and all that rot as I brushed past them. Clutching their spears, they leaned towards Genna and lowered their voices, wary of causing a scene. "Lady Genna, what should – "

 

She cut them off. "Just let her."

 

"But Lord Tywin – "

 

"Is not here. I am." She watched a tendril of grace fiddle with the latch. "Return to your barracks."

 

The lock clicked and the doors scraped open, and I turned back to Genna and beckoned her onward as I entered the library. Towering varnished bookshelves were piled below an echoing limestone dome, stairways and balconies bridging the upper stacks, while rows of desks mustered on the tiled marble floor. Archivists with hunched backs and sore fingers faffed about dusting and mending, their flunkies lighting candles and hefting tomes.

 

Genna indicated towards a gap in the shelves. "There's a spot he likes over this way." Crossing through a book-lined tunnel, we emerged into a cushy reading room, sofas and side tables bathed by a roaring fire – odd for the season, but I suppose the caves were chilly enough to warrant it. The guards who'd been tailing us, with their quartered red and blue surcoats, planted themselves near the opening. 

 

In the corner, engulfed in a plush armchair, a stumpy dwarf sipped at a goblet, a manuscript balanced on his lap. He was an ugly little thing, stocky and twisted, with canted eyes wedged beneath a bulging forehead, and stringy bleached hair wilting down to a stubbled chin. Exuding melancholy, his mismatched eyes – one Lannister green, the other coal black – wandered across the illuminated pages, not having noticed our entry. 

 

Genna cleared her throat.

 

Tyrion jolted, cup spilling out onto the rug, and coughed into his fist as he choked on his wine. After some gasps and thumps against his chest, he poised himself enough to peer in our direction. "Seven hells, Aunt Genna, I … " His words trailed off and his mouth slowly gaped when he clapped eyes on me. "Oh. You're the, um … well." Heaving the book from his lap, he scrambled to his feet. "Your Grace, I – "

 

Waving him off, I chuckled. "Sit down, sit down." I turned to Genna and playfully flashed my eyebrows, then leisurely reclined on a nearby sofa – all I needed were some grape sprigs and palm fronds. "Everyone's so jumpy today."

 

They had good reason to be, but still.

 

"What are you reading?" I inquired. That ought to break the ice a bit, and smother some of his skittishness. 

 

An imploring gaze fixed on Genna as she pulled herself a seat. She nodded, and after a moment of indecision, Tyrion tilted the cover of his book at me. "Balameon's From the Founding . One of the more complete histories of Valyria."

 

"Fascinating." Between that and the wine, it occurred to me that this sad little dwarf had spent the day wallowing in escapism. Altogether warranted escapism, mind – his life was by and large a pitiable one – but there's nothing good, much less healthy, about neglecting reality in favor of fantasy (or the past, but same difference). "Can't say I've heard of that one. What happens in it?"

 

Tyrion swallowed. "The initial conquest of the peninsula, mostly. Only the first dozen chapters survived the Doom. I was just reading about a mutiny." Sparing the book a glance, he allowed himself to get drawn into a lecture. "Having suffered a great defeat against the hill tribes, the assembly appointed an old retired archon, Jaerys, to the office of tyrant. When he arrived at camp, however, the legionaries refused to fight. The city was already doomed, they argued, so why throw their lives away prolonging the inevitable?" For a teenager, he was rather articulate.

 

"Quite a pickle. And how did this mutiny end?"

 

He started gesticulating. "Jaerys gave a rousing speech, then burned the ringleaders alive with his dragon, before doing the same to every tenth man. The remaining soldiers marched on the enemy, the Freehold was saved, and Jaerys abdicated after only two weeks." A Valyrian Cincinnatus, then – bit on the nose there, George.

 

I offered a playful smile. "The rest, I assume, goes much the same."

 

Laughing, Tyrion patted the spine. "Essentially. Wars, dragons, waging wars with dragons. They were the finest conquerors the world has ever seen, and by far the most enthralling." 

 

Depraved, more like. From what I knew about the Valyrians, they'd ravished, despoiled, and enslaved half the known world, and their sudden immolation was universally declared no less than they deserved. Even the Golden Order, with all the muck underneath the gilding, had the excuse of divine ordination, and made things markedly better for a (slight) majority – those sister fuckers, on the other hand, were just trying to outdo Sodom and Gomorrah.

 

"Fire and blood, indeed. It's funny, every civilization seems to have an obsession with those lizards, one way or another. Back home, there was a cult that worshiped them."

 

He raised his brow. "Oh?"

 

"Yes, it was very popular among knights and such." A snort. "Of course, that likely had more to do with the magic than the preaching. Prayer seems a small price for the ability to toss lightning bolts around."

 

Skepticism rose to the surface, if only for a second, before he remembered who – what – he was talking to, then his back straightened and eyes lit up and mouth wrenched into a beam. "So worshiping dragons gave them magic?"

 

"More or less. Our dragons, you must understand, weren't those animals the Valyrians rode." I rolled a hand. "Powerful, wise – really, it's like the difference between men and apes. The eminent among them could even assume human form."

 

Sprawling into the embrace of his armchair, Tyrion frowned at the ceiling, then leaned in and fixed his eyes on my own. "Please, Your Grace, continue."

 

Another chuckle, this one decidedly close to a giggle. "You know, your aunt" – I bobbed my head at Genna – "described you as, what was it … 'positively voracious.' Seems she had a point. Of your siblings, I take it you're the smart one?"

 

To him, that must have seemed something of a non sequitur, and he blinked before answering. "Well, what I lack in height, I more than make up for in wit." I'd a feeling he had that line memorized. "Jaime has the brawn, and thus a white cloak. Cersei has the beauty, and thus a crown. I have the brains, and thus … " Tyrion considered the bookshelves, losing a bit of steam. "This library."

 

As his eyes dimmed, I tilted my head. "Are you content with that?"

 

Tyrion took a breath and furrowed his brow. "No." 

 

I couldn't help but notice he was confiding in a woman he'd known for all of five minutes. "Do you want more?"

 

From the way his expression firmed and his fists tightened, my inquiry seemed to hit the mark. "Yes."

 

"Right then … " A book – some theological polemic – floated from the shelves into my hand, and I infused it with grace before dangling it out in front of him. "Take it." Awestruck, he reached out, before recoiling a bit. "Go on, take it."

 

Tyrion snatched the book out of the air, and his hand began to steam and bones began to creak and flesh began to bubble. Screeching and writhing, he slumped onto the floor, strands of golden light twisting down his arm and across his body, boring beneath his skin. 

 

While the guards, teeth clenched and swords brandished, clambered through the tunnel, Genna erupted from her seat and lodged herself between Tyrion and me. She swallowed, sweat trickling down her forehead, and flinched at a particularly harsh scream.

 

I rolled my eyes. "Again with the theatrics."

 

It seemed Genna wasn't quite sure how to react – or maybe her roiling emotions looped back around to placidity – and she just stood there, gaping at my pleasant, neutral smile. But when her nephew's screams petered out, and his bangings and poundings ceased, horror came to the fore, and Genna jerked backward and fell to her knees, then gasped and scrambled away when she caught sight of him.

 

By any metric, the grace had done its job – there, on the rug, sat an average, healthy, moderately handsome young man (no übermensch, a little gangly, but nice enough), ogling his own limbs. Tears pooling in her eyes, Genna inched closer and cupped his cheek, and Tyrion leaked a high, hysterical laugh. "How … but … I don't … "

 

"Yes, yes, it's all very dramatic." Both turned to me. "Consider this a reward for your hospitality. Tyrion?"

 

"Y-yes?" Only his voice remained the same – even the heterochromia was gone, both eyes now a luminescent gold.

 

"Look at your hand," I ordered, pointing at the one that'd been holding the book

 

Raising it, his eyes somehow widened further: a cruciform tree, elaborate linework pulsing and shimmering, had been branded onto his palm

 

"That's your seal. The book has instructions on how to cast spells with it. Congratulations, you're now a wizard." 

 

Of a sort, at least. 

 

Humans, barring a few odious aberrations, do not naturally possess magic, nor the ability to wield it. Thus, if they want either, they must commune with some greater wellspring – the wellspring, in this specific instance, being myself. He wasn't the first to tap into my grace, as millions across the Lands Between can attest, nor was he given a particularly large slice (for as much as one can slice infinity, mind), but he was one of the few that I'd bothered to commune with personally.

 

Really, knowing his future, it seemed the least I could do. 

 

Sniffling and trembling, Tyrion blubbered some more and Genna clasped her hands against her chest. 

 

"Your Grace, Lord Tywin bids … "

 

An attendant in crimson livery shuffled into the room, his servile composure quickly morphing into confusion.

 

I leisurely sat up and swiveled to face him. "Ah, hello. Didn't catch that last bit. What does he want?"

 

Blinking, the attendant opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. "Is that … ?" He shook his head and remembered the script. "Lord Tywin apologizes for his hitherto absence, and invites you to sup with him and his family."

 

So he finally deigns to show himself. Raising my eyebrows, I whistled. "Lunch already, eh? Time sure flies." I stood and made for the passageway, snapping my fingers at the Lannisters. "Are you two coming?"

 

Dazed, Genna managed a vacant stare in my general direction. "What?"

 

"Food."

 

She sat there for a moment, slowly regaining some small measure of lucidity, then picked herself up off the floor – Tyrion, his body unfamiliar, floundered and stumbled, and she held him up by the arm.

 

We were led out of the library back to the thoroughfare, then through a few hallways and up a few stairways into the so-called 'Lion's Den,' the main-line Lannisters' private wing. Intimate, I think, would be the best word for it, a soft ruby glow dancing through the stained-glass skylights and across the wood paneling. The attendant opened another pair of doors (these a rich walnut) and bowed as we walked into the dining room.

 

After taking a moment to appreciate the high vaulted ceiling, then the solid stretch of window that occupied the far wall, I sat down at the head of the table. Two dozen blondes – and a smattering of brunets – had been waiting there for us, all well-groomed and well-dressed, with Tywin presiding at the other end. Forcing geniality, they respectfully dipped their heads, though a certain disquietude slipped through their masks when an ostensible stranger parked himself in Tyrion's chair.

 

Unfolding a napkin, he gave Tywin a look that, if it weren't so smug, could almost be described as beatific. "Lord Father."

 

Tywin only resisted a stupefied goggle through sheer force of will. "Tyrion."

 

The erstwhile dwarf smirked, grabbing a pitcher of wine. "I've just had the most thrilling conversation with Her Grace." Never mind that he spent half of said conversation huddled on the floor. "Did you know that her homeland still has living, breathing dragons?"

 

Though his relations winced and gasped, Tywin's expression couldn't be flatter – it'd take more than a makeover to extinguish his hatred. He glared some more at Tyrion, then fixed me with a look only a hair or two less severe. "I hope he was not too much of a bother, Your Grace."

 

"No, not at all," I laughed. "You've raised a very precocious son. He actually made for good company."

 

Tywin turned to Genna for confirmation, and pursed his lips when she faintly nodded. "I see." His gaze bore into me. "Speaking of your homeland – the 'Lands Between,' if I recall correctly."

 

"Yes?"

 

Leaning forwards, he propped his elbows on the table. "No such lands feature on any known map, and the maesters in residence, by every indication learned men, cannot attest to their location. I myself concede a similar ignorance. In the interest of curiosity, where are these 'Lands Between?’"

 

"Between, of course." Another laugh, and a dismissive wave. "I kid. They exist in the transient space that bridges realities. Not so much a physical landmass as a … coagulation of belief and metaphor." A profound simplification, but a necessary one, given how convoluted the metaphysics of the place were. 

 

A couple of the Lannisters narrowed their eyes and turned to each other in confusion, though Tywin maintained his outward reserve. "And you are the queen of them?" 

 

Something told me that he'd have found feigning royalty more offensive than making up a continent.

 

I nodded. "Up until quite recently, at least. After millennia, the throne grew tiresome." Reaching for a glass, I took a sip of wine – dry and sour, and heavy with tannin. "So I put my affairs in order, hopped into a boat, and sailed wherever the winds would take me." A shrug. "I wound up here." 

 

Another simplification.

 

Doors swinging open, the first course arrived: a thick, steaming beef stew. The extended family, more than keen to bury themselves in something resembling normalcy, gave their meals their full attention. Tywin, for his part, went without, waving the server off when she approached him. 

 

"What are your intentions?" Odd venue for an interrogation, but I suppose this was his idea of courtesy. 

 

I lifted my spoon and chuckled. "You make it sound so sinister." Taking a bite, I shrugged. "Nothing at all, just enjoying my retirement."

 

He glowered some more, then cleared his throat and straightened his back. "Your Grace, you have done House Lannister a great service, both with respect to the attack yesterday and … my son. Though your capabilities far surpass our own, reciprocity only seems befitting, and I would ask what you desire as a boon.”

 

I took another bite – the spices were a bit much, but I reasonably enjoyed it. “It was no trouble. Honestly, I’d say you’ve already done enough for me, inviting me into your home and all.”

 

"I insist. A Lannister always pays his debts." He pointedly eyed Tyrion. “A marriage, perhaps?”

 

Well, he certainly didn’t beat around the bush. "While I appreciate the offer in the spirit it was given” – cynical opportunism – “past experience has soured me towards the whole marriage thing. Besides, I’m afraid your heir is a few centuries too young for me.”

 

Silence fell upon the dining room, and Tywin clenched his fists. “He is not my heir.”

 

Tyrion, emboldened by the circumstances, spoke up. “Why not?”

 

Sucking air through his grit teeth, Tywin turned to him with something approaching a sneer. “Because Jaime is eldest.” 

 

“He is also a Kingsguard, barred from inheritance.”

 

They stared each other down, friction palpable, until Tyrion took a swig from his goblet and gestured at himself. “Look at me. I am no longer a dwarf. I am whole . What compels you to further deny me my rightful due?” 

 

Genna tried to intervene. “Brother, nephew, there is no … ”

 

Tywin slammed his fist down on the table. “Rightful? By rights, I should have – ” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Your Grace, I sincerely apologize for my son’s outburst. I thought he could control this unbecoming jealousy of his. It seems I was wrong.”

 

Tyrion refilled his goblet. “Indeed. And I apologize for my lord father’s.”

 

This sort of nonsense continued for some time.

 

How generous of them, to give me dinner and a show.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The rest of the month or so that I spent at Casterly Rock went much the same: pleasantries and flatteries and courtesies, underlined by a certain tension.

 

Genna, despite her apparent misgivings, continued to play hostess. We lounged to chamber music, gossiped over teacakes, and – when feeling particularly adventurous – meandered about the ornamental gardens atop the Rock's summit. Sometimes, she'd even let her husband tag along, and a cringing, browbeaten rodent of a man would skulk in the corner, trying his best to meld into the upholstery.

 

She kept her children far away from me.

 

Tyrion, meanwhile, had buried himself wholly in the cultivation of his new abilities. Whereas before his erudition was a sober thing, earnest and subdued, now it swelled lustful and frenzied, with that queer mania so endemic among sorcerers. Day and night, his incantations would tickle at the edge of my divinity, and the whines and twinkles and tell-tale ozone scent of grace would seep through the library doors – the archivists, I can only assume, were far too intimidated to ask him to leave. 

 

And all the while, the Great Lord Tywin leered at me as a lion would an antelope; and from the looks he sometimes shot me when he thought I wasn't paying attention, I couldn't help but wonder whether his interest was strictly political.

 

The trouble for him, of course, was that his usual methods of coercion simply wouldn't work on me. I hadn't any stake in local affairs, nor relations for him to lean on, and wielded a much bigger stick than he could ever dream of. How much fear, really, could his reputation evoke in an immortal? The only tool he had left was bribery, and he'd clumsily proffer wealth and titles – for as little both were worth to one such as myself – on those rare few occasions that he dared to approach me.

 

Not much can be said about the other Lannisters, the siblings and cousins and in-laws and such. Staring at the floor like battered housewives, they'd bow and introduce themselves, sometimes making momentary small talk, before politely, discreetly bolting in the opposite direction. Either Tywin had trained them well, or I just left that much of an impression.

 

Maybe a bit of both.

 

Truthfully – though I'll concede they probably made for better entertainment than just staring at the wall – I didn't so much delight in these genteel inanities as tolerate them. Really, there's nothing more worthless than a life of idle nobility, flitting around leisurely amusements like a piece of self-propelled statuary. 

 

So whenever I grew bored of it all (which was fairly often), I'd shrug my minders off and go and explore the miles of tunnels and shafts and caves. From the damp, echoing crypts and vaults that descended down past the bedrock, to the open-air arcades and lush hanging terraces cut into the rock face, I like to think I’d managed to traverse a fair bit of the place. 

 

Towards the back end of my stay, after a lunch of salad and lamb on a balcony overlooking the sea, I stumbled upon the sad little hole that passed as the castle's godswood, tucked away in some half-forgotten corner. Hunched in the middle of the humid cavern, sunlight trickling through the cracks in the ceiling, was a gnarled, twisted weirwood sporting an unsightly grimace, crying blood-red sap. Bark pallid and leaves faded, the tree's roots contorted through the stone, strangling those scraggly patches of vegetation that grew in its shade. 

 

A sort of subtle magic lingered about it, whispering into my ear, and I pressed my hand against the trunk and tunneled into its being.

 

The weirwood, I'd quickly learned, was but one part of a greater whole, a single node in a vast network that spanned the breadth and length of the continent. There was no conscious will behind it, no drive or agenda, just weight and age, and a collective memory that stretched back to the beginning of time. 

 

Mind, it still had its faults – the reception, as it were, was rather spotty, and great wrenching tears moldered across the brunt of the South. But by using the network, I could see through nature's eyes and listen through its ears; glimpse such wonders as the charred husk of Harrenhal and the cold granite bulk of Winterfell, and recall the innumerable vows and pacts and oaths so solemnly sworn before the heart trees. 

 

A few days following my discovery, as I was flicking through the channels, so to speak, accompanied by a decidedly wary Ed, a crow glided through a hole in the ceiling and perched itself on one of the weirwood’s branches.

 

It had three eyes – my intrusion had been noticed. 

 

Taking a respectful step back, I rested my hands on my waist and nodded. “Lord Commander.”

 

The bird glared for a moment. “In-ter-lo-per.”

 

Ed, suffice to say, wasn’t exactly enthused by this development, and slowly backed towards the exit.

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Well now, that’s just rude.” 

 

It hopped further down the branch until its beak all but pecked my forehead. "No. Games.” 

 

My features sharpened and my voice flattened. “What do you want?”

 

The bloody thing cawed right in my face, then flapped upward onto a higher branch. “You. Do. Not. Be-long. Here. Out-sid-er.” It jerked its head. “Re-sume. Your. Wan-der-ings. Leave. Our. World. Be."

 

“Bold words from a carcass piloting a bird." Had I been in better company, I wouldn't have scoffed quite so derisively. "Your parlor tricks, however cute, are hardly an entitlement to make demands."

 

Its eyes narrowed. “Man-y. Plans. Much. Prep-a-ra-tion. Ru-ined. By. Your. In-ter-fer-ence.” Claws dug into the wood. “The. Song. Has. Been. Dis-rupt-ed. You. Will. Doom. Us. To. Ice. And. Death.”

 

I crossed my arms under my chest. "The way I see it, I've been positively restrained.”

 

Really, considering I could've just gone around leveling mountains, my moderation may well have been saintly. 

 

"An-y! Change! Is! Too! Much!" The crow steadied itself with a breath. “Be-fore. The. Path. To. Spring. Was. Clear." Wings twitched in irritation. "Now. All. Paths. Are. Blind-ed. By. Shin-ing. Gold.”

 

Suppose his frail, ramshackle foresight simply couldn't account for a god – or at least a proactive one. “Remind me, what was that path of yours, again? Have a couple civil wars, a few atrocities here and there, and cross your fingers that Rhaegar’s prophecy baby magically saves the day?”

 

The crow tightened its gaze and snapped its beak, before the functional equivalent of a light slap thumped impotently against the walls of my mind. Surging forward, I gripped it in my hand and squeezed, until it choked and sputtered and the attack petered into nothing. I hurled it to the ground and sneered as it shakily rose to its talons.

 

“Begone, creature, and vex not mine sight again.”

 

Squawking, it fled back out through the hole.

 

Those entities beyond the Wall – the white walkers, Others, whatever the hell their proper name was – had, in fact, been on my list, but this interaction moved them that much higher. If that pissant bastard wanted me to stop making waves, then he had another thing coming: I’d accomplish his life’s work out of spite, then bludgeon him with the revelation that all those tortuous decades melded to a tree had been wasted.

 

Besides, seeing the so-called ‘heart of winter’ for myself would probably shine a light on why, exactly, this world’s magic felt so blighted and hollow.

 

I gave another scoff, then turned to Ed, who stood there gawking and trembling. 

 

"Close your mouth. You'll catch flies."

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Strategically speaking, thanks to my meddling, the war against the Iron Islands had already been won – victory in the field was but a formality

 

After all, with the complete annihilation of the Iron Fleet (the Westerosi really were an unimaginative lot), the Ironborn had lost, in a single stroke, most of their warships and the majority of their experienced crews. All they had left were scattered, second-rate raiding squadrons, and some inshore fishing boats crewed by youths and elderly.

 

The mainland, in other words, had gained command of the sea, and could thus now attack the Ironborn at any place, at any time, with only nominal fear of reprisal. And so, after some days of back and forth, the Royalist leadership reached a consensus: those forces that could – or, more accurately, that were willing – would muster together at Lannisport and advance as a single body against the foe, dividing as needed upon reaching the islands themselves. 

 

Not the most elaborate plan, by any stretch, but certainly a viable one – the city, despite the damage, was more than capable of handling the logistics, and fewer moving parts meant fewer points of failure.

 

The first to reach Lannisport was the Royal Fleet, buttressed by elements of the Redwyne fleet and commanded by Stannis Baratheon, the King's brother and Lord of Dragonstone. Nearly sevenscore carracks and dromonds, their fluttering sails backlit by the rising sun, moored at the remaining berthings and anchored along the beaches. Dockworkers loaded supplies and patched hulls while sailors ransacked the local taverns, and press gangs scoured the streets. 

 

Columns and trains marching down the Goldroad, next came the stream of Lannister bannermen, Marbrands and Leffords and Cleganes and the rest. Disparate bands of men-at-arms and levies encamped in the fields surrounding the city, erecting palisades and digging latrines and displacing refugees. The lords and their households, however, rather than slumming with the commons, enjoyed the hospitality of the Rock; and from all their scheming and merriment, you wouldn't even know there was a war on.

 

Then, lastly, at the end of the fifth week, a great host paraded over the horizon, a crowned stag strutting at the vanguard and a snarling direwolf bringing up the rear – I assume the two linked up along the way. This mass, on its own, nearly tripled the sprawl of tents, and a party of riders several hundred strong split off and progressed into the Lion's Mouth.

 

The King had finally arrived.

 

Accordingly, the whole of the resident and visiting nobility gathered in the spacious atrium to greet him – even Stannis, for all his resentment, was conscious enough of propriety to make an appearance. Bedecked and bejeweled, the sundry lords and ladies and knights and heirs clumped together according to house and allegiance, shooting evil eyes at their rivals and beckoning over any stragglers. A low din of conversation fluttered through the air, and a liberal application of powders and perfumes, though not for lack of trying, failed to mask the odor of bodies and sweat.

 

As foreign royalty, I'd been afforded a spot at the front, right beside Tywin himself. His family was lined up a few yards behind us, Genna's Freys stuffed off to the side, and Tyrion loitering somewhere all the way at the back – even putting aside that Tywin's opinion of the boy rested somewhere between 'speak only when spoken to' and 'no wire hangers,' his rather blatant usage of magic (without the shield of being a pretty lady) didn't much appeal to local sensibilities.

 

I left Ed back in the room.

 

When the ropes drew tight and the pulleys began to rotate, a hush fell over the crowd, and the nobles straightened and eyed the shaft. It took a couple minutes, but the lift soon rattled its way up to the top.

 

Positioned at the fore, three on each side, were six knights of the Kingsguard, resplendent in white cloaks and pearl-enameled scales. As silly as they looked, their order was renowned for a reason, and they scanned for threats before stepping off the platform onto the carpet.

 

Between them, in a black leather doublet, swaggered Robert Baratheon, his blue eyes gleaming with mirth and clean-shaven face plastered with a grin. Six-foot-something and broad-shouldered, his arms as thick as his neck, he carried himself with an undeniable virility, despite the first hints of a paunch. The king quickly overtook his guards and stood before the crowd with his hands on his hips.

 

As one, the nobles lowered themselves onto a knee and dipped their gazes to the floor.

 

I myself remained standing, and when Robert laid his eyes on me, they widened with something between recognition and hesitance, before he smothered it and turned back towards his entourage on the lift. Pointing at the multitude, he let out a deep, booming laugh.

 

"Told you, Ned! Isn't that a sight?"

 

The Ned in question, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, minutely softened his long, solemn face and huffed amusedly. "Aye, it is, Your Grace."

 

"Hah!" As the nobles rose to their feet, Robert stepped forward and opened his arms wide. "Good-father!"

 

Tywin's flat expression concealed the better part of his disdain. "Your Grace, my home is yours."

 

Robert waved him off. "Oh, none of that. I get enough at court. Please, we're family, call me Robert."

 

The lord remained unmoved. "It is only proper, Your Grace."

 

Robert looked back at Ned, who shrugged, before nodding and patting Tywin on the back. "Alright, alright, do what you feel." He playfully waggled a finger. "But mark my words, I'll get you one day. Ned, too."

 

The room broke out into sycophantic titters.

 

Robert waited for the noise to die down, then motioned in my direction. "Anyhow, I understand you've another guest."

 

"Indeed." Tywin held an arm out. "Your Grace, may I introduce you" – he glanced at me, then back at Robert – "to Queen Marika, late of the Lands Between."

 

The king nodded some more, this time almost pensively – I can only imagine the sorts of things they'd written about me in their letters. "You're a tall one."

 

"So I've been told."

 

Chuckling affably, if somewhat woodenly, he offered me a hand. I'm sure the appropriate greeting for a queen was a genuflection or kiss on the hand or something else to that effect, but Robert didn't strike me as the sort to care overly much for protocol. "Good to meet you, Your Grace."

 

It'd been a while since my last handshake. Since the swap, I mostly just stood there all august and stately as people kowtowed. "Please, call me Marika."

 

At this, Robert's grin became a touch more genuine, or at least less brittle, and he beckoned his wife and son over. "C'mon then, introduce yourselves."

 

No matter how graceful her figure or elegant her countenance, I don't think Cersei Lannister could've shot me a nastier look if she tried. Honestly, she rather reminded me of the original Marika (horrible bitch that she was), greed and venom festering right beneath a glamorous exterior. The seventh Kingsguard, her twin brother, Jaime – the Siegmund to her Sieglinde – sauntered at her heels, and a chubby toddler in a crimson tunic was glued to her side, his hand gripped in hers.

 

Cersei slightly, forcedly tilted her head, as if ordered to acknowledge some wretched peasant. "A pleasure."

 

"Quite."

 

She narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips into a catty, self-satisfied smirk. "Have you enjoyed your stay in the Westerlands?"

 

Smiling, I answered with a nod. "I'd say so."

 

"Wonderful. My lord father has always shown tremendous generosity to those in need." Her idea of a joke, probably – Tywin hadn't an altruistic bone in his body. "Being so far from home, I imagine you've found yourself wanting for certain comforts."

 

All she'd forgotten was the 'neener-neener' at the end. 

 

"Hmm." I bent my knees and leaned towards the boy, who timidly clung to his mother's leg. "Your son, yes? The Crown Prince?"

 

As he whimpered and mashed his face against her gown, Cersei tensed, and Robert answered in her stead. "Joffrey, his name is. My firstborn and only." A laugh belted out. "By marriage, at least. Do you have any?"

 

"A couple." I stared at Joffrey some more, then stood up straight and met Cersei in the eyes. "The spitting image of his uncle."

 

Cersei swallowed, and her pupils narrowed to pinpricks. That a woman so profoundly bereft of subtlety (much less inhibition) could've survived any amount of palace intrigue baffled me – then again, with both the foreknowledge and experience I was working off of, my perception might've been a little skewed. The others, after all, didn't seem to notice her reaction, or Jaime's white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his longsword.

 

Or maybe they did, and thought it'd be better for their health to just pretend otherwise.

 

Either way, Robert made a show of patting his belly. "Well, that's enough standing on ceremony. Don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starved. Where's that feast you promised me, good-father?"

 

Tywin flicked a wrist, a line of servants passing the signal along – how much of this was rehearsed? – and the carved granite double doors to my left, screened behind a dense throng of nobles, heaved open. "Though here, Your Grace."

 

A wedge of Kingsguard clearing the path, the crowd parted, and a group numbering about thirty, myself included, strode through the gap into the Rock's great hall (or one of them, at any rate).

 

Roughly chiseled from the rock, the hall stretched a few hundred yards deep, with forty long tables ordered parallel across its expansive width and rows of thick octagonal columns running down its length. Red banners and gilded shields lined the walls, and towering statues of the first Lannister kings, inset into the limestone, stood vigil at the far end. All in all, its sheer immensity and ancient construction breathed a sort of heroic simplicity, hearkening back to some antediluvian age more myth than history.

 

We reached a tall dais, ascended up the shallow steps, and seated ourselves at the high table. Robert took the golden throne in the middle, embossed with crowns and lions and oak leaves, while Tywin and I settled to his right and left respectively in cushioned walnut armchairs.

 

Giving Robert a sideways glance, Tywin tightened his jaw – his pride rankled at the sight of another man, king or not, occupying the place of honor in his own home.

 

The crowd shuffled into the hall behind us and settled down along the tables, jockeying for the spots closest to the dais. By the time most of them were seated, a band of lutists and harpists and singers began to play music as forgettable as it was vapid – a perfect underlayer for the din of a banquet – and an army of servants fussed about pouring cups and arranging platters.

 

First came the appetizers, fish pastries and peppered oysters and chestnut soup, with loaves of crusty bread and dishes of soft butter. Cersei spoonfed Joffrey, who'd been perched on her lap, while Robert ate almost as much as he drank (quite a lot, in other words), and Stannis absently poked at his food with his fork, brooding and grumbling

 

Next, the main: spit-roasted mutton slathered in a thick honey-ginger sauce, and suckling boar stuffed with rosemary and salt, grilled carrots and spiced squash and fried onions served on the side.

 

Carving himself a slab of meat, Robert bobbed his head at me. "You mentioned your children earlier."

 

I couldn't hide my wince. "Yes, I did."

 

He raised an eyebrow. "Sore subject?"

 

Humming in the affirmative, I leaned back in my chair a bit. "You can either be a good politician or a good parent." 

 

While most nodded along for the sake of politeness, Tywin dismissed what I'd said as a trite platitude, and Cersei narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin at the mere insinuation that she was in any respect lacking.

 

"Some of them turned out fine, but … " I shrugged, then gave a sort of sardonic grin and lifted my cup, taking a sip. "Let's just say they're all adults now" – or old enough to count as such – "and free to live their lives as they choose."

 

Robert chuckled, then motioned his head over his shoulder. "Ned here's expecting his, what, third?"

 

Pausing mid-chew, Ned swallowed and shook his head. "Fourth."

 

The king furrowed his brow, before snapping his fingers with a grunt. "Right, your bastard." His gaze then returned to me. "What's your tally?"

 

"Nine."

 

Robert goggled, nearly choking on his wine. "Bloody hell."

 

Cersei muttered a jab under her breath, something snide about me spreading my legs, which went ignored by the rest of the table.

 

I giggled. "In all fairness, three were adopted."

 

"Still." His eyes roamed up and down my body. "Just looking at you, I couldn't even tell."

 

I chose to take that as a compliment, and propped my cheek on my fist. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.”

 

He laughed and waved it off, taking another sip of wine, though not without playfully flashing his eyebrows. For all his bawdiness and boorishness and eventual bitterness, Robert had an undeniable charisma – God help me, I actually found myself liking him. 

 

By now, most of the plates had been picked clean, or piled high with bones and fat and other detritus, and the servants rolled out the casks of cheap vintage as the guests became well and truly drunk.

 

Surveying the crowd, Robert shot me one last chuckle. "Right then, time to do my kingly duty." He plonked his utensils down and rose to his feet, gaudy throne scraping back against the floor. As he cleared his throat, silence radiated outwards from the dais, the nobles shushing their neighbors and turning their heads so they could give their liege their full attention. 

 

“I won’t bore you all with a history lesson.” The impressive acoustics of the hall carried his speech all the way to the doors. “Everyone knows why we’re here, and why we’ll be paying those barren, windswept rocks a nice little visit.” 

 

At this, the assembly began to holler and whistle and snigger – the Stormlanders and Northerners seemingly competing over who was rowdier – and Robert, after allowing a minute of this, gestured for them to settle down. “And I’m sure everyone knows what happened at Lannisport." He clapped me on the shoulder. "My new friend, Queen Marika of the Lands Between, single-handedly crushed the Iron Fleet. By any standard, a damn fine showing.” Then, grinning, he raised his goblet. “A toast to vengeance, and sending those reavers to meet their Drowned God.”

 

Robert took a deep swig, and the audience followed suit before breaking out into applause. As I gave the obligatory nods and waves, the king continued. “Aye, no less than they deserve. Burning our homes, stealing our riches, enslaving our women and children – the ironmen are a pox.” He snorted. “An oozing boil on our collective arse that should’ve been lanced centuries ago.”

 

He leaned forward, the silent crowd hanging on his every word. “And I, for one, refuse to let Her Grace have all the fun. So tonight, stuff your gullets and dip your wicks, because tomorrow we'll thrash some fucking squids!" Robert chugged the remainder of his wine, then slammed his cup against the table. "And give them a taste of our fury!"

 

Cheers blasted through the air, and the crowd pounded their fists and stomped their feet to a resounding chant of "BA-RA-THE-ON, BA-RA-THE-ON!" Tywin, meanwhile, gave another signal, and the musicians burst into a jaunty rendition of "The Rains of Castamere," his bannermen all too happy to sing along – the dissonance of it practically beat me over the head. The resulting clamor engulfed the hall, the frat boy nobility giving themselves over to revelry, though the Westermen (if only for fear of their lord's piercing gaze) made sure to comport themselves with a relative measure of decorum and restraint.

 

Flopping back onto the throne and wiping his mouth with a sleeve, Robert glanced at his cupbearer as he refilled the goblet. “This takes me back. No useless politicking, just an honest war. A dragon to slay." Grabbing his cup and absent-mindedly swirling it, he stared somewhere off in the distance, lost in his recollections. "A girl to save."

 

Apparently, he was a sad drunk. 

 

The servants started to clear the table, replacing our dishes and silverware, and I reclined back in my seat, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "Yes, I suppose it does." I shifted to look in his direction. "So when do we ship out?”

 

Robert blinked, eyeing me with a furrowed brow, then turned to face Tywin and Ned, the three of them sending each other pointed glances. 

 

Their little powwow ended when Ned sat up straight and Robert ran his fingers through his hair and Tywin leaned forwards to meet me in the eye. “A few days from now, Your Grace, as soon as we’re fully provisioned. That said, however, you needn’t feel compelled to participate in this campaign, much less regard it your duty. After everything you’ve done for us, we’ve no desire to impose on your generosity any more than we already have.”

 

I laughed, crossing my arms. "Nonsense. It won't be a duty, it'll be a pleasure. Been a while since my last proper war, after all, and I wouldn't want to miss the excitement." A smirk. "Besides, as wonderful mooching off you has been, Lord Tywin, I'm starting to feel an itch. About time for me to spread my wings, I think, and go out and see the world."

 

A couple of my neighbors fidgeted and gulped. 

 

Frankly, if I was a rabid, mongoloid savage that lounged atop a bed of corpses and drank blood from a skull, the Westerosi probably wouldn’t have been quite so skittish – then, at least, they’d have felt reasonably confident in their estimation of me. It was the ambiguity, the constant second-guessing of my character and intentions, that so visibly ate away at their composure. Oh, sure, the whole magic thing wigged them out fierce, as did my inhuman physique and uncanny fluidity and open femininity, but that which rubbed them the most was that niggling feeling at the back of their minds that they only saw exactly what I wanted them to, hiding my true nature deep beneath the surface.

 

Which, fair enough.

 

In the end, after they whispered and gesticulated among themselves – Stannis even occasionally chimed in – Robert nodded and fixed me with a smile. “The more the merrier.”

 

“Excellent,” I chirped, lifting my cup. “Have to say, I’m rather looking forward to finishing the job.”

 

The festivities continued long into the night, sustained by a steady flow of wine and desserts, baked apples dusted with cinnamon and sponge cakes drowning in honey, berries and cream and strudel-looking things. Ribald ballads were sung, ladies were groped, and a couple of fights erupted here and there – all in all, a good time. Eventually, however, the energy waned:  Robert just sat there, staring melancholically at the bottom of his goblet, while Ned tried his best to hide his snores.

 

About seven hours from the start of the meal, after thanking Tywin and taking Cersei by the arm, the king retired for the night, a band of lickspittles following behind him, and the rest of the nobility staggering to their rooms at their own pace.

 

I myself was one of the last to leave, having been indulging in some primo people-watching.

 

As I was ambling through the halls, softly whistling some half-forgotten pop song from however many lifetimes ago, the sound of hurried footsteps pattered behind me. I turned to see Tyrion, panting in exertion, and slowed down just enough for him to match my stride, waiting for him to catch his breath. 

 

“Your Divine Majesty” – seems I’d netted a convert – “now that I’ve the chance, I would like to thank you.” He swallowed before continuing. “For everything.”

 

I waved him off. “There’s no need to thank me. As I told your father, it was the least I could do.”

 

“Even still.” Eyes blazing with resolve, his expression firmed. “How can I repay you?”

 

I came to a stop, studying the boy with a raised eyebrow. He really was Tywin's son – for him, this was a matter of pride, certainly more so than one of gratitude or devotion. "You've nothing I want, nor that I truly need. But if you're so insistent on repayment, prove a worthwhile investment. Strengthen your mind. Refine your powers. Live the best life you can. Then I'll be satisfied."

 

I turned to leave, but stopped at the last moment, and turned back to look at him.

 

"She wasn't a whore, by the way. Jaime lied."

 

With that, I resumed my stroll, leaving Tyrion trembling in the middle of the hallway.

Notes:

Law School starts in a few days -- I don't expect my pace to slow too much, but just be aware that it might anyways.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Sometime midmorning, as Robert and I approached the waterfront, accompanied by our respective retinues – mine, of course, comprised solely of Ed, hunched atop a borrowed gelding – I couldn’t help but whistle, much to the king’s visible amusement. 

 

His grand flagship boasted three masts and four hundred oars, with ballistae and catapults running down its length and tall castles raised fore and aft. Painted with broad, alternating bands of yellow and black, its thick, bulging hull sat low in the water, and its gilded figurehead (a rampant stag) protruded out from the bow, balanced above a solid iron ram. All in all, it was a ponderous, top-heavy thing, almost impractically so, that hogged enough dock space for several smaller warships. 

 

Sailors scrubbed its deck and lashed its sails, while dockhands piled supplies into the hold: barrels of salt pork and biscuits, casks of wine and ale, and sundry bits of miscellany, lamps and furniture and the like. Only a fraction noticed our arrival, and only a fraction of that made to genuflect, the rest being otherwise occupied. 

 

Mind, in that regard, at least, this particular ship wasn’t much of an exception. Across the fleet, provisions were being laden, the last few repairs were being completed, and hundred-strong contingents of footsoldiers were loading themselves for transit. Cranes hoisted logs and planks onto waiting freighters – siege engines had to be made of something, after all, and the Iron Islands weren’t exactly famed for their woodlands – and within the harbor, since cleared of debris, support craft and requisitioned merchantmen ferried troops and cargo to the galleys anchored offshore.

 

“Needs a couple more tons, I think.”

 

Chuckling, Robert slowed his horse to a creep. “ King Robert's Hammer , she's named, the largest ship in the royal fleet. Took two years to build, and no small amount of gold besides." He faced me with a proud grin, like a child showing off a favorite toy. "There’s not a vessel from here to Yi-Ti that can match her in open battle."

 

Knowing the absurd scale of this world’s engineering – George really was pants at numbers – I rather doubted his assertion. Odds were some Essosi despot had a floating fortress triple its size, rowed by enslaved rivals and crewed by eunuchs in leopard skins or something. But in the unlikely event the Hammer actually managed to reach the enemy without foundering under its own weight, or capsizing from a light breeze, I imagine it would’ve been most fearsome, indeed. 

 

With a grunt, Robert dismounted, shouting for his squire and tossing him the reins. The rest of the party followed suit, wincing and flinching when Typhoon dissipated into motes of azure light – really, by now, you'd think they'd have had thicker skins – and milled about the wharf until the captain, passing command to his mate, marched down the gangway to meet us. 

 

An old-looking fellow (mid-fifties, perhaps), he carried himself with an air of pomposity, mustache waxed and doublet buttoned tight – pegged him as a political appointee, just competent enough to keep the boat from sinking. 

 

The captain bowed to Robert. “Your Grace.” He turned to me and bowed again, if a touch more shallowly. “Your Grace."

 

"Captain, erm … " The king furrowed his brow at his feet, before meeting him with a questioning gaze. "Wyllard, yes?"

 

"Indeed, Your Grace. Ser Wyllard Lyberr."

 

Robert snapped his fingers. "Aye, that’s it. You Reachmen all blend together after a while." He then loosed a loud, boisterous laugh – his default response to most everything, and motioned towards the ship. "So, are we ready to launch?"

 

Wyllard's mustache twitched. "In an hour or two, Your Grace. A handful of particulars are still being sorted.”

 

Propping his hands on his hips, Robert gave a sort of half-shrug. "Better sooner than later.” He bobbed his head, spurring the captain onwards. “Lead on, then.”

 

Wyllard bowed before trooping back up the gangway, the royal party following close behind; the horses, meanwhile, were led aboard a purpose-built transport, one of many bobbing about the harbor. Sidestepping ropes and crates and seamen, we crossed the deck towards the aftercastle, then went through an entryway and down a short flight of stairs.

 

Reserved for officers and nobility, the cabin took up nearly a quarter of the ship’s length – the rest of the crew bunked in the hold, crowded amidst the stores and rowing benches. All wood paneling and velvet carpeting, it was illuminated by rows of clear paned windows, and divided into smaller compartments by moveable bulkheads. We filed into its large, central chamber, one-part command post and one-part wardroom, and took a moment to gauge the accommodations. 

 

“As instructed, rooms have been prepared for each of Your Graces.”

 

Nodding and humming, Robert and his entourage arrayed themselves around a map table and started to discuss the oncoming voyage: “Fine weather for sailing,” one chimed in, “Best go around Fair Isle” another opined, and they pulled up seats and unbuckled their swordbelts and summoned refreshments.

 

I tapped the king on the shoulder, nabbing his attention. "Hope you don’t mind if I sit for a moment.”

 

“Don’t let me keep you,” Robert waved, and Wyllard pointed me towards a door, the two shortly returning to their conversation. 

 

With Ed traipsing at my heels, I wandered over and entered my apportioned berthing. Like everything else about this ship, it was decidedly spacious, taking up a substantial chunk of the cabin’s port side, all the way to the stern. A colossal hammock – three standard ones hastily stitched together – billowed from the rafters, with bureaus and wardrobes, lounges and stools, fastened along the walls and floor. 

 

I parked myself in a comfortable-looking armchair, tilting my head at Ed as he latched the deadbolt. “Pass me the bag.”

 

The bag in question, a well-made leather pack my pet Ironborn had slung over his shoulders, was borrowed from Casterly Rock, as were the dozen or so books stuffed within. He adopted a queer, discomfited expression when I rummaged around inside it, and fished out a garishly decorated edition of Longstrider’s travel chronicles. 

 

I read a few pages, legs crossed and chin resting on my palm, until I looked back up at Ed and met his gaze with my own. “Do you need something?” When he didn’t answer, I closed the book and flourished it around, a finger holding my place. “Lord Tywin’s got enough of these, he won’t even notice they're missing.” A chuckle. “Besides, I paid the iron price for them." I theatrically thumped my fist against my chest. "My rightful due under the Old Way."

 

The kid took a shuddering breath. “No, M’lady, it’s the … I … ” 

 

“Go on, spit it out.”

 

“What are you going to do?” he blurted, Adam’s apple quivering. “To the Islands?”

 

I couldn’t help but scoff a little. “I won’t sink them, if that's what you're worried about. This war's not a crusade for me, it's an indulgence." The metaphor made a lot more sense in my head. “Robert and his friends, though … " Crossing my arms, I leaned back. "Can't imagine they'll be so beneficent.” A shrug. “Should’ve thought of that before declaring open rebellion.” 

 

Ed flopped onto a curule seat and rubbed his hands across his face, knee bouncing up and down. “Ki – ” He closed his mouth, furrowing his brow off to the side, then continued. “Lord Balon had a plan, you know?”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

“Kick them so hard they’ll have to set us free. The stag’s a usurper, a kinslayer, so the soft greenlander lords won’t fight for him.” The boy stared through the porthole. “Obviously, he thought wrong.”

 

“You’re well-informed for a ranker."

 

Ed folded his arms close to his stomach. “My father was a captain. Had his own ship, the Cruel King Qhored .” He swallowed. “Last saw him on the day of the sack, running her along the shoreline.”

 

Ah. "My condolences."

 

Trembling, he rubbed his eyes. "Don't bother. He was an arse.” Seems his feelings were a touch more complicated than that, but I didn’t think it my place to pry. “Always so proud. ‘We’re iron, boy,’ he used to tell me, ‘and iron does not bend.’” His fist slammed against the armrest. “It breaks, though. Shatters into splinters! Clever planning can’t stop some BITCH from … ” 

 

His rant trailed off, eyes widening and mouth gaping as he realized what he’d called me to my face. “M’lady – ”

 

I belted out a laugh, closing my eyes and pitching my head at the ceiling. He sat there, torn between outrage and mortification, as my laughter slowly died down. “Bitch, eh?” Another chuckle, and the book opened back to my last-read page. “Why don't you tell me how you really feel?”

 

Fists clenched, Ed opened his mouth to speak, apparently thought better of it, and slouched in his chair with a sigh, losing steam before he ever truly started.

 

“I’d be worried if you didn’t hate me. Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair soon enough.” I picked up where I left my reading. “And you mine, for that matter.”

 

With the two of us sitting there in silence, I soon lost track of time – so I’ll admit that the knock on the door rather startled me, book tumbling from my hands onto my lap.

 

“Bloody – ” I huffed and shook my head, then gestured towards Ed, who tromped over and unlocked it. 

 

A pageboy in Baratheon livery stumbled across the threshold and timidly bowed, addressing me with a squeaky stammer. “T-he ship is departing, Your Grace. My King asks that you, um, join him. On deck.”

 

“Huh.” The book was laid atop a nearby chest. I glanced out the porthole, and sure enough, a few hours had passed, the Sun hanging high noon. “Already?” I rose to my feet and made for the door, shaking away an odd sense of déjà vu, while the page, cringing, hastened out of the room. As I passed him, Ed motioned to sit back down, though I halted him with a pointed finger. “Behave.”

 

Then, as Ed assumed a noticeable gingerness, I followed the messenger back through the cabin and stepped up onto the quarterdeck, approaching the chattering cluster of nobles. Robert, already nursing a drink, waved me over, and I leaned against the handrail right beside him.

 

“Have a good nap?”

 

I affected a playful frown. “Could’ve been better. With chop this rough, I get dreadfully seasick.” 

 

Snorting, he grinned. “Well, if that’s the case, do try to aim away from me.”

 

My arrival, apparently, was the signal to proceed, and Wyllard gestured at his mate, prompting him to nod at a subordinate, who in turn raised a blowhorn to his lips and bellowed “Weigh anchor!” – why the captain couldn’t have just done that himself was beyond me. Seamen hauled the chain and hung the wrought iron anchor from the prow, while dockhands untied the mooring lines. “Strike oars!” the officer shouted, and drumbeats began to echo around the hold, the Hammer slowly peeling from the wharf and paddling through the harbor. 

 

Horns blasted and men cheered, Robert gave his most kingly wave, and banners unfurled as the sails caught the offshore winds. The rest of the fleet followed close behind, supply and support vessels sandwiched between columns of hulking war galleys. 

 

Before long, we reached the open water, and Lannisport slowly shrank into the distance.

 

I strolled back towards the aftercastle.

 

“Leaving so soon?” Robert called out.

 

I turned my head over my shoulder, and briefly met his eyes. “I’ve a chapter to finish.” 

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Over the next weeks, the warships of the joint royalist fleet – by now numbering over three hundred, and accompanied by a corresponding number of freighters and transports and other such support craft – moseyed towards the Iron Islands at something around two to three knots, occasionally four in especially favorable weather.

 

Suppose a parade’s only as fast as its slowest float.

 

Because the Westerosi, after some ten thousand years of continuous civilization, somehow had yet to invent the compass, the pilots navigated by the sun and stars, standing atop the poop with their charts and astrolabes, and, for good measure, making sure to stick well within viewing range of the coastline. 

 

They did a good enough job, I like to think, managing to keep us more or less on course: the ships traveled west around the Feastfires Peninsula, then tacked north against the southerly winds, all those poor little oarsmen hunched below deck getting quite the workout. Along the way, between Fair Isle and the mainland, the armada was joined by (relatively) small, hundred-oar galleys and repurposed merchanters from the Westerland’s coastal houses. These reinforcements numbered, in total, around forty, House Farman’s contribution making up nearly half of that.

 

It was as we passed the half-ruined towers of the Crag, sandy beaches giving way to granite cliffsides, that the waves grew rougher and the skies stormier and the morning fog thicker, and we encountered the first Ironborn resistance.

 

The Islands’ eminent houses, Harlaw and Drumm and Blacktyde and the like (the Greyjoy fleet, remember, no longer existed as a viable force, reduced to some ragtag second-rates that had been held in reserve), tried their damnedest to whittle down our strength. They’d batter specific sections of our line, creating openings for some of their longships to reach the supply vessels clustered in the middle, and buying enough time for them to sink a few before we could muster a response. Any stragglers lagging at the rear or overachievers blazing at the fore were picked off piecemeal, their crews taken captive and captains brutally, publicly executed – the Ironborn, I’d learned, were particularly fond of blood eagles, but now and again took the time for a proper keelhaul. And every night, with the moon concealed behind the clouds, their squadrons would come out in force, ramming and boarding and on the whole assailing with their swords and mail glimmering in the firelight.

 

Suffice it to say, this constant skirmishing inflicted a heavy toll on both sides, though the royalists came off comparatively lightly. With our fleet as concentrated as it was, damaged vessels usually received at least some small amount of assistance – repairs and tugs, for the most part, or pickups for survivors if well and truly sunk – and many attacks were simply repelled by our force’s sheer weight. The Ironborn, conversely, hadn’t exactly the industry or the population to quickly replace their own losses, and every longship sunk meant one less source of much-needed plunder. 

 

None of this, mind, seemed to bother Robert all too much. Indeed, his flagship’s cabin had, within the first day of our voyage, turned into something of a saloon (hardly enough wenches for it to be a brothel). The King and his entourage happily indulged in drink, sitting around joking and reminiscing. While their unwashed clothes soon ripened from sweat and grease, and their hair stiffened from the salt air and sea spray, their revelry only grew more spirited.

 

How much of that, I wondered, was genuine enthusiasm, and how much was a distraction from the oncoming bloodshed?

 

Seeing as most of the lords had elected to supervise their men in person, the floating court, as it were, comprised largely of second sons and household knights – or, in Ned’s case, old friends who’d been all but ordered to tag along. Mind, that didn’t stop word of the shindig from spreading, and some of the more gregarious nobles from puttering over on little dinghies and, hours later, stumbling drunkenly back to their own ships. Coming as they did from across the Seven Kingdoms, they all got along fairly well, though there existed a certain amount of tension along the usual lines of politics and culture and religion, and an implicit understanding that Robert, no matter how affable, still outranked them all.

 

Meanwhile, of the Kingsguard, only three had come with us to protect their liege, Selmy busy commanding a large chunk of the army from the war galley Stormbringer , and Lannister, Blount, and Trant keeping the Queen and Prince company at Casterly Rock. For the most part, they just stood there stiffly in their full plate, hands resting on their swords; Moore, with those dead fish eyes of his, lurked in the shadows like a bloody vampire, and the other two, faces hidden by their helms, were so unremarkable that even their names elude me. 

 

Most noteworthy, I think, was Robert’s small collection of exotics – I wondered if I myself counted as one. He’d a dwarf, of course, and a simpleton or two, and they hopped about dressed in motley, farting and juggling and generally playing the fool for the rest’s entertainment. There was Jalabhar Xho, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles, who spent most of his time flouncing around all self-important, looking down his nose at the ‘milk-skinned savages’ and their ‘giant whore’ – probably wouldn’t have been quite so outspoken if he knew I could understand the Summer Tongue. With his golden piercings and feathered capes and other bits of ethnic costume, he made for a colorful sight, and once or twice contributed some entertaining (if clearly embellished) anecdotes from his homeland. And let’s not forget the bloated, bedraggled Priest of Red R'hllor – Thoros of Myr – who, despite his clerical vows, spent his every waking moment (and most of his sleeping ones, too, for that matter) completely, emphatically, impressively sloshed. When he wasn’t focused on the bottom of his cup, he was staring fixedly at me, that strange, vast presence grafted to his soul exuding a sort of rapt intrigue.

 

Neither, it seems, really knew what to make of me, though whatever they saw apparently enthralled them. 

 

Robert didn’t notice this, or perhaps just couldn’t bring himself to care. “Do that trick,” he bid Thoros one night, “the one with the fire and the wine,” and the priest, after peeling his gaze from me, nodded his head and staggered towards a candle. He raised his goblet to his lips, the candle held slightly ahead of it, and took the deepest swig of wine he could before spraying it up at the ceiling; the resulting jet of flame scorched the wooden ceiling tiles, and only a miracle (not one of mine) kept them from igniting.

 

Thoros wiped his mouth, then looked down at his cup, shaking it around a bit.

 

“It appears, my friends, I am in need of a refill."

 

With that, the crowd broke into applause – frankly, you'd think the Hammer wasn't a warship, but a pleasure barge.

 

Most of the day-to-day command of the fleet, therefore, fell to Stannis, hunkered aboard his own flagship, the Fury . After all, as the Master of Ships, the navy was his responsibility – his duty – and as a surly, bitter younger brother, he didn't trust Robert not to bugger things up. 

 

So as the conflict slowly, but steadily, intensified, Stannis made quite a name for himself. He sailed from crisis to crisis, putting out fires right in the thick of it, and ordering, among other things, that the distance between each of the ships be halved and the number of lookouts and watches be doubled. However much a bother the crews found these measures, they proved undoubtedly effective, casualties markedly declining as time went on, and we crept ever closer to our destination.

 

The Ironborn, naturally, caught on fairly quickly, and only a few days before we reached the Islands, reckoned it was time for a change in tactics.

 

I had just woken up, padded into the main cabin, and planted myself in the corner when the bells of the neighboring ships began to peal, our own ship’s joining them not long after. Shouts, I’d learned, meant enemy vessels on the horizon, horns a skirmish or raid – I could only assume that bells meant something decidedly more severe. 

 

A hush descended on the room, laughter died and conversations ceased, and pausing mid-sip of some dreadful medieval hangover cure (diced eel in vinegar, I think), Robert narrowed his eyes at one of the portholes. "Damn fog," he grumbled, rising to his feet, and buckled his swordbelt before marching up the stairs, followed by the rest of his retinue. Boots squeaking on the soggy deck boards, they buttoned their cloaks to guard against the morning chill – shooting jealous frowns at my bare arms and sandals – and lined themselves about the edge of the ship to try and find the source of the disturbance.

 

Given the clouds and fog, visibility only extended fifty yards (if that) in any direction – all we could see was a hazy, muddled grey, dappled with vague blobs that, if we squinted, might've resembled warships. The sounds of battle, however, men screaming and wood splintering and steel clashing, carried across the water just fine; faces grim, the noblemen clustered around me straightened and sobered, calling for their squires to fetch them their armor.

 

“You've got to admire their tenacity.”

 

Dismissing my quip with a snort, Robert turned his head towards Wyllard. “Any word from Stannis?”

 

“No, Your Grace.” For such a puffed-up ponce, Wyllard came off as remarkably composed. "Too overcast for signals."

 

Robert scowled, lifting his arms as his squire fastened the straps of his cuirass. “So we’re on our own."

 

“At least until the weather clears."

 

The king grunted and nodded, and fiddling with a gauntlet, shot me a raised eyebrow. “I don’t suppose – ” 

 

One of the noblemen, a balding, bearded fellow in a beige surcoat embroidered with white feather quills (a solid contender for the most boring heraldry yet devised), recoiled away from the handrail with a gasp, pointing towards the fog. "Your Grace, look!"

 

Robert snapped his mouth shut, and knit his brow at a tall smear in the mist; it swelled and distended as it drew near, spewing rabid war cries and the thunderous banging of shields.

 

"Ballistae, beam to port!" Wyllard barked, subordinates passing it along. “Ready for boarders!"

 

Hell-for-leather, a massive longship – sails blood-red and prow carved into a screaming skull – burst from the fog, streaking right towards us; bolts slashed through its crew and punched through its hull, but that barely slowed it, and the crew of the Hammer dived to the floor as Wyllard cried “BRACE!”

 

But instead of ramming into us, splitting the hold open and dumping reavers out onto the deck, the longship banged against one of my golden barriers. Its bow crumpled, masts snapped and sails torn, and the remaining crew toppled into the sea – then, just as it began to slump and list, the barrier suddenly, violently pressed forward, and with a raucous crash, the ship disintegrated. 

 

“You were saying?”

 

Robert’s train of thought, it seems, had slipped from the rails, and then promptly exploded. As the lickspittles swore under their breaths, clutching their seven-pointed pendants and weirwood beads and other assorted fetishes, he blinked and gaped, slowly propping himself onto his elbows. He offered me a glance, then turned back towards the spot where, mere moments before, the longship had been, and gave a vacant nod. “Yes, the, um … ” 

 

I quite admirably resisted the urge to slap him over the head – the locals' stupefaction had grown more than a little stale. They had good enough reason to be fearful, that much I could concede, even discounting all their talk of heresy and 'hiltless swords,' but it really was monotonous watching them, for the hundredth time, duck and tremble like cavemen first discovering fire.

 

Thankfully, it wasn't too long before the hamster wheel between his ears started spinning again, and running his fingers through his hair, the king shakily regained his footing. “The fog.” An exhale, matched with a sort of uneasy half-grin. “Can you do something about it?"

 

Looking around, I surveyed the mist, then studied the dense blanket of clouds. "Well, if you insist."

 

The Fundamentalists back in Leyndell – aside from embodying the worst traits of both zealots and academics – had set out with the lofty ambition of codifying the Golden Order's fundamental, underlying logic. Most of the resulting corpus was nonsense, of course (believe me, I’d know), but a couple hypotheses actually hit pretty close to the mark, chief among them the so-called “Law of Causality.” Radagon, in his thesis on the subject, summarized it thus: “Every deed, every condition, is informed by the pull between meanings, whereby all things are linked in a chain of relation. Naught arises from naught, and action produces reaction” – Newton’s Third, essentially. 

 

My divinity, being in large part centered around this principle, was therefore somewhat limited – even my dominion over the Lands Between, rather than derived from my godhood in and of itself, was more a product of my metaphorical admin access to the Elden Ring. Being neither omnipotent, omniscient, nor omnipresent, I couldn’t, in other words, just say “Let there be light,” impose my will upon the world, and hope to effect some sort of change.

 

I actually had to do something.

 

Mind you, tossing a bit of magic around more often than not sufficed, so practically speaking, my powers were hardly limited – especially considering that the stuff is essentially just intent and imagination made physically manifest – but sometimes circumstances necessitated a certain amount of creativity.

 

So thrusting my hand to the sky, the air above began to twist and broil, searing currents drilling through the cloud cover and strangling the hanging fog. The mist sizzled and evaporated while the clouds were torn to shreds, wisps of vapor dissipating into the atmosphere. Shafts of sunlight then charged through the gaps, and soon, save for some scattered cirrus and patches of steam, the weather had cleared, and the whole of the battlefield was made visible. 

 

The royalist fleet, as ordered by Stannis, had arranged itself ‘on the march’ into a dense, thick column, bulging at the middle and tapered at the tips. The Ironborn, in turn, had divided their own fleet – some two hundred and fifty longships, with a smattering of captured galleys and carracks – into two separate lines, and sailed perpendicular through either end of the bulge. Their strategy, I could only assume, was to divide our formation into three smaller sections, and pray that their numerically inferior force could then defeat each disparate clump in detail.

 

Simply put, they'd tried to Trafalgar us – but Stannis was no Villeneuve, and whoever the hell those knockoff Norsemen had made their admiral was certainly no Nelson.

 

In the erstwhile fog, any semblance of coordination quickly disappeared, and the Ironborn attack had stalled. Many of their ships were now crowded along the edge of our line, where resistance was far stronger than expected, or meandered aimlessly outside the fighting. while those that succeeded in breaking through found themselves isolated and surrounded. And seeing as the average longship, designed for maneuver, was both leaner and lighter than the average galley, with a smaller crew and fewer catapults, they fared rather poorly bogged down in the melee.

 

Stannis soon realized that we’d the advantage, so he wheeled the Fury about to meet the enemy head-on, wrangled back control of the fleet, and raised his signal flags – press the advance, he enjoined, envelop and annihilate. The ships jammed closer, grappled together with hooks and ropes, and their decks soon filled with ranks of marines, spears and axes blushing red, and planks slick with blood; one unfortunate, having fallen into the water, was crushed between the beaks of two warships, and his trunk flattened as his innards spouted from his mouth. Drums pounding and horns blasting, those galleys not already caught in the brawl then rammed the longships from the sides and rear, and pelted them with arrows and bolts and stones. 

 

At Robert’s enthusiastic urging, we cruised straight towards the point where the bulk of their first line had piled up against our van: where, in other words, the fighting was thickest. Though friendly vessels cluttered the sea, dromonds sallying to the front and transports ferrying reinforcements, they cleared a path as they spotted the king's flagship, cheering and waving as we lumbered by, our pace gradually quickening.

 

“Ramming speed!” some nameless officer shouted, and blazing through a gap in the battle line, we pounded into one of the longships (quartering slightly away from us, fifty or so oars, white sails emblazoned with a bundle of black nooses). The respective crews buckled, tremors rocking up their spines, and our ram raked a yawning gash into its starboard side before embedding itself amidships: a crippling blow, by any metric, and seawater gushed into the enemy’s hull. 

 

Whether desperate or confident or overcome with some queer battle frenzy, howling and biting their shields, the Ironborn, to a man, abandoned their stricken craft and clambered aboard the Hammer ; the sopping, shivering, disjoined mob then hurtled towards the quarterdeck, and threw themselves at the tight, sturdy shield wall planted in front of the mizzenmast. Neither side seemed to have the advantage, their ferocity a match for our cohesion. 

 

Robert chuckled, before starting down the stairs. "Right then, let's greet the visitors." Closing the visor on his antlered bascinet, the king then hefted his warhammer over his shoulder. "Aye, send them our kindest regards!" His retinue, accordingly, erupted into hoots and hollers, and drawing their swords and grasping their maces, charged from the aftercastle down into the fray. 

 

Smashing into the enemy throng, the heavily armed and armored noblemen, trained for war since childhood, severed limbs and slit throats, pierced chests and pulverized skulls, the foe’s shattered helmets and split rings of mail clattering onto the deck boards. With a snarl, Robert – the tip of the proverbial spear – swung his hammer into some poor sod’s jaw, spraying chunks of bone and gristle, then gouged out another’s intestines with the spike; Ned finished that one off, running him through with Ice , before a dirk, sparks flying, skidded across the surface of his breastplate. The Lord of Winterfell jerked backward, eyes narrowing, and dodged the next swipe before cleaving the offender’s head in two.

 

As the king and his companions carved away at the center, the Ironborn began to give ground, steadily pushed back towards the prow. It was only when their captain – a large, hairy man in grungy half-plate, hefting a two-handed axe – took a spearpoint through the eye that they started to waver, and then finally break. Some, praying for mercy, threw down their arms, only to be butchered on the spot, while some bravely stood their ground, a few even taking one or two with them; others still resolved to meet their god, or at least deny the mainlanders the privilege of killing them, and leapt into the sea, drowning in their armor.

 

I myself, save for sending some intermittent potshots at the occasional longship, refused an encore of my Lannisport performance. With how well the fleet, on the whole, acquitted itself, I figured my help just wasn’t needed – and, in the tight-pressed melee, ran an intolerable risk of friendly fire besides. Instead, I had one of the sailors fetch me a chair, and enjoyed the show from atop the quarterdeck. 

 

Come afternoon, the Ironborn formations had been encircled, trapped, and gradually squeezed, and oars overlapping and lines entangling, the ever-shrinking presses were assailed from all sides. A number, of course, managed breakouts, exploiting cracks between the royalist galleys and sailing away at speed, but by far the majority were boarded and rammed, their crews slaughtered and their sundered hulls cast down into the depths.

 

By the time the battle was over, the water was choked with blood and debris, and the air with the screams of the dying and wounded. At the cost of around a hundred vessels, we’d sunk nearly two hundred of theirs, with a couple dozen more captured as trophies, and the rest having fled. A hard-won victory, none can deny, but nevertheless a decisive one.

 

And so, that night, Robert celebrated, and drank himself under the table. 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

The Battle of the Shrouded Straight, as it had come to be called, exhausted the Ironborn's already weakened naval strength, and crippled their ability to meaningfully counter our movements. This isn’t to say they didn’t keep trying, of course, and sporadic handfuls of longships continued to boldly, blindly hurl themselves at us, but these attacks proved decidedly ineffectual; the impotent death rides of leaderless captains who figured it’d be better to go down fighting. In the end, we voyaged onwards with effective impunity, and some four days after the battle – a month and some change since we first launched – the lookouts caught sight of windswept cliffs, weathered basalt stained white with brine, looming over the horizon.

 

We'd finally reached the Iron Islands.

 

Robert, accordingly, called an assembly of his lords and knights, and with a handful of galleys lashed to each other, anchored to the seafloor and bridged by planks, the officers congregated around an enormous map of the Islands, which had been rolled out across the Hammer’s deck. The next few hours were a circus, hundreds of grown men rowdily squabbling as they shunted little wooden tokens around, but, eventually, something of a consensus was reached – thanks in no small part to a profusion of liquor. The fleet then dispersed, and the commanders, respective forces in tow, advanced towards their assigned objectives.

 

Leading a host of stormlanders, Royal Fleet personnel, and miscellaneous sellswords and such, Stannis sailed northeast and assaulted Great Wyk, the largest in the chain, known for its tall mountains and deep mines. Though the main strongholds and settlements, Hammerhorn and Pebbleton and such, folded rather easily, a number of defenders managed to scarper off into the hills, hiding amidst the towering pines, and from there launched savage raids against the invaders – these “bandits,” as Stannis insisted on calling them, turned what should’ve been a quick, clean stroke into a protracted insurgency.

 

Meanwhile, at the head of those crownlanders who'd even bothered to show up (enduring Targaryen loyalists, the Blackwater nobility hadn't much love for the "usurper"), Barristan Selmy captured Old Wyk, the enemy's holiest site – even from miles away, the miasma of the damn place cloyed like rotting fish, dank and sticky and putrid with decay. Here resided the Drowned God's true believers, the fanatics and crusaders, whose enthusiasm more than made up for any shortfalls in technical skill. House Drumm’s seat, the Ossuary, with its cruel black stonework and gibbets crammed with sacrificed thralls, took nearly two weeks to crack; his white cloak fluttering behind him, the aging kingsguard was first through the breach.

 

Harlaw, the wealthiest and most populous one, was beset by Kevan Lannister and his contingent of westermen – Tywin had elected to stay at home, ostensibly to oversee logistics. Keen to avenge Lannisport, with Clegane at the van, they repaid the Ironborn’s brutality in full, raping and pillaging their way to victory; in fiery reflections of what’d been done to the Reynes, they’d herd the locals into a hall or barn before setting it alight, cutting down any who tried to escape. The proud, majestic, honorable lions, their ships stuffed with plundered weregild, leveled the Ten Towers, razed Grey Garden, and on the whole reduced the island to a waste of smoldering rubble.

 

A small hodgepodge of riverlanders, reachmen, and other disparate leftovers, having assented to the command of the reigning Lord Mallister, occupied Saltcliffe. Theirs was a quiet invasion (as much as such a thing can be), and the island's only castle surrendered without a fight.

 

Lastly, there was Pyke; all barren moors and boulder fields, heavy rains and howling winds, it was a dark, damp, and dreary place, unequivocally miserable – if I’d been forced to live there, I'd have probably joined a piratical death cult too. Though it may not have boasted any sublime beauty, nor profound sanctity, nor the most lucrative industry or trade, it was, by any measure, the oldest inhabited of the Iron Islands, and the region’s (nominal, at least) center of governance.

 

From their eponymous seat (the actual etymology long since lost to time, whether the castle or island had been named first was an issue of some controversy), the Greyjoys had ruled largely uncontested for nearly three centuries. For however richer, mightier, or godlier some of their vassals might’ve been, the squids had struck an admirable balance, in no respect particularly lacking, and carried themselves as the staunchest defenders of the Old Way. Indeed, by declaring himself the first true driftwood king since Harren's immolation, Balon (a man of quite a lot of bravery and not much else) had become far more than just a politician – he was now a rallying symbol, the ‘Great Liberator’ and ‘King of Salt of Rock,’ he who would restore their nation’s lost glory. Lobbing off the head of the proverbial snake, or at least knocking the crown from it, was therefore probably the single most crucial step in extinguishing the Ironborn’s fighting spirit, and properly, decisively ending the war.

 

Besides, as Robert was fond of drunkenly slurring, Westeros only had room for one king.

 

And so, the king (that is, the one on the Iron Throne) resolved to finish the job himself, and personally led the assault on the island, bringing with him Ned Stark's northerners. Seeing as the west and interior, save for some scattered fishing hamlets, were largely uninhabited, the royalists planned to sail directly for Lordsport, the chain’s single largest settlement, and, after capturing it, to march along the east coast; leaving behind a token force to secure the beachhead, the bulk of the army would go south and besiege Pyke Castle, while a few thousand split off north and attacked Iron Holt. 

 

A simplistic strategy, perhaps, maybe even predictable, but a battle this lopsided – and victory this assured – hardly demanded complexity.

 

The day of the landing was overcast and gloomy, the clouds above stamped a dull, uniform grey. Shoreward winds rippling through our sails, the Hammer setting the pace, around fifty galleys and a hundred transports cruised towards the harbor, with blocks of infantry mustered atop their decks. 

 

Seeing the lot of them in their full kit, I felt compelled, I’ll admit, to indulge in a bit of dress-up myself. While the original might’ve presented herself as a radiant, beatific, virgin mother sort, she was, at her core, very much a war goddess, and had the accouterments to match. Her – now my – favorite panoply was a formfitting musculata, paired with matching vambraces and greaves, and topped with a winged helm, all done in the royal colors of black and gold. Engraved with glowing runes and embossed with a cruciform Erdtree, with a cloak and underlayer of Tyrian silk, the set, altogether, looked the sort of thing that Nero would wear to Bayreuth – so gaudy and overblown that it looped back around to majestic. 

 

I didn't need the armor, not really – certainly not against Ironborn, of all things – but it wouldn’t have done to fight a battle and not look the part, no matter how comfortable my usual dress was.

 

Anyways, digression aside, much of Lordsport’s peasantry had fled in anticipation of our arrival, seeking refuge in the surrounding hinterlands, while its extensive dockyards had been garrisoned and fortified; ranks of half-trained conscripts manned jury-rigged barricades, and reams of mothballed ballistae and catapults – the town was the Iron Fleet's primary anchorage, after all, and a noted producer of arms besides – were dug out from storage and liberally sprinkled across their lines.

 

What they’d cobbled together was better than no defense at all, I supposed, and even looked formidable when eyed from a distance, but hardly seemed capable of actually impeding, much less halting, the sheer weight of men and material bearing down upon them.

 

As we closed the last couple hundred yards to shore, the Ironborn opened up on us, our ships pelted with a hail of bolts and stones; infantry raised their shields above their heads, and sailors scrambled for cover behind bulwarks and forecastles. The enemy’s experienced artillery crews, I could only assume, went down with their fleet, but Stalin had a point about quantity and quality, and those projectiles that didn’t whiff past us or skid along the water or ricochet off our hulls caused a fair amount of damage – one carrack, its masts reduced to splinters, sat dead in the water until a missile punched straight through its bow, the shattered remnants sloughing off into the depths. It sank in less than a minute, and the passengers who'd managed to abandon ship got dragged under by the resulting whirlpool.

 

“Load!” the captains ordered, teams scrambling towards their engines, and with shouts of “Loose!” our ships barraged the shore in kind. Shooting at distant targets from moving platforms, our aim wasn’t much better than theirs, but we still destroyed enough of their machines and routed enough of their crews to turn the artillery duel marginally in our favor. 

 

Fifty yards to go, then forty, the Hammer angled slightly to port and ran along the waterfront, before pulling into a jetty and wrenching to a halt. Under the cover of archers and artillery, the royalist infantry clambered down ladders and nets and gangways, then charged across the docks towards the ramshackle Ironborn line; however spirited, the greybeards and boys melted under the northerners’ onslaught, ceding ground as their ranks buckled and splintered.

 

A drydocked hulk – a mainlander galley, by the looks of it, assumedly taken as a prize – anchored the center of their defense, and represented the final bulwark between the harbor and the town proper. Bowmen fired volleys from the deck, axemen formed a shield wall around the keel, and officers and wounded sheltered inside the hold. Rather than storming it, or allowing it to threaten our rear, the royalists bombarded the hulk with torches and fire pots; constructed of timber and tar and other inflammable things, it shortly burst into flames, and charred Ironborn, skin crackling and flesh smoking, screamed as they fled the inferno, the howls of the soldiers trapped inside echoing through the air.

 

Organized resistance, after less than half an hour, had been all but quashed, so the surviving defenders retreated to Botley castle – an elaborate pine mead hall sprawled atop a nearby bluff – and the attackers spilled from the dockyards into the streets.

 

Those women and children and other assorted smallfolk who’d refused to evacuate (around a third of the population, if I had to guess) now found themselves on the wrong end of a sack. Some struggled in vain to defend their homes, and met the royalists with heirloom swords and carpenter’s mallets, kitchen knives and bare hands; their strikes, born of unskilled desperation, glanced off shields and rang against helmets, to which the invaders responded with strikes of their own – far deadlier ones. Some went to ground, hunkering inside their cellars or huddling beneath their beds, and were dragged from their hiding spots and subjected to all manner of abuses and predations. And some chose death before dishonor, to spare themselves the pain of a crueler demise, slitting their wrists or hanging themselves or jumping into the sea.

 

The thralls, on the other hand, haggard and gaunt beneath their soiled rags, cheered the soldiers as liberators, embracing them and crying on their shoulders; a few even took the opportunity to even the score, and choked and bludgeoned their former masters.

 

For their part, the northerners looted everything that wasn't nailed down – and quite a lot that was, too – before setting their torches on Lordsport itself. Buildings packed tight, burning thatch and glowing embers carried by the wind, the blaze soon engulfed the entire town; windows burst and melted to slag, while stone blocks spalled and wood beams blackened. Soon, the flames started lapping at the neighboring hills and then spread to Botley Castle, which snapped and groaned as it collapsed in on itself, taking most of the garrison with it.

 

Lord Botley himself, to my understanding, his hair scorched and flesh blistered, a half-melted gauntlet fused to his sword hand, staggered dazed into the fields where the Northerners had begun to strike camp, and offered his surrender to the first spearman that he happened upon.

 

With the defenders routed and the town razed, the transports were free to run themselves aground, and the main body of troops disembarked to secure the landing sites. Offloading supplies, erecting stockades, and shoveling latrines, by twilight, the men had raised a sizeable encampment; they then retired for the night, laughing and singing as they sat around their cooking pots and divided their shares of the spoils – to an unwashed levy, what’s the value in brooding? 

 

Parked upwind, we were spared the worst of the smoke, and from atop a ridge, inside the command tent, around a long dinner table, myself, Robert, and the rest of his entourage watched Lordsport burn, the flames glimmering in the starlight. The nobles quietly picked at their meals (roasted salt pork on a bed of boiled peas) and occasionally broke the silence with scattered helpings of stilted conversation – the mood, in a word, was pensive.

 

“This is my first rebellion, you know?”

 

I looked up from my plate and fixed my eyes on Robert, who, as per usual, was slouched in his seat, staring dolefully into his cup. He noisily exhaled, shook his head, and set the cup down on the table. “Well, the first rebellion against me , that is.”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Your point?”

 

The king pursed his lips, and then gave a slight, bitter smirk. “I thought I was doing a good job. Even fat Ageon had the Greyjoys on his side.” A flat snicker. “Just … disappointed in myself, is all.” He bobbed his head at me. “You ever have one?”

 

“What, a rebellion?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Yes. Many. Lost count after the first dozen, believe it or not.” Unsurprising, really – when you conquer a continent and establish a theocracy, you’re bound to have some dissidents. Mind you, by the time I took the proverbial wheel, the Golden Order’s hold on the Lands Between was all but absolute, though the original’s memories of those turbulent early days, not to mention the perennial enthusiasm of certain prohibited cults (chiefly those devoted to some of the more distasteful Outer Gods, Rot and Frenzy and such), ensured I had more than enough familiarity. 

 

"Some lord would get uppity, or commoner ambitious, or prophet would contrive a grand revelation and seek to spread the good news. There’s always a reason to revolt – an inevitable consequence of civilization, the way I see it.”

 

Robert, at that, seemed rather disquieted. “And how'd they go?"

 

War, by and large, is a nasty, brutish thing (a revelation, I’m sure), and yet, it’s hard to think of another field of human endeavor that resonates so profoundly with those primal, foundational parts of our being; I’ll admit, I came to rather enjoy it all, the struggle and the triumph, purpose and sincerity.

 

Wholesale butchery, mind, still left something of a bad taste, tolerated more than appreciated, if only because it sullied the relative ‘sanctity’ of battle – that said, however, I'll readily concede that hoisting the black flag and salting the earth was often a sensible strategy, even an exigent necessity, depending on the circumstances. While I understood, intellectually, the moral arguments against such conduct, I couldn’t really bring myself to care, certainly not in the general sense. Might makes right, after all, so why bow to the bleatings of the great unwashed, shackle myself to the pearl-clutching outrage of those who'll be dead in a few years anyway? 

 

Case in point, when your enemy is a traitorous vassal, and a member of a despised minority to boot, those ‘enthusiastic methods,’ as it were, more than had their place, both as a means of impelling surrender and improving your own side’s morale. 

 

How much of myself, I often wondered, was actually me, and how much was the original’s leftovers?

 

Leaning back in my seat, I turned to study the desolation. By now, the flames had somewhat receded, and backlit the scorched, deserted, hollowed-out skeleton of the town. 

 

“Rather like this one."

 

The king frowned as he tapped his finger against the rim of his goblet, and I took a sip from my own.

 

"What did you call them? 'A festering boil on our collective arse?' I've found that rebellions are wonderful opportunities to clean house. If the Ironborn are that big a pest … " I slid my finger across my throat, then shrugged.

 

Robert eyed me for a minute or so, swirling the cup around, before downing it with a long, deep swig. Brow furrowed in thought, he burped into his hand and absently nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Back during the antediluvian, mist-shrouded age of myth and legend, when men first walked the lands now known as Westeros, the earliest iteration of Pyke Castle was constructed upon a solid promontory, jutting from the island’s southeast tip. But over the millennia, as successive inhabitants expanded and enlarged it, the crashing sea took its toll, and the cliff gradually eroded into a cluster of islets and sea stacks, with the remaining keeps and towers – grungy, drafty, weatherworn things bridged by swaying rope – crouched precariously atop them. That last sliver of the grassy headland still connected to the island housed the stables and kennels, and was girded by a great stone wall, bulging like a crescent from edge to edge.

 

Some ten miles from Lordsport, our army had reached the castle after a only day of marching, and with the Ironborn crowded inside the walls, assembled unmolested in the surrounding fields. Lugging tents and hauling supply wagons, digging trenches and assembling trebuchets, the royalists started to prepare a siege.

 

Robert, in accordance with the conventions of warfare, accompanied by myself and his handful of kingsguard, raised a white flag of parley and rode up to their wall, stopping some fifty feet from the gatehouse; stout and imposing, massive Greyjoy banners fluttered on either side of a thick iron portcullis.

 

Rubbing Typhoon’s ears – he was a good boy – I snorted. "All this black and gold, it's getting hard to tell who’s who."

 

Sparing a quick glance at my armor, and then the banners, Robert's grim resolve was, for but a second, pierced by slight amusement. 

 

I resolved to try a pun next time – would've gotten me a chuckle, at least. 

 

With a screech and a rumble and the rattling of chains, the portcullis ground open, and a dozen Ironborn marched towards us on foot, halting at a distance of thirty paces. Black iron breastplates over gambesons and ringmail, they gripped tight the hilts of their swords and axes, and the one in the nicest-looking, least-scuffed armor took a few steps forward; he removed his conical spangenhelm, revealing flowing black hair and hard black eyes, his handsome features marred with a scowl. 

 

Robert made a show of lifting his chin and glaring at the twenty-something envoy down his nose. “Who are you supposed to be?”

 

The Ironborn straightened, narrowing his eyes. "I am Prince Maron Greyjoy."

 

"Balon's spare, eh?"

 

Maron clenched his jaw. "His heir."

 

Robert hummed. "That so? I won't dance around, then. Surrender, and your men’s lives will be spared. You and your father, the cunt, will be sent to the Watch – hardly a good life, freezing your bollocks off, but better than no life at all. I'll even be generous, let your kid brother inherit." He leaned forward in his saddle, motioning his head towards the guards up on the battlements. "Keep on with this, though, and there'll be heads on spikes from here to King's Landing.”

 

Swallowing, Maron blinked and frowned off to the side, duty and pride and fear warring in his eyes. After a few moments of tortured deliberation, he took a deep breath, flattened his features as best he could, and met Robert’s gaze.

 

"What is dead may never die."

 

Brave kid. Stupid, but brave. 

 

Robert replied with a stare, before interjecting with a subtle, almost respectful nod. “Aye, fair enough.” He dismissed the ‘prince’ with a flick of his hand. "Be off, squiddy. Give us your best."

 

Sparing the king one last glower, Maron replaced his helmet, and he and his party started back towards the wall.

 

Ever so slightly, I tightened my hold on the reins. "Do you want the castle intact?"

 

Robert watched the Ironborn depart. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

 

Lowering my helmet’s gilded face mask, I raised an arm and squeezed my fist, my neighbors’ hair standing on end as a burst of grace rocketed onwards; the gatehouse promptly exploded into a billowing cloud of dust and rubble.

 

Honestly, why bother with a siege?

 

The debris battered against the castle, but one of my golden barriers spared our side the lot of it. Around the impact, large sections of the wall collapsed, and the six tall watchtowers along its length toppled over, men thrown from the parapets and crushed by falling stones. 

 

I squeezed my knees together and snapped the reins, spurring Typhoon into the breach, while I reached into my soul and retrieved my hammer – a blunt, simple weapon, by any measure, more or less a hunk of rock fastened to the end of a stick. 

 

Say what you want, but there's something cathartic about bashing a skull in.

 

Coughing and doubling over, caked in powdered stone, Maron paused, then recoiled back, eyes wide, as I galloped up to him and swung the hammer like a polo mallet. His torso reduced to a fine red mist, the remaining bits of him careened off into the distance, and the shockwave finished off his retinue. 

 

Typhoon leapt over the rubble, tore across the bedraggled lawn, and barreled onto the broad stone bridge linking the headland to the main keep. With their barricades wrecked by the explosion, the soldiers stationed there fled deeper into the castle, or cowered against the flagstones, or tried their chances at stalling my advance – those ones got vaporized for their trouble. The archers and arbalists along the ramparts, meanwhile, only managed a single volley before a roiling, crackling sphere of grace blew most of the keep's top off. 

 

By now, the royalists had abandoned their preparations and flooded into the opening, overrunning the remaining sections of the outer wall and slaughtering their way past the stunned defenders. Thoros, of all people, blazed ahead at the fore, clearing the path with a flaming longsword, while Robert and Ned exhorted their men to press on.

 

Ramming through a makeshift bulwark, I burst into an open-air vestibule, hoofbeats clattering under a vaulted ceiling, and pulled on the reins, circling around to bleed off speed, until Typhoon slowed to a halt; I then dismounted, giving the horse a quick peck on the forehead – a very good boy, indeed – before letting him dematerialize. The great hall's massive double doors had been latched and barred, and the Ironborn on the other side were frantically bracing them with chairs and tables – "Hurry, dammit!" an officer barked over the scrapes and bangs of furniture, "They're coming!"

 

With a blow from my hammer, the doors erupted from their hinges; the furniture pile burst into shreds, splinters and nails whizzing through the hall, while the doors themselves skipped across the ground, sweeping away fixtures and soldiers alike, until one lodged itself in the far wall, blood pooling onto the floor tiles, and the other careened out a window. 

 

As I strode into the room, the remaining defenders – men-at-arms and titleless lordlings and Balon Greyjoy himself, all clad in heavy half-plate – stopped and stared, flinching with each step closer. The sight of me treading over a body, quite literally mashing it to pulp beneath my feet, was what finally drove them to belt out warcries, flourish their blades, and make one last desperate charge.

 

Suffice to say, it didn’t end well for them – my hammer painted the walls red, while bolts of grace riddled them with sizzling holes – but kudos for moxie, if nothing else. 

 

Balon, the last one standing, crumpled to the floor when I broke his arms and legs. Writhing and gasping and foaming at the mouth, spitting the usual threats and slurs, he made for something of a spectacle, but a burst of malice from the far end of the room wrangled my attention. The Seastone Chair, a hunk of unnatural, greasy black stone hewn into the shape of a kraken – or more accurately, the entity for which the chair served as a conduit – bellowed at me as one would the killer of a treasured pet, or the wrecker of a favored toy, outrage and indignation wrapped in that telltale rotting-fish miasma; I got the impression of a bloated, festering corpse presiding over a watery hall, sustained through spite and sheer tyranny of will.

 

The screeching grew ever more hysterical as I drew ever closer to the throne, and both Balon and the entity, their emotions one – and wasn’t that a can of worms? – caterwauled as I raised my hammer.

 

Crash!  

 

Golden light spiderwebbed across the malignant black stone.

 

Crash! 

 

They begged for mercy.

 

CRASH!  

 

With a horrible wail, the chair shattered, dissolving into frothing puddles of brackish water and oily pus, and with blood spewing from Balon's eyes and ears, the entity scrambled away, its very being ripped in tatters.

 

Before long, the royalists broke through to the hall. Robert, panting, walked up to Balon and me, and took the time to survey the rubble and viscera strewn about the place; sunlight streaked through the fissures in the roof, bits of masonry crumbling into the sea, and that one door finally dislodged itself from the wall, slamming onto the ground and splitting into pieces. 

 

"Intact?"

 

I shrugged.

 

"Relatively."

 

He turned his gaze to Balon – by now insensate – and winced.

 

"What happened to him?"

 

"We had a chat with the Drowned God."

 

Not that the damn thing was an actual, proper god – more like a Japanese kami, or jumped-up manifestation, infused by … something with repulsive fel energy.

 

“The Drowned God’s real?”

 

"Unfortunately."

 

Robert wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that; he eventually, after blinking and resting his hands on his hips, settled on "Huh."

 

We watched the King of Salt and Rock slowly bleed out, and with his final raspy, shuddering breath, Robert lifted his hammer above his head and shouted “Victory!” 

 

At this, of course, the men started cheering.

 

Robert belted out a laugh, and I took the opportunity to eye him up and down – to appreciate the goods, as it were. From that first night, there existed a certain 'tension' between us, subtle glances and unsaid overtures, touches that lingered just a hair too long. 

 

Now seemed as good a time as any to resolve it.

 

Wrapping my arm around his waist, I hefted him over my shoulder, and despite his kicks and pushes, my grip remained firm. 

 

“Whoa, whoa, what are you – ?!”

 

“Celebrating, what else?"

 

Look, this body had a preference, and the High Fratboy of Westeros ticked a lot of boxes.

 

“I’m married!”

 

“Since when has that stopped you?”

 

The blows petered out, and resigned to his fate, Robert snickered and waved at his men as they whistled and roared in kind – even Ned, straight-laced as he carried himself, gave an exasperated grin. 

 

A petrified servant led us to Balon’s quarters; I locked the door behind me and tossed Robert onto the bed, tendrils of grace untying his armor and loosening his smallclothes, and caressing his member until it rose to attention. I stripped, smirking as he loosed a throaty growl, and swaying my hips as I approached the bed.

 

And when my lips wrapped around his cock, I noticed, from the corner of my eye, a three-eyed raven perched upon the windowsill. 

 

Bloody voyeur. 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Hunched atop that dinky little horse of his, armor shimmering in the glow of the Erdtree and crimson mane ruffling in the breeze, Radahn looked ridiculous.

 

Imposing, sure – an enormous slab of muscle and steel, tall as a troll, with limbs thicker than a tree trunk, he could’ve snapped a man in two like a pencil – but nonetheless ridiculous. The demigod swayed and wobbled with his mount’s every hoofstep, tooting out violet wisps of magic, and cooly regarded his surroundings with a stiff, stately pout. 

 

Frankly, the first thing that came to mind was a gorilla trying to ride a housecat. 

 

Not that anyone dared say as much to his face.

 

Indeed, the people of Leyndell cheered and waved as he waddled down the triumphal way, tossing flowers and blowing kisses and doffing their caps. And behind him, slinging coins, resplendent in their surcoats and mail, crests and tassels fluttering, marched the knights and footmen of his household guard; creatively dubbed the ‘Redmanes’ – and mainly recruited from Caelid, where Radahn had been living these last few centuries – they’d a marked reputation for reckless bravery and stubborn tenacity, as befitting their sworn lord. 

 

The empire, you see, hadn’t much in the realm of centralized governance, administered more through feudal obligation, religious dogma, and an ever-vigilant Inquisition. Really, what need did a god – a being with dominion over life and death itself – have for bureaucracy? Why bother with paperwork, or legislatures, or squabbling functionaries, when one’s very words are divine commandments? 

 

The local nobilities of the myriad constituent nations, therefore, so long as they worked towards the Queen’s mandates, were more or less free to manage their own affairs. Even the Altus crownlands, Marika’s personal demesne, was fobbed off onto the Elden Lord, her attention chiefly devoted to (especially in the wake of Godwyn's assassination) spiritual and philosophical matters – and the weaving of her grand conspiracy.

 

Predictably, within this framework, the demigods – Marika’s descendants – occupied an exclusive station above the ‘common’ mortal aristocracy, having, on account of their relative sanctity, neither binding obligations nor direct responsibilities, at least beyond those that they assumed for themselves. 

 

By far the majority, those scions of the Golden Lineage whose divinity was nominal at best, their godly blood diluted over millennia of miscegeny and inbreeding and simple genetic drift, bummed around the capital as socialites and sycophants. Dinner parties were their battlefields and layered pleasantries their arms, the victor decided by a calculated insult or well-timed titter, and the spoils a transient entourage of parasites and lickspittles.

 

Naught but the slightest scintilla of kinship held Marika back from culling them.

 

The important ones, on the other hand, only a generation or two removed from their progenitor, by and large buried themselves in individual pursuits – true power, it seems, was inverse to politicking.

 

Before the Night of Black Knives, Godwyn spent most of his time with his dragons, Ranni her moon, their respective obsessions tolerated syncretisms; Rykard, when not indulging in rank hedonism, lent his services to the Inquisition – though this was more a function of his ‘eclectic tastes,' as it were, than any special love for the work itself, much less the law; Malenia, blind and crippled, mastered swordplay, counting on her strength to stem the Rot, while Miquella, the eternal child, scoured the depths of the Golden Order in the hopes of finding a permanent cure.

 

And Radahn, having long since mastered the power of gravity, waged a one-man war against the heavens themselves, slaying beasts and vanquishing champions, shooting meteorites out of the sky, before finally arresting the very motion of the stars.

 

With a resume like that, why wouldn't they cheer? 

 

In this decadent modern age, after all, his exploits harkened back to the good old days of barbarous simplicity, and the idle masses leapt at the chance to share vicariously in his greatness.

 

At the end of a boulevard lined with trees and banners and victory columns, atop a wide marble stairway, loomed the uncovered terrace where, on the vanishingly rare occasions that she deigned to appear in public, Her Majesty held open court; and from her carved wooden throne, distinctly uncomfortable in her crown and jewelry and skimpy black dress, I watched the procession draw near. Hands clasped behind his back, Radagon (he and I had reached an understanding – not that either of us had much of a choice) stood close beside me, courtiers and retainers, nobility and clergy, cluttered along the margins. 

 

Unplanned and unapproved – custom insisted on official recognition – the impromptu triumph all but demanded a royal welcome.

 

A hush fell upon the crowd, troops assembling in ranks at the foot of the stairs, as Radahn dismounted and ascended towards the dais. Bowing just a second too briefly and inch too shallowly, and refusing to even acknowledge his father, he resolutely met my gaze, his eyes blazing with undisguised wanting.

 

I don't think he ever truly forgave Radagon for walking out on Rennala; at the very least, the demigod’s calculated emulation of Godfrey certainly hinted towards a smidge of parental alienation. By every indication, his bitterness and resentment and disillusionment had gradually transformed into a consuming ambition to supplant his father as Elden Lord, and rule through honest strength alone. 

 

There was something decidedly Freudian about it – I thanked this body’s superlative self-control for stopping me from grimacing. 

 

“Mine heart warms, beloved child, to once more embrace you.” Her knowledge of 'ye olde Englishe' was damn useful, too, though I ignored how a not-insignificant part of me was genuinely delighted to see him. Being so seldom born, the Numen, as a race, were obsessed with progeny and lineage, and placed a tremendous cultural emphasis on alternative means of reproduction, adoption and cloning and everything in between. While her apotheosis (much to my horror) did wonders for her fertility, those instincts never truly faded, and for however terribly she actually treated them, Marika loved all of her children – and stepchildren – dearly.

 

Largely as extensions of herself, sure, but she did, in fact, love them.

 

"I cannot but wonder, though, the occasion for this … spectacle." 

 

Flashing a grin, Radahn took a step forward. "Radiant mother" – ugh – "I appear before thee as a victor expecting his just reward, and a son entreating the sublime burden of duty.” 

 

I can't say I liked the sound of that. “Speak, then.” 

 

He swept an arm over the crowd. “Not a man here is blind to my achievements. The Sundering of the Stones, the Humbling of the Onyx Lords, the Quelling of the Stars – I needn’t belabor them. My courage and resolve are incontrovertible."

 

Radahn gave his assertion a moment to digest. "Men such as I are indispensable" – clever little parallelism there, 5/10, could be better – "in uncertain times like this." He started gesticulating, voice inflamed. "My brother, the crown prince, murdered in his bed! My sister, vanished! Blighted abominations rising from their graves! The enemies of all, Rot and Flame, battering at our doors!"

 

"Storm clouds, my friends, are rumbling over the horizon."

 

Taking a deep breath, he affected a sort of pensive reluctance, his attention once more fixed on me alone. “I am prideful, yes, ambitious too, I won't insult thee by denying it. I seek not, however, by coming here today, to further glorify myself – rather, I plead for the means to defend what I love. For though Leyndell and Caria shall always be dear to me, Caelid shall always be my home.”

 

The Redmanes visibly preened, and banged the butts of their spears against the pavement until, with a wave of his hand, their general silenced them. 

 

"In the earliest days of the empire, when the Erdtree itself was but a sprout, each new territory was assigned a governor, charged to regulate and integrate, and ensure the continued peace. The conclusive imposition of the Golden Order rendered these appointments obsolete; thus, the office faded into history."

 

A pause. 

 

"But the desperate circumstances in which we now find ourselves bid extraordinary measures."

 

The crowd broke into gasps and murmurs.

 

"I ask – nay, beg – to be named Prefect of Caelid."

 

If nothing else, you had to admire his audacity. 

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

"Do you mind, Lord Commander? I happen to be rather busy."

 

No response.

 

I stood up, hands resting on my hips, and met the bird's glare with one of my own. "Are you just going to stand there?"

 

The crow (or raven, couldn't really tell) irritably snapped its beak, then shrilly cawed. 

 

"What. Have. You. Done!?"

 

I raised an eyebrow and crawled onto the bed, lining myself above Robert's crotch. It'd been years since my last good screw, damned if I let some undead albino get in my way.

 

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

 

The king, at once bewildered and frustrated and horny, gawked back and forth between the voyeur and me; he tried scooting to his feet, but tendrils of grace tied him down to the bed. 

 

"Fucking – " 

 

I spared him a glance, gesturing in the bird's direction.

 

"Oh, yes. Robert, meet Bloodraven. Bloodraven, Robert."

 

Eyes widening in rage, it seemed a half-second from outright screaming, but stopped itself with a deep, shuddering breath.

 

"The. Drowned. God."

 

"What" – I hissed in pleasure – "of it?"

 

Not the best I've had, but good enough.

 

"Your. Ac-tions. Res-o-nate. Prop-a-ga – " Claws scratched against the windowsill when I gave an exaggerated moan. "WILL. YOU. STOP. THAT!"

 

“Please, this is nothing you haven't seen before." I rested a hand on my chin in mock consideration. "Then again, you were holding out for your sister, and I doubt that black cloak’s done wonders for your prospects. Bit like eating" – exhale – "in front of a beggar. Terribly rude of me, then, I do apologize."

 

I also started bouncing around a bit. 

 

"Shi-e-ra. And. I. Had – " Flapping its wings, it shook its head, steadying itself before continuing. "I. Can. Feel. The. Dark-ness. Stir-ring."

 

"Ominous. Will there be weeping, or gnashing of teeth?"

 

"It. Is. Too. Ear-ly! We. Once. Had. A. Dec-ade. Now. We. Have. At. Most. A. Year." The bird's eyes narrowed. "Be-cause. Of. Your. Stu-pid-i-ty. The. Oth-ers. March. Be-fore. Their. Time." It leaned in, feathers ruffling. "The. Prince. Is. Not. Read-y! They. Shall. Kill. Us. All!"

 

Robert didn't much like the sound of that, and loosened his grip on my ass, opening his mouth to speak.

 

"Did I say you could talk?"

 

He blinked, laying his head on the pillow, and I felt his member grow that much stiffer – seems he'd just discovered something new about himself.

 

"Good boy." Increasing my pace, I smirked. "Not if I kill them first. About time I paid the Wall a visit, eh?"

 

Birds aren't the best at emoting, but its flinch and gape fairly well communicated its horror – until I shot it with a pebble of magic, and it burst into a cloud of blood and feathers.

 

Ought to get the message across. 

 

After a few more minutes, Robert limpened, panting and sweating, and I laid down next to him.

 

“Should I be worried,” he wheezed, “about what the bird said?”

 

I shrugged, staring at the soot-blackened ceiling. “Probably not.” A chuckle. “Certainly not about the Others, at any rate. I’ve dealt with worse.” 

 

My brow furrowed on its own. “Well, I suppose our guest did have a point. The Others, the Drowned God, they're symptoms – not causes. This world, its essence, feels … off. Like a field after a battle. You know, corpses rotting in the sun, scavengers picking at the bones. Obviously, something went terribly wrong, showered the earth in poison and decay, but I can’t say what . Or why.”

 

Robert looked decidedly perturbed; I smiled. 

 

“And there’s nothing more fun than a mystery.'' I sat up, and the grace binding him loosened its hold. “Right then, flip over. I want to try something.”

 

As a firm believer in reciprocity, it only seemed fair.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

The remnants of Pyke's garrison – having retreated to the offshore holdfasts, cutting bridges and raising barricades – held out for the first couple days following Balon’s death; starved and isolated as they were, and seeing as I’d already had my fun, the task of flushing them out was fobbed off onto the infantry. After heavy fighting pushed the defenders all the way back to the castle's outermost tower, the royalists brought their siege engines forward, and sent the crooked, windswept spire toppling over into the sea.

 

During the weeks that followed, Robert held court in the ruins of the great hall, and between festivities and petitions and overseeing the rest of the invasion, sentenced the surviving Ironborn nobles for their rebellion against the crown. A few blubbered and groveled, kissing the king’s feet as they begged for mercy, while others spat and frothed, struggling against their bindings – most, however, met their respective fates with dispassionate sobriety, and the dignity becoming their stations.

 

Outwardly, at least. 

 

A solid majority were forced to pick between death and the Watch – by and large, the prouder ones and radicals went with the former, the cowards and schemers the latter. Their families might’ve retained their lands and titles, but all said and done, with so many lords dispossessed and so many heirs killed in the fighting, nearly a quarter of the islands' noble houses were rendered extinct, and many more reduced to female lines or distant cousins or – in one particular instance – a single bastard. Those who surrendered without a fight, meanwhile, or to whom Robert arbitrarily extended leniency, merely found themselves saddled with the usual outrageous indemnities, and a fifty-year prohibition on shipbuilding.

 

The Greyjoys themselves were attainted: their holdings liquidated, rights and privileges revoked, and very house stricken from the rolls of the nobility. Of course, given that most of them were already dead – Balon had been burnt and his ashes scattered, his sons slain (Theon, poor kid, went down with the tower) and his wife crushed by falling debris, while the uncles and cousins and such relations had sailed with the fleet – this was largely a symbolic gesture, the capstone atop an already finished work. 

 

Asha, Balon’s sole surviving issue, was only spared by societal expectation – the knight who found her clutching a sword and clad in mail was unwilling to kill a lady, even if said lady was trying to hack him to pieces. The Westerosi pitied her 'manly aggression’ as a sign of desperation, and the Ironborns’ innate savagery (mine was different because I was on their side), and after much debate, settled on shipping her off to a nunnery. In the meantime, she was remanded to the custody of the priests who’d accompanied the baggage train.

 

The Seven-Who-Are-One, it bears mentioning, didn’t actually exist as a living, breathing entity, at least as far as I could tell – but man’s belief in it (them?), being so widespread and generally sincere, had its own effects on the streams and currents of magic, warping and rerouting them in just such a way to repel the worst of the rot. I can’t imagine growing up in proximity to the Seastone Chair, day by day exposed to that blackened abomination that called itself a god, was very good for Asha’s soul; joining the faith, while hardly ideal, was probably just what she needed in the long run, a sort of spiritual detox.

 

Lastly, Robert declared to a shocked crowd that Pyke would be razed and the Paramountcy dissolved – the Iron Islands would be annexed by the Westerlands, for Tywin Lannister to govern and apportion as he saw fit. The mere thought horrified the Ironborn, who blanched and trembled, and even the mainlanders, underneath their schadenfreude, couldn’t help but sympathize.

 

That still didn’t stop them, mind you, from pestering Kevan to put a good word in.

 

It was a few days after the end of the fighting– Blacktyde, Orkmont, and Lonely Light, along with all the other islets comprising the chain, had by now issued their respective surrenders – that Thoros shuffled towards me and asked to discuss “matters of some import.”

 

I studied him for a second – eyes bloodshot, fingernails chewed to stubs, he looked like he hadn’t slept for days – then nodded and hummed, beckoning him over towards a corner alcove. The lords already sitting there bowed and scrambled away, and with a flick of my hand, the courtly chattering quieted to an indistinct mumble, thwarting any eavesdroppers.

 

Hunched over, Thoros bounced his leg and wrung his hands, and shook his head when I offered him a drink. “You are a goddess, yes?”

 

“Last I checked.”

 

Something not quite a smile, but too placid for a grimace, passed his face as he swallowed. “You are not of the Great Other.”

 

"As far as I'm aware." 

 

From what I remembered of Melisandre’s ramblings, the so-called ‘Great Other’ was the Red Faith’s Satan analog, the obligate darkness for the prophesied savior to combat. An emphatically distasteful religion – far too fond of slavery and sacrifice, and drolly manichaeistic to boot – though there was, it seems, from the fiery presence all but draped around Thoros’ shoulders, an actual method to the madness.

 

Or at least a being – charred and blistered, clinging to life, a tortured fragment of a once-greater whole – with its own agenda and will, doling out pyromancy in exchange for worship.

 

He rubbed his eyes, and I waited for him to continue. “I am not a good priest.  Far too fond of wine and women, not nearly fervent enough.” Sausage fingers rubbed a bald scalp. “The Lord R’hllor, you must understand is … tempestuous. Retributive. His is a cleansing hate.”

 

So a fire and brimstone type – from the way the presence exuded pride and satisfaction, his description apparently hit the right notes.

 

“Three nights ago, I looked into flames for the first time in a decade.” He fixed me with a stare. “The Lord saw what you did. At Lannisport. Here, at Pyke. The power, the fury, the destruction. He … it enraptured him.”

 

Drumming my fingers against my knee, I tilted my head at him. “And I assume he wants something from me?”

 

He bit his chapped lip. “It is not my place to say. His wishes, his words, are inscrutable – they cannot themselves be gleaned from the flames. Merely impressions.” 

 

At this, the presence seemed rather annoyed. 

 

“All I do know is you have his attention.” Thoros leaned in, his gaze imploring. "Please, Your Grace, when you go North, allow me to accompany you. So I might serve as the Lord of Light's eyes."

Chapter 8

Bear Island was a shithole – rather in keeping with the rest of this miserable fucking continent.

 

An underdeveloped, underpopulated, pissant little speck of rock caked with moss and trees, snow-capped mountains towering over the interior, I’ll concede it was nice enough to look at – pretty in that ‘untamed wilderness' sort of way – but damp and cold, harsh and windy, it certainly wasn’t the kind of place where you’d actually want to live. Northern glaciers and whistling gales crawled and coiled south from the Lands of Always Winter, into the aptly named Bay of Ice, bringing with them a perennial chill – even at the peak of summer, as our ship swayed across the roiling whitecaps, men’s breath fogged in the brisk morning air, and scattered ice floes bumped against the hull.

 

No industry or exports, arts or learning, the closest thing the island had to civilization, Bear’s Cove – barely above a hamlet, fairly below a village – squatted along the side of a small coastal hill, at the top of which, ringed by an earthen palisade, lay the Mormont’s rickety log keep. A muddy trail ran between thatched hovels, walls of unmortared stone demarcated plots of wheat and cabbage, and the settlement’s couple dozen families, leather-skinned fishermen and their sinewy wives, gathered around the pier (little more than some warped planks nailed atop knobby tree trunks) as we steered closer to the shoreline.

 

Seeing as they lived in the asscrack of nowhere, our lone ship’s arrival must’ve been a welcome novelty. 

 

The Night's Watch, you see, short-staffed and ill-equipped, hadn’t much in the way of naval strength; and those few craft they did possess – boards rotting, hulls thick with barnacles, lines frayed and sails tattered – were far too busy patrolling the coastlines for smugglers and poachers and slavers, and the usual stream of wildlings on makeshift rafts trying to break for warmer weather. Recruits and provisions, therefore, unless lugged overland, were typically (and increasingly rarely) sailed up north in private ships, distinguished from regular trade by hoisting stark black sails. Alongside kinslaying and breaking guest right, plundering, seizing, or otherwise harassing such a vessel was one of Westeros' great taboos – the utility of the Watch as a neutral refuge far outweighed any potential material gain.

 

And to the Northerners, who still saw the Watch as an honorable brotherhood (rather than the dumping ground for human refuse that it actually was), they served as profound symbols of duty and sacrifice. 

 

A carrack from the Royal Fleet had, accordingly, been set aside to ferry a couple hundred Ironborn nobles to the Shadow Tower, the westmost of the Watch’s three remaining strongholds. From there, one or two dozen left behind to strengthen the garrison, the condemned would trudge along the Wall to Castle Black, then further still to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

 

“Events compel me," I explained, “to venture beyond the Wall,” and Ned – not exactly keen on having the scary goddess lady galumph about his kingdom, yet fully aware that he couldn't actually stop me – begrudgingly gave us his blessing to hitch a ride.

 

So blowing Robert a kiss, and coyly grinning as he blushed and squirmed, I made my way back towards Lordsport, trotting over the great stone bridge, and then through the vast encampment that spilled out into the surrounding fields. Thoros rode beside me, while Ed, having filched a horse from … somewhere, ambled sedately at the rear – “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he muttered, absent-mindedly picking at his prosthesis. Smallfolk shot us evil eyes as they rummaged through the ashes of their homes, and sentries waved us through the cordon they’d erected around the dockyards; we shortly arrived at the harbor, and quietly boarded the ship –  Stormchaser , it was called.

 

Hardly the most comfortable accommodations, I supposed, but undoubtedly more convenient than schlepping there on foot, and the captain, sweating and trembling, bent over backwards to stay on my good side; he scraped and bowed and averted his eyes, yielded his spacious cabin to me, and allowed my hangers-on to tie their horses down in the hold, right beside the cramped and shackled cargo.

 

But I digress. 

 

At the front of the crowd, arms crossed, stood a stout, stumpy, severe-looking lady in a grungy bearskin cloak, and her retinue of scruffy amazons in brigandine and ringmail.

 

As a warrior woman myself, I can't say the Mormonts much impressed me. Oh, sure, with their knotted scars and missing teeth and hairy lips, the welcoming party looked most fearsome indeed, and undoubtedly knew their ways around the swords and maces dangling at their belts, but far from laudable, they really just struck me as sad and gross. 

 

Frankly, the famous shield-maidens of Bear Island were hardly more than impoverished bumpkins, the unfortunate products of necessity and desperation – what happens when you've quite so many enemies and only so many options.

 

"Jorah warned us we might have visitors." the short one croaked, narrowing her dark eyes. "Queen Marika, yes?"

 

With a flourish, I propped my hands on my hips and plastered on my friendliest grin. “Indeed. I am the Embodiment of Order, the Mother of Peace, and She Who Sways the Golden Boughs: Marika the Eternal, Empress and Autocrat of All the East and the West.”

 

The full list of titles occupied some seven volumes. 

 

A pause. 

 

"Maege Mormont."

 

Had she not been caked in dirt like a Hollywood cliché, I’d have offered her a handshake. 

 

"Charmed."

 

Honestly, would a little hygiene have killed her?

 

Lips pursed, she scrutinized the departing passengers and crew, and the token handful of Watch recruiters – 'wandering crows,' in the local parlance – who'd come along for the ride. “You have a rough trip?"

 

The question slid right off them; fussing and cringing, they hobbled down the gangway, indifferent to pleasantries in their single-minded pursuit of dry land. The ship’s captain, meanwhile, a gruff old salt with a wiry beard, his eye bruised shut and arm folded in a sling, just sort of numbly stood there until some jittery part of him erupted into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.

 

My companions – relatively acclimatized – seemed to have fared a little better than the rest, but their shudders and winces still betrayed a certain disquietude.

 

I offered a shrug. "There's been a few bumps in the road, but we’ve managed well enough, I like to think.”

 

The bowsprit was missing, as was the jib, and the figurehead had been snapped at the waist; the anchor, somehow, at some point, had smashed through the aftercastle, then wedged itself in the deck between the cockpit and mizzenmast; the hull’s outer shell was pocked with dents and cracks and sucker marks as wide as a torso, with shimmering grace patching the holes where it’d been gouged and peeled away.

 

Maege gave herself a moment, comfortingly stroking the nape of the shaggy sheepdog that cowered and whimpered by her side.

 

"Bad weather?"

 

Poor woman couldn't even afford a complete sentence. 

 

"Among other things."

 

For the first three weeks of our month-long voyage, as we puttered up the pine-forested coastline, the waves billowed and whirled and surged; foam sprayed the bulwarks, the hull creaked and sails buffeted, and the ship would periodically lurch, bow pitching upward into the sky, before slamming back down onto the water with a great, groaning crash. 

 

One afternoon, while I was nose-deep in  The Testimony of Mushroom  – pure filth, captivating read – a particularly steep one sent my wine glass spilling out onto the cabin floor. I sighed, sparing a glance at the rivulets trickling down the water-smeared windows, then strode up topside to interrogate the captain, making sure to latch the cabin door shut behind me. His jerkin drenched, he shivered beneath an overhang, and goggled like an idiot as I approached him. 

 

“Your Grace, get back inside! It’s not sa – ” 

 

A wall of water then swept across the deck, sending those crewmen who hadn’t trussed themselves in the rigging tumbling into the deep; a few beads sprinkled my face – they stunk of wrath and decay. 

 

The chop, from then on, only worsened, and by the time we swung around Sea Dragon Point, the Drowned Abomination abandoned any pretense of restraint. Krakens whipped from the depths, their tentacles lashing around the  Stormchaser  and squeezing, while hooked beaks stabbed into the keel; monstrous whales breached right alongside us, intent on crushing the ship with their bulk; even some smaller fauna, sharks and eels and the like, circled around to snatch up anyone unlucky enough to fall overboard.

 

Finally, the entity itself decided to manifest, an abhorrent mass of brackish water and rotten flesh raging and roaring as thunderbolts streaked across a stormy midnight sky.

 

Always something, isn’t there?

 

Ears pressed flat against its scalp, the sheepdog yelped and growled at me some more, before quailing behind its mistress' legs.

 

“We don’t mean to impose, but the men would appreciate some rest before we set out again. They're still a little shaken, you see.”

 

If they'd been mine, we'd have just kept going, bellyaching be damned – but anxious mortals are stupid ones (well, stupider), and I didn't want to have to break any of Robert's toys. 

 

She bobbed her head towards the ship. "What about repairs?”

 

I waved her off. “I’ll handle them myself.”

 

Eventually.

 

When the captain’s horrified stares at the sorry state of his vessel stopped being quite so amusing.

 

It’s the little things, when you’re as old as I am. 

 

"And we will, of course, compensate you for your troubles."

 

Her bookends nervously clutched their weapons, but Maege remained unflapped, and kept on regarding me with that same gruff composure, head slightly tilted in consideration. She knew, obviously, what I was capable of – I can’t imagine Jorah didn’t tell her – so she weighed the costs, considered the drawbacks, and probably gleaned some implicit threat of what I'd do if she refused.

 

As if I actually wanted to be here. 

 

"Fine."

 

While the passengers and crew might not have cheered, their collective mood did palpably lighten, and they wandered into town to eat and drink and fuck – the typical pastimes of sailors on furlough – with the enraptured villagers tagging at their heels.

 

"Good timing, on your part.” Maege shot me a glance and motioned me to follow, tromping back towards the keep. “We were just about to start dinner."

 

It’d been beaten into my head, over the course of my travels, that Westeros’s nobility put great stock in hospitality.

 

Though I can expound, at length, on the myriad cultural, historical, and theological reasons for this, it ultimately boils down to a predictable blend of self-interest and paranoia – a desire by tribal warchiefs, then petty kings, then blue-blooded lords (utterly shameless, the lot of them) to be able to safely flaunt their wealth and status. After all, the prospect of astonishing their rivals with their blackamoor manservants and spiced peacock gizzards and other exotic crap absolutely tickled the average aristocrat pink, but the inherent risks of inviting others into your home demanded certain assurances. 

 

Hosts, society thus collectively agreed, were sacrosanct, protected from harm at the hands of their guests, on whom they would shower eager magnanimity; in return, guests would be afforded reciprocal protections, so long as they conducted themselves with relative decorum, and received their hosts’ generosity with gracious humility. 

 

That was the ideal, at least. 

 

And over time, these mutual obligations, and all the associated rituals and formalities, matured into a core facet of social and political life. 

 

Declining an invitation to a feast – the centerpiece of that Westerosi hospitality – certainly without damn good reason, would therefore have entitled the Mormonts to respond, if not outright violently, with all the obnoxious pettiness that a slighted highborn could conceivably muster.

 

“Oh, wonderful.”

 

My patience only went so far – best not test it too much, I reasoned, and settle for a lesser evil, one I knew I could at least tolerate.

 

So I hiked up my dress, draped the hem, as usual, over my forearm (impractical, perhaps, but I've always loved that Roman look), and strolled over in her direction.

 

The sheepdog nipped at Maege’s hand, fearfully gawking at my approach, until, after a few more plaintive whines and one last snarl, it bolted off into the woods.

 

We drew to a halt, and watched as it barreled through the treeline, disappearing into the leaves.

 

“Don't think he likes you," Maege grunted. 

 

"It’s a rare animal that does.” I clicked my tongue. “Shame, that – I find they're better company than most people. No guile, just honest instinct."

 

Notes:

Pardon me for the delay – law school is a lot of work. I’m planning on making the chapters a little shorter, and releasing them a bit more often.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

The keep’s hall was exactly what you’d expect: crowded and dark, windowless and smoky, with straw and sawdust strewn about the floor, smelling faintly of dung.

 

Lit by flickering torches and warmed by sputtering hearths, two long tables ran from end to end, the empty space between them packed with sand, and shields and weaponry adorned the walls, as did the occasional threadbare tapestry – an especially classy specimen depicted a topless lady, suckling babe in one hand and battle-axe in the other, ripping some unfortunate Harlaw’s throat out with her teeth. 

 

I wouldn’t have been surprised if Grendel suddenly burst in. 

 

Dinner, too, was the typical Northern fare. Shanks of boiled mutton, loaves of black bread, bubbling pots of turnip stew – watery, stale, and bland, respectively. Hardly inedible, but certainly nothing to write home about.

 

And the umpteen daughters and nieces and cousins, their cheeks and fingers slathered in grease, tore through it all like a pack of hyenas.

 

Halfway through the meal, while I sat there nursing my transmuted wine, one of them – tough and lean, cauliflower ears, black hair tied in a messy braid – slammed her horn of bitter, lukewarm ale onto the table, surged to her feet, and launched into a rambling diatribe against the relation sitting directly across from her; who – callused and pug-like, thighs as thick as a stump – countered by tossing her utensils, and then a philippic of her own.

 

To the cheers and laughs and whistles of the rest, they then hurdled into the patch of sand – evidently a fighting pit, à la Medieval Times – and started wrestling.

 

Soon, the fat one lay dazed on the ground, blood streaming from her broken nose, and another Mormont promptly threw her hands up and challenged the winner – so on and so forth for the rest of the night. 

 

The whole thing was very contrived. 

 

In Westeros, men fight the wars, rare aberrations (i.e. myself) excluded – even here, the proverbial Themyscira, that held true. For all their reputation, and the prodigious skill they’d fostered in lieu of the conventional singing and sewing, the ladies of Bear Island simply hadn’t a place on the battlefield, as their Lord hadn’t seen it fit to give them one. 

 

Displays like this, however performative, were therefore just as much entertainment – and a bizarre form of social jockeying (catty militarism, I think, is the best way to put it) – as they were justifications, rationalizations, desperate reassurances. They came, in other words, from the same place as practice spars, or peacetime military reviews: a way for idle swords to prove, if only to themselves, that their blades were still sharp, and that all the time spent honing them hadn’t been wasted. 

 

I’ll admit, I pitied them a little.

 

Though the less said about the heap of moldy deer pelts they offered me as a bed, the better.

 

Thankfully, blessedly, it didn't take long for shore leave to grow stale (Bear’s Cove, after all, only had so many taverns and wenches), and for the sailors to realize that the sooner they reached the Wall, the sooner they'd finally be rid of me. After four days of rest, with the ship freshly repaired and provisioned – “Don’t say I never give you anything,” I smiled at the captain – we sailed east around the island’s southern coast, then into the Bay of Ice proper. 

 

Compared to the first leg, this part of our journey passed fairly uneventfully. The weather had noticeably cleared, the sea had noticeably calmed, and thanks to the trashing I gave it, the Drowned Arse could only really balefully seeth at us. In truth, the only obstacle of note was the clutter of thick, jagged icecaps, and the crew pretty handily swatted those away with their hooks and pikes and such.

 

Things only grew interesting as, bearing northeast, we voyaged along the craggy foothills of the Southern Frostfangs, and into a yawning cleft in the rock that the ever-imaginative locals simply referred to as the ‘Gorge.’

 

Spanning the Gorge at its widest point, the Bridge of Skulls ( fun for the whole family! ) was named for the calcified bones that littered the pale, filmy river Milkwater below. As we drifted under its derelict shell, tattered banners and crumbling stone, an unnatural chill seized the passengers and crew – no matter how tight they buttoned their jackets, or huddled around buckets of smoldering coals, it clung and scraped and pierced, thorny vines strangling their souls. 

 

I myself got off just fine – transcendence, mortal frailty, you get the idea.

 

If the South’s spiritual essence (or ethos, or aura, or vibe – it’s hard to articulate something so ephemeral) was barren and hollow, and the Iron Islands’ spiteful and possessive, then the far North’s was desolate and melancholic; as though the earth itself, cold and still, was mourning some erstwhile greatness, and lamenting extinguished dreams. 

 

It felt like a cemetery.

 

Sails limp and oars wary, we spent the next week tiptoeing around the rocks, while the men, as if watched, nervously glanced over their shoulders – until the westernmost edge of Wall, in all its cyclopean bulk, thrumming a ghostly Cherenkov blue, reared above the cliffs and snaked through the mountains; the Gorge constricted to a tight slot, winding stairs carved into the limestone; and that gnawing chill – if only for now – abated.

 

The ship moored at the lopsided slab – rough-hewn shale topped with a handful of bollards – that served as the castle's dock, and its entire complement, the prisoners shackled together, slowly, carefully disembarked, before processing up the stairway; narrow and steep, lacking handrails, slick with mist and rain, it made for slow going. 

 

The Stormchaser cast off and scurried away without so much as a by-your-leave.

 

About halfway up, an Ironborn missed his step and slipped, knocking over the one in front of him, and the two then plunged over the edge. Bound as they were, a number of their fellows were hauled down with them before the chain, by sheer happenstance, snagged within a fissure, and one of the guards managed to cleave it with his hatchet. All in all, nearly fifty of them – on top of the ones already lost by disease and ill-treated battle wounds and the Drowned God’s chicanery – dashed their heads upon the rocks, or splattered on impact, or, burdened and fettered, drowned in the sloshing waters.

 

Oh well.

 

C'est la vie.

 

It took a sprinkling of thwacks over the head, and a couple shouts of “Keep up!” to get the Ironborn moving again.  

 

Like a candle through the fog, the Shadow Tower – a small cluster of dilapidated huts stooped around a spindly belfry, cloudy windows glowing and bricks worn smooth, the bell long since rusted to uselessness – loomed at the top of the escarpment, right at the foot of the Wall. 

 

This specific garrison, I’d been told, comprised mostly of clansmen from the nearby hill tribes, lured into joining by the promise of (comparatively) steady meals – I didn’t care enough to audit the demography, but swathed in leather and fur and wool, sporting bushy beards and bronze longaxes, they leastwise looked the part, and foreseeably scowled and grumbled at the soaked, shuddering Ironborn chain gang. In their minds, the humiliated former lords were untrustworthy liabilities, and they silently agreed that their soon-to-be ‘brothers’ would tragically find themselves the victims of unlucky, unforeseeable, unpreventable ‘accidents.’

 

The odd one out was the elderly commandant, Ser Denys Mallister, who, strutting up to us in a velvet doublet, fixed the prisoners with an aloof stare, the slightest hints of smug satisfaction tugging at his lips. 

 

House Mallister – for which, despite the black cloak, the man still ostensibly held some loyalty, if his silver eagle brooch was any indication – had a long, contentious, grievance-ridden history with their piratical neighbors, dating back to time immemorial: invasions and raids, abductions and rapes, not a single box had been left unchecked over their millennia of rivalry. 

 

And what self-respecting aristocrat, when push comes to shove, wouldn’t relish the opportunity to bully his family’s ancient enemy?

 

Denys primly, gracefully bowed, his smile softening to something more convivial. “Welcome, Your Grace. I must say, you’ve been the subject of some fascinating rumors, as of late.”

 

I affably dipped my head, and replied with a stock witticism. “Nothing good, I hope.”

 

“Hah!” Positively chuffed, he peered upward at the clouds, raindrops streaming down his lined face, then clapped his hands together. “Come, Your Grace, let’s retire from this dreadful cold” – a good-natured chuckle – “and reconvene somewhere toastier.”

 

“Let’s.”

 

For the rest of the afternoon, then long into the evening, the two of us enjoyed a pleasant, inoffensive, mind-numbing chat about nothing of import in his study-cum-bedroom (and that’s not a euphemism – Denys had his vows, and I standards). Come midnight – “The hour of the bat,” he observantly remarked, grunting as he rose from his seat. “We haven’t the lodgings for one of your station, I’m afraid, but I will gladly lend you my quarters.” – Denys turned in – “No, no, it’s quite alright,” I shook my head. “Might sit by the fire for a bit, if that’s fine with you.” – and I finished off the canon of Great Westerosi Novels (and my sack of borrowed reading material) with A Caution for Young Girls . 

 

The Ironborn weren’t quite so comfortable, having been shunted beneath the castle (more of a compound, if I’m being honest) into the cramped, twisting, waterlogged catacombs, which dated all the way back to, and were scarcely renovated since, the Wall’s original construction.

 

Early the following morning, down in the courtyard, just as the sun peeked over the mountaintops, the Watchmen whipped the prisoners awake, spitting and jeering and tightening their shackles, and I recited the appropriate farewells, gifting Denys a bottle of sherry I’d liberated from Pyke’s cellar. 

 

Up earthen ramps and (yet more) stone stairways, rickety ladders and winch-drawn cages, the column ascended to the top of the Wall – some 70 feet wide, paved with wood planks and gravel, peppered with catapults and trebuchets – and marched for Castle Black.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Grubby hands wrung my neck, untrimmed thumbnails pricking my throat, as sharp knees dug into my chest and beads of sweat dribbled onto my forehead. 

 

"Can I help you?"

 

The slovenly mess of an Ironborn – my assailant, if that wasn’t clear – recoiled with an aborted shriek. Eyes widening in horror, fingers loosening their grip, he flumped back onto my abdomen for a moment, gaping and gulping, until his teeth clenched and lips peeled and arms heaved to beat my brains out with a crooked lump of iron that used to be a manacle.

 

Points for optimism. 

 

A flash of will, and he hung in midair, coughing and sputtering and clawing at his collar. I lazily stirred from my borrowed bedroll – have to see about something more permanent. Maybe a Harry Potter tent? – and crossed my arms, shooting him a raised eyebrow. 

 

“Speak up."

 

Spit bubbling and veins bulging, his cheeks turned purple.

 

“Ah, pardon me.”

 

The pressure slackened just enough for him to eke a rasping breath. 

 

“I’ll … k-kill … you … cu – ”

 

I snapped his neck, and my would-be killer sounded a final agonized groan as his head slumped and body slackened.

 

“Right," I sighed.

 

With the Ironborn’s corpse floating limply behind me, I stepped through the door of the austere, half-frozen, drafty little waystation, out onto the exposed summit of the Wall. 

 

Flurries howling through the hills, twinkling stars framing a waxing moon, the prisoners had apparently staged a mutiny: a handful, I assume, at some point smothered their sleeping minders and swiped their weapons and keys, then went about smashing the other’s chains until the whole lot was free to maraud about our campsite.

 

Thoros, left arm dangling broken at his side, had pressed himself against the battlements, and the sallow, exhausted, poorly-armed foemen, a few of their comrades reduced to blackened husks, warily kept their distance, understandably reluctant to brave that flaming sword of his; Ed, conversely, had been caught unawares, dragged screaming into the center of the mob, then beaten and stabbed and torn apart – there's nothing more reviled than a Quisling, after all.

 

On reflection, I might've been sleeping a little too deeply.

 

That’s the trouble when your body’s a living statue, flesh marble and form mutable: everything has to be set manually, with no small amount of trial and error. 

 

I flicked my hand, sending the corpse hurtling through the air; it skipped across the ground, before rolling to a stop right at the feet of the nearest mutineers; stunned, they froze, Adam’s apples bobbing, and the crowd – which up to now had been roaring and chanting and revenging themselves upon their jailors – fell deathly silent. 

 

“Among you savages, as I understand, it’s considered bad manners to renege on your commitments.”

 

Fifteen seconds, then thirty, passed in silence.

 

I shrugged. “Not that it really matters to me. This isn’t my Wall, or Watch – hell, world. I'm only a passing tourist."

 

For a moment, I drummed my fingers on my thigh, before taking a few steps forward. 

 

"But it's the principle of the thing."

 

With a sneer, I pinned a glare on one of the few Ironborn with a sword and helmet  (presumably the ringleader, or at least a core conspirator).

 

“Mind walking through your grand plan?" Even if I tried, I couldn't have spat it more derisively. "See, I'm rather curious as to what, exactly, flits through that tepid mush you call a brain, because, so far, nothing I've seen from any of you has inspired much confidence in your abilities."

 

Seriously, where would they even have escaped to? The hundreds of miles of tundra to the south, ruled by men who constitutionally despised them, or the desolate wasteland to the north, teeming with unwashed primitives? And with what food, or water, or clothing?

 

I can respect a Hail Mary, but this was just suicidal. 

 

“Your … ” He swallowed, and held out a hand as if calming a rabid dog. “Your Grace, please, I have money in the Iron Bank. If you just … ”

 

I tuned him out. 

 

Almost impressive, really, how utterly cynical they were – it honestly boggles the mind that this civilization of opportunistic sociopaths could’ve survived even a year, much less 8,000. 

 

Was there something in the water?

 

Did the spiritual rot have a mental component, too?

 

Are people, regardless of time or place, just that awful?

 

Within an instant, the prattler’s flesh vaporized, and a smoking skeleton clattered to the ground – the mutineers, to a man, shrieked and scrambled back, nearly doubling the distance between us, and exposing Ed’s mangled carcass.

 

I crouched beside what remained of him, prompting the crowd to retreat even further. Eyes gouged, skin peeled, fractured and mauled and dismembered, he, suffice it to say, didn’t exactly make for a pretty sight. Allowing myself another sigh – he was mine , dammit, shithead kid or no – I pressed a hand where his heart used to be, and started pumping grace straight into the cavity.

 

Bones snapped back into place as ligaments rejoined, muscles regrew, and shattered limbs reconnected; finally, when his body had fully reconstituted, and his heart once more beat in his chest, he let out a hoarse gasp, new golden eyes wrenching open.

 

Ye dead, who let live … 

 

Ed’s expression ran the gamut from terrified to livid, eventually settling on a sort of fragile bewilderment.

 

“W-wha – ”

 

“Later.”

 

I straightened and addressed the crowd.

 

"I've had just about enough of you people. Your baseless pride. Idiotic ambitions.” A contemptuous lour. “Constant interruptions."

 

I chose not to use my hammer – sometimes, the situation calls for Godfrey’s style of bare-knuckle grappling, and its wonderful way of scratching certain itches. 

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Two miles as the crow flies from Castle Black, amidst the oak and fir of the Haunted Forest, at the end of a hard dirt trail that crept through the tangling underbrush, nine sanctified weirwoods grew in a perfect circle; trunks bone-white and leaves blood-red, their grotesque faces gurned and leered at an altar, etched with the likenesses of Hugor and the Seven, which sat in the center of the grove.

 

“Night gathers,” the once-Lord Botley mumbled, kneeling at the altar, his arms tied behind his back, “and now my watch begins … ”

 

The Drowned God maintained no earthly shrines – his congregation, instead, prayed and worshiped and (most pertinently) swore their vows on the cruel, roiling seas, battered by the salt and wind.

 

“ … all the nights to come.” A jerk of his chain, a prod of a watchman's spear, and Botley stumbled away, the once-Lord Sparr forced to his knees in his place. “Night gathers … ” 

 

Traditionally, Ironborn brothers were posted at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the small fleet’s only anchorage, where their skills and experience proved invaluable. 

 

“ … all the nights to come.” Sparr wandered over to the proverbial finished pile, though the next in line, the once-Lord Merlyn, struggled and cursed at the guards until a spear ran him through, and he collapsed in a puddle of steaming blood. The once-Lord Volmark, eyes squeezed shut, cowered before the altar. “N-night gathers … ”

 

However, this bunch, the few dozen survivors of the mutiny, simply couldn’t be trusted near the ocean (for reasons I hope are obvious) – so better the wrong Gods, Lord Commander Mormont reasoned, than no Gods at all.

 

“We’ll be back in a month, two at most.”

 

Mormont didn’t quite raise his eyebrow at me – far too reserved for that – but it was a damn near thing.

 

I offered a consoling smile. “I don’t mean to spurn your hospitality, but we’re on fairly urgent business.”

 

He took a deep breath, shivering from the cold – that chill had returned with a vengeance (evidently, the Wall had a spiritual element to it, guarding the kingdoms of men from the decay festering in the North) – then frowned. “Your Grace, once more, I beg you reconsider. These lands are dark, untamed – more fit for the dead than living. I cannot guarantee your safety, certainly not if you continue to refuse a ranger escort.”

 

“ ... burns against the cold, the light that brings … ”

 

“They’d just slow me down.” I bobbed my head towards Thoros and Ed, mounted atop their horses. “Besides, I’ve already got my hands full with these two.”

 

Mormont didn’t seem convinced; I rolled my eyes. 

 

"I'll be fine. And on the off chance otherwise" – I flashed my eyebrows with a chuckle – "well, it won't be my problem anymore."

 

“ … pledge my life and honor … ” 

 

With a half-wince, he dolefully shook his head. “I cannot abide needless death, doubly such in my power to prevent.”

 

Whistling, I summoned Typhoon and hopped up into the saddle. "Que sera, Lord Commander. Everybody kicks it eventually.” I grinned. “So why bother worrying?"

Chapter 10

Summary:

CHARACTER FILLER
CHARACTER FILLER

“Gods, as a rule, are an ambitious sort – always chasing power. No different from the average politician, in that respect.”

 

Divinity (an admittedly nebulous term, encompassing everything from the personified spirit of an unusually large rock or something to an eldritch Old One with cosmic dominion) entails infinity – some measure of resistance, if not outright immunity, from the ravages of time and entropy, and constraints of physics and biology; a god’s might and authority, both absolute and relative, is a function of how much infinity their being could sustain.

 

I myself – at the risk of conceit – even before recent … endowments, ranked firmly at the upper end of the spectrum, at least as far as terrestrial deities went.

 

“And just like a politician might tend a herd of sycophants, gods empower their worshipers. Mortals are fragile, after all, squishy and short-lived.” I rolled my eyes. “Breathe on one wrong, porcelain bloody dolls they are, and suddenly the walls are a lovely shade of cranberry. Straight from the box, they’re practically worthless, so trying to squeeze some value out of them takes a little investment.”

 

Perched at the edge of a sunlounger, Ed nibbled at his bottom lip, and slowly, cagily, gestured for me to continue.

 

“I like to call it patronage. You know, the wealthy, influential patron and the lowly, desperate client. The client gets a nibble of the metaphorical pie, while the patron gets a lackey to kiss his ring.” I snorted, rolling a hand to the side. “Shine his shoes and scrub his toilets.” Then, smirking like a jackass, in my best Marlon Brando: “Come to him on the day of his daughter's wedding.”

 

A good half of it flew right over his head, but a faint nod told me that he more or less caught the gist.

 

Plopping my legs up onto an ottoman, I tapped a finger against my eyeball, irises sparkling gold, then pointed towards Ed's matching set. “When I pumped you full of my grace, my power, you became my client, and I your patron. Normally, this sort of thing requires a formal covenant, but your untimely demise opened a few doors.”

 

I was no stranger to such arrangements; back in the Lands Between, any random dickhead could wander into a church and receive the God-Queen’s blessing, so long as he was of the right sort (human and human-adjacent, mainly – trolls and misbegotten and other ‘bestial’ untouchables, if not outright exterminated, were instead graciously permitted to wallow at society’s fringes). 

 

That, and of all her untold millennia of memories – love and hate, life and death, victory and tragedy – the original carved deepest into her heart the moment when, huddling in an alleyway, draped in filthy sackcloth, her frostbitten fingers first clutched a mote of shimmering light – the day a half-starved orphan, by the grace of the Greater Will, emerged resplendent as the glittering monarch of an epoch of order and gold. 

 

“I'm sure you've felt it.” I leaned in for dramatic effect. “The fire pounding through your veins, lightning pulsing through your bones. New strength, new sensations, new understanding – like the scales have fallen from your eyes.” 

 

A pause.

 

“You’re more than human, now.” I shrugged. “Not like that’s a high bar. You can still die, of course, but you won’t stay dead for long. Age, disease, injury … temporary inconveniences.” I leaned back. “Aren’t you lucky?”

 

Ed already knew, on some level, that he’d transcended his mortality – you don’t just wake up hale and hearty after a mob rips you to pieces – but now he’d actual confirmation; he blinked, brow furrowed, then, elbows resting on his knees, took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.

 

I lounged around for a couple minutes, observing the coral twilight sky, the soft breeze rustling through the trees, the squirrels and rabbits foraging through the snow – some may delight in the Arcadian idyll, but I’ve always found it dreadfully boring – until I rose to my feet and sauntered deeper into our tent, over marble tiles and velvet rugs, past couches and cabinets and credenzas, towards a fully-stocked drink cart.

 

Hey, if you're gonna enchant a tent, why not go the whole nine yards?

 

Pouring myself a Cabernet (or at least the closest approximation I could conjure), then flumping back into my knockoff oversized Eames chair – never has anachronism been so comfortable – I hummed under my breath as I swirled the glass and took a whole mouthful.

 

Bitter and spicy – a bit heavy, but passable. 

 

I guzzled down the rest of the glass, then floated the bottle over to refill it. 

 

Lacking the requisite biological structures, I wasn't directly affected by liquor. Rather, my conscious will had to partake in a sort of deliberate psychosomatics, and, with the aid of magic, impose some close approximation of drunkenness.

 

Before all this, I was never a drinker – hell, you might’ve even called me a teetotaler – but life, as they say, is change, and my time as Her Majesty opened my eyes to drink’s sublime utility, and its wonderful way of easing tensions, distracting from misfortunes, and blunting those feelings best left buried. 

 

How did Flashman put it?

 

Oh, yes. 

 

‘If you've got money in the bank, and drink in the house, what more do you want?’

 

I'm not an alcoholic, you're just projecting.

 

“What's the cost?”

 

Eyebrow raised, I met Ed’s rigid, stilted, bloodshot glower.

 

Seems that breaking down into a blubbering mess, though undoubtedly cathartic, didn’t really strike him as helpful, nor did retreating into unconsciousness. He was confused, frustrated, and absolutely terrified, but knew that giving in to these emotions never got anybody anywhere – or at least anywhere good – so he grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and forced himself to remain calm, The sea of churning emotion was shrouded by tranquility, his worry and grief and rage suppressed for the sake of practicality, and his mind's horrified screams mellowed to something of a low roar.

 

This was less of a padlock, and more of a strategically placed bit of Scotch tape – a stopgap if ever was one – but it got the job done, and his building panic yielded to a purposeful, if fragile, composure.

 

“Well, the mortal gets power, the god gets the mortal. Thought I laid that out pretty clearly.” I took a sip, swishing it around before swallowing. “Body, mind, soul – at the end of the day, I quite literally own you, to pester and puppet as I please.”

 

Alliterations are awesome, and also amazing. 

 

His eyes somehow widened even further, while his skin paled to an even sicker shade of white. 

 

“That said, you needn’t worry overmuch for your autonomy.” I swiveled my glass, nodding my head for emphasis. “Bodily, that is. I’ve tried the whole hive-mind thing, more of a hassle than it’s worth.”

 

My pride refuses to elaborate.

 

A dismissive handwave. “Nor do I want your prayers, or fealty, or whatever. Keep thumbing your nose at me, if that’s what you feel.”

 

It’s not like I needed more worship – I’d long since outgrown that particular crutch, and even after everything, the denizens of the Lands Between still loved and feared the Queen Eternal, their praises and pleas and endless fucking litanies ever tingling my perception.

 

“Frankly, not having to babysit you anymore is payment enough.”

 

With a shuddering breath, Ed swallowed. “Why not … bless ” – he barely held himself back from spitting it – “the priest, too?”

 

Spinning a little in my chair, I bobbed my head at Thoros, rousing him from his vacant-eyed contemplation of our roaring campfire. “He's already got a patron.” A shredded, flickering, barely conscious wreck of a patron, but a patron nonetheless. “It'd be poor form of me to butt in on another's claim.”

 

More through some vague sense of social obligation than any genuine agreement, he lifted his beer mug and offered a tired grin, before returning his gaze to the flames.

 

I wonder what he saw in them.

 

Muddled prophecy, if I had to guess, with plenty of obtuse metaphor and symbolism.

 

Ed clenched his fists and pursed his lips. “And if I want it out?”

 

“What, from life?”

 

The kid might not have directly replied, but his silence was answer enough. 

 

“I won't sit here and implore you to soldier on, or cry about how you've so much to live for.” With a scoff, I crossed my free arm under my chest, and rested my other elbow atop the back of my hand. “I'm not a hack .”

 

Another sip.

 

“But death?” I shook my head. “Wouldn’t recommend it. Too final, too dull. Suffering or no, existence is far more interesting.”

 

He frowned, and I gave him a smile I thought was kind. 

 

“If you're really that insistent, though, just say the word, and I'll revoke my patronage – no skin off my teeth. Then you’ll be free to hara-kiri to your heart’s content.”

 

For a moment, he seemed to seriously consider it. 

 

“Or.” I waggled a finger. “Or, roll up your sleeves and gird your loins, and you might just be able to force the issue. You’d be surprised how far resolve can take somebody.” Peering upward at the sky, the corners of my mouth twitched in mocking amusement. “My own patron learned that the hard way.”

 

I then gave him a look that, while not exactly solemn, did impart a certain gravity. “Everything can die, even if some are more … resilient than others. It’s only a question of means.”

 

Spite's as good a motivator as any – why not give him, I thought to myself, a definite goal to work towards?

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

" We sail the ocean blue! ”

 

With all the time I’d spent on the water over the last few months, it only seemed appropriate – besides, I'd already belted through Mikado and Iolanthe .

 

My name was irrecoverable, my parent's faces increasingly blurry, but God forbid I forget Gilbert and Sullivan.

 

It was almost funny, in a cosmic sort of sense. 

 

" And our saucy ship's a beauty! ”

 

My companions liked my singing, at first, or at least Thoros did; he whistled along, bobbed his head and tapped his feet in his stirrups, trying to cajole a sullen Ed from his morose introspection. It was a capital way to pass the time, and squeeze some amusement out of our otherwise tedious ramble through the frozen wilderness. 

 

Typhoon was just happy to be involved. 

 

Of course, by the end of the first week, the others – from the way they sagged in their saddles and blearily rubbed their foreheads – had probably grown a little tired of opera, but far be it from me to buckle to public opinion, and deprive the world of the pleasure of my voice.

 

“We’re sober men and true! And attentive to our duty!”

 

The hundred or so miles closest to the Wall were best described as semi-inhabited – relatively temperate, dotted with camps and villages and ringforts, the forest here was young, scrubby, regularly logged by Watchmen and wildlings. Beyond that, though, past Craster’s Keep (‘Craster’s Thatched Barn’ more like; and knowing the sort of dregs that infested the place, I saved myself the aggravation and unceremoniously burned it down as we rode by), across a branching tributary of the Milkwater, the flatwood matured into proper old-growth, and the pines grew tall and broad and black.

 

Shaded by the dense canopy, exposed roots snarled through mounds of sod and piles of decayed bark. Wolves stalked between the trees as bears nestled in their caves, and moose and elk hid among the thickets. The Watch refused to range this far, and save for a handful of scattered tribes and reclusive hermits, the natives gave the region a wide berth – bad juju, they said.

 

Suppose that’s why this one wildling hunter – furs and ringmail, matted orange hair, left eye milky white – looked so stupefied when I gave him a wave, doffed my imaginary hat, and then continued deeper into the snowy forest. 

 

" I thought so little, they rewarded me! By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! ”

 

In a healthy spiritual ecosystem, magic just doesn’t bum around stagnant. Instead, it pours and thrums and bubbles in currents; and these currents can, if one has the requisite aptitude and experience, be tracked. Westeros’ magic might not have been healthy, but it did still flow, and of the remaining currents, the weirwood network was the single most cohesive and pronounced – enough so for me to catch its proverbial scent through the ambient rot. 

 

The network, just like a river, had a source, a singular font from which all its energies flowed, and into which all the individual nodes’ collected memories returned. As we ventured further north, closer towards this nexus, the magic hanging in the air thickened and cloyed, and the more feral the landscape became, winds howling and trees towering and wildlife retreating.

 

Finally, we reached the spot where the magic converged – a solitary hill thrusting through the earth, dotted with weirwoods and crusted with ice, a narrow cave halfway up reaching down into stygian darkness.

 

" He remains an Englishman! "

 

And on every single branch of every single tree perched hundreds, thousands of red-eyed crows; staring, judging, silent as a grave. 

 

" He remains an E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-en! Gli~sh! MAAAAN!"

 

Bowing in my saddle and blowing kisses, I shot the assemblage a beaming smile. 

 

"Long time no see, Lord Commander!”

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Mother Nature, to indulge in metaphor, isn't some kindly nursemaid, tenderly caressing lost little lambs into her matronly bosom – she's a pockmarked gutter slut, sucking off johns behind dumpsters, and stubbing out cigarettes on her children’s foreheads. 

 

Well, maybe not so trashy, but you get the point. 

 

Rather than warm, or sympathetic, or compassionate, she’s harsh, uncaring, malicious. She plays no favorites, shows no restraint, grants no succor; her sole commandment is survival, however base or underhanded the means. 

 

While far from a proper embodiment, incarnation, whatever of nature – no matter how widely and persistently the Northerners worshiped their “old gods,” and insisted they comprised an actual pantheon – the weirwood network was still a part of nature, an extremity, guided and informed by her. The network arose from nature, played by nature's rules, and, in a very real way, served as nature's memory: a living archive of millions of years of struggle and toil and change.

 

And it was dying.

 

Compared to the countless minor divinities that had perished in the wake of the Long Night, or the horrid abominations that had since embraced the spreading decay (looking at you, Drowned God), the network was holding out rather impressively – though its best could only delay the inevitable. Even by the time the Andals started chopping, the proverbial termites had already devoured the foundation. Someday soon, the last few beams would finally snap, and the whole rotten structure would come crashing down. 

 

But that didn't mean it’d just bare its belly to the sword: like a besieged redoubt, its walls battered and garrison bloodied, the network stood firm against the virulent corruption, spiteful and defiant in the face of oblivion. It had crossed every line, pared every superfluity, squeezed water from every stone in the hopes of prolonging its lifespan, even if by just one more day.

 

And if all that effort proved for naught, its aura all but screamed, if Bloodraven's plan was going to fail and death would swallow the living, then it would burn as bright and hot as it could, and bring as much as it can down with it.

 

R'hllor, at least, admired the sentiment (or, more accurately, the shade of him clinging to Thoros radiated something like approval) – whatever the hell his true agenda was. 

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

The cave was a fucking ossuary. 

 

Sure, the upper tunnels were lively enough, humid and warm, stuffed with goats and greenery and plenty of those godawful children of the forest – with their big bug eyes and slitted pupils and spindly three-fingered hands, I can see why the Westerosi tried so hard to exterminate them – but the deeper we progressed, the more bones crunched beneath our feet, until we were wading through the damn things.

 

And while skulls leered from their niches along the walls, and the crows glared a hateful crimson, the children prowled at our heels, their movement unnaturally, uncannily graceful, eyeing us with what, in their alien minds, must’ve passed as curiosity.

 

“Is there a name I can call you?”

 

Almond skin dappled with spots and wilted flowers braided through her hair, the child who’d taken it upon herself to guide us through the catacombs gently dipped her bulbous head. “ Men know this one as Leaf. ”

 

I hummed, eyeing the roost's worth of bat skeletons that dangled from the ceiling. “Get many visitors?”

 

“ When needed. ” Beneath the chimes and twinkles and melodious cadence, her tone dripped with somber nostalgia “ Few are willing .”

 

The decor being what it was, I'm not sure why I expected anything different.

 

It took us a couple hours of trudging through the dark – the exact figure eludes me – to reach the end of the tunnel: a steep-angled shaft, plunging down into an abyss, echoing with the roar of rushing water. 

 

Crossing my arms under my chest, and ignoring how intensely I wanted to take a shower, I shot my hangers-on a questioning glance.

 

“You two can hold the fort, yeah?”

 

Thoros, sword half-unsheathed as his eyes warily darted about, took a sharp step forward.

 

“Your Grace – ”

 

I shushed him with a raised hand and pointed look.

 

He opened his mouth to interject, yet his arguments died on his lips; after a few moments of wincing and grimacing, he barely squeezed out a slow, begrudging nod. 

 

A firm nod of my own. “Good.” I approached the shaft. “Play nice.”

 

Forehead wrinkled in consternation, the priest looked a second from discarding my order, but Ed – more irritated than anything else – leaned over, parked a hand on his shoulder, and stopped him with a subtle shake of his head.

 

Meanwhile, the children of the corn just kept on staring – honestly, it's like they were designed in a lab to give people the heebie-jeebies.

 

Knees bent and arms tucked against my sides, I then slid down the passageway; winding and twisting, cluttered with dirt and pebbles and shards of bone, it spat me out into an enormous cavern, and onto the narrow, rough-worn natural bridge that spanned its vastness, bestride the subterranean river that seethed some six hundred feet below.

 

A lattice of weirwood roots pierced through the solid rock and weaved across the ceiling – and at the center of the cave, atop a stone column, where the roots twined thickest and the network’s streams converged, they curled and matted and fuzed to form a gnarled throne, upon which limply stooped Bloodraven's desiccated carcass.

 

The roots had interred, strangled him; burrowed past his rusted hauberk and tattered black cloak, split limbs and subsumed organs, then jabbed back out through his rib cage and neck and empty left eye socket – the right harbored a sad, shriveled raisin of an eyeball, hard and dry and stained a pale, sickly red. Like brittle parchment, bleached and stiffened, his remaining skin strained over his gaunt form, yellowed bones peeking through the cracks, and his wilted white hair blanketed the mossy floor, with leaves and mushrooms sprouting from his exposed skullcap. At his rotted belt hung a slender longsword – although the hilt and pommel had over the years crumbled away, its pristine blade still boasted the tell-tale ripples of Valyrian steel.

 

With a flash of grace, I burnt the refuse from my skirt and wiped away the ashes – wouldn’t do to look a scruff – then raised my voice over the crashing water.

 

“Lovely place you've got here!” I made a show of appraising my surroundings. “Very … rustic.” 

 

Bloodraven didn’t respond – or, more accurately, refused to.

 

A glance over my shoulder, followed by a wry grin. “Between you and me, though, I could do without the neighbors. Little too, um … ” I waggled my hand in thought “ … out there for my taste.”

 

Who says I can't be diplomatic?

 

His eye narrowed, and the crows perched about the throne bristled and cawed and hissed – never knew birds were physically capable of that last one.

 

“Come on, keep to the script. It’s your turn to start bitching. You know, something indignant about how I’ve ‘violated your sanctum,’ or ‘disrupted the balance.’ Maybe even a sinister portent of impending doom, if you're feeling up to it.”

 

From the way his countenance puckered, were he physically capable, I imagine he would've throttled me.

 

See, that’s the trouble with utilitarian chessmaster ‘pull the string’ types – they're always so self-important. Take it from me, fussing about the supposed greater good, burdening yourself with some grandiose higher purpose, only gets tiresome after a while; before long, you’ll find yourself jadedly plodding through endless plots and maneuvers and schemes, all in the name of some grand crusade that grows hollower and hollower with each passing day.

 

No, it's much more gratifying – and far less painful – to live for me, myself, and I alone, the world be damned.

 

“Silent treatment, eh? And here I thought we were friends!”

 

Looking back, I might've been a smidge too eager to gloat, and – if pressed – too fond by half of the sound of my own voice.

 

A few moments passed, the pause hanging heavy in the air, until the corpse forced a dry, rattling wheeze.

 

“ Why? ”

 

His speech was rustling leaves, whispering wind, harsh and slurred and croaky as it crept from his sluggish lips, then was telepathically amplified.

 

“Why what?” Tutting, I shook my head. “We’ve had this talk before, you need to be specific .”

 

For a minute, he weighed what I’m sure was an exhaustive list of grievances – in the end, though, he opted for brevity, tugged on a common thread, and cut right to the heart of the matter. 

 

“ Why interfere? ”

 

Better – not by much, mind, but better nonetheless. 

 

“Entertainment.”

 

His eye widened. I don't think Brynden – the last and greatest greenseer, the tree-worshiping bastard who'd clawed his way up to Hand of the King, the hard man making hard decisions – honestly believed I'd be quite so candid, or my motive to be quite so trivial. 

 

“Suppose, hypothetically, you one day find yourself living in a storybook. You've read it, enjoyed it, and, while … gratuitous at parts, you know it ends happy, or at least bittersweet.” A pause. “Would you sit on the sidelines, watch the characters muddle through their destined parts, or try and make things a little more interesting?” 

 

The myriad implications spoke for themselves, as did the resultant existential dread – the ‘hey, you’re fictional’ reveal never went over well.

 

“I, for one, choose to make the most of such a novel opportunity.”

 

Rocking on my heels, I then started pacing, affecting all the gravitas of a eulogy. 

 

“And make no mistake, it is a choice. Keeping a low profile, smothering the butterflies – that's easy. Had I the inclination, I'd just wander out into the middle of nowhere and conjure up a hermitage, then spend the next few decades sitting around on my arse. I'd probably do a damn good job of it, assuming some obnoxious contrivance doesn't just drag me onstage anyway.”

 

My hobnailed sandals scraped against the rock as I planted myself before the throne, finger pointed for emphasis. “But that wouldn't be anywhere near as fun.”

 

The corners of my mouth twitched in amusement, and the mask of faux solemnity crumbled, revealing the snickers underneath. 

 

Conquest, evangelism, profiteering: those Bloodraven knew and understood, well enough to handle with some measure of expertise.

 

But this?

 

Muscles snapping and joints crackling, the carcass leaned forward with a pained grimace.

 

“ If the end came tomorrow – if countless millions suddenly vanished into the blackness of the night … would you even care? ”

 

The answer was automatic.

 

“Not really.” Brow furrowed and lips pursed, I propped a hand on my hip, before tilting my head in acquiescence. “Maybe a little. If your cat died, or hamster, you’d probably mourn it” – a dismissive wave of my hand – “for a couple hours, a day or so.” I shrugged. “Then move on to the next one.”

 

Brynden, dazed, leaned back in his throne, knobbly vertebrae scraping against the bark.

 

“ Like a little girl, playing with her dolls … ”

 

He wasn't wrong, per se, and had it come from most anyone else, I'd have probably felt it an apt comparison.

 

“We’ve all got our guilty pleasures.”

 

As he pondered and agonized and wrung his hands (figuratively, that is – the roots had nailed his palms to the armrests), I checked for dirt under my fingernails.

 

“ Your Grace. ” 

 

I shot him a raised eyebrow; the corpse’s shock had given way to determination, urgency, the hellbent resolve of a desperate gamble.

 

“ Warrior, sorcerer, I’ve worn many hats – though I am foremost an observer. ” His lip curled in annoyance. “ A voyeur, as you so eloquently put it. I won’t bother pleading your benevolence, or invoking some abstract morality – I know the futility of sermons – and you’ve clearly no need for my sword, or guidance, as your capabilities far surpass my own. ” 

 

“ Instead, I offer you my attention. ” Chest creaking, he slowly exhaled. “ Bring me with you – if this world’s indeed a mummer’s farce, then I may be your audience. ” ‘ And minimize the damage ,’ went left unsaid. 

 

Struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu, I fought to limit my cackle to a chuckle. “Goodness me, how forward!” Tittering some more, I mockingly fanned my face. “Scandal, I say! See here, Lord Commander, I am a lady!” I turned up my nose. “Harumph!”

 

Schooling his irritation as best he could, Bloodraven waited for the laughter to run its course – when it ended with a breathy snort and tapering giggle, my grin returned in force.

 

“So that's your angle, eh? Tickling my vanity?”

 

A shallow nod, stifled by the rat’s nest of tree limbs boring through his skull. “ A spoonful of flattery, I’ve found, makes your sort that much more agreeable. ”

 

“And what is ‘my sort’?”

 

“ The haughty, the vain, the arrogant; those who puff themselves up with titles and gold. ”

 

I’ll admit, loath as I am to give him any credit, his candor came as a welcome surprise. The actual substance, well, not my cup of tea – upon reflection, I might've gone a little big-headed over the years – but the thought of it, the general principle, was decidedly refreshing.

 

Reckon he'd make a good jester.

 

We stared each other down for a time – it was all very dramatic.

 

“Alright, sure.”

 

Fingers twitched and grace surged and Brynden – barely having registered my assent – was torn from his throne, yanked across the bridge, and dangled midair some ten paces in front of me.

 

Head thrown back with a gurgle and moan, his chest heaved and buckled, while clotted brown blood dribbled from the gaping, sucking holes where the roots had been plucked.

 

I scratched my chin in consideration – ‘useless without the greensight, network connection needs some jury-rigging, flesh too decrepit to use, best start over from scratch, search his memories for reference, or, maybe …’ – then smirked into his trembling eye.

 

“Remember, you asked for this.”

 

The grace renewed its assault, suffusing and penetrating and twisting his form, which crumpled under the force of the ensuing transformation; muscles rippled and skin bubbled, height bled and limbs narrowed, and his pained, quavering shrieks gradually rose in pitch. 

 

Soon enough, the grace dissipated, and there on the ground, coughing and gasping for air, sprawled a little albino girl – no more than eight – in a sable black frock.

 

And so the monkey's paw curls.

 

Snow-white ringlets tickling a cute button nose, she gaped in horror at her pale, dainty hands. “What – ” The new kittenlike voice only magnified her distress, and she reflexively clutched her throat. “What did you do to me?!”

 

“I think it’s fairly obvious.”

 

Like a bad cliché, she pat between her legs for confirmation, then somehow blanched. “C-change me back!”

 

“Now, why on earth would I do that? You’d hardly be of use to me a bedridden skeleton.”

 

At this point, her pleas and whines devolved into tearful blubbering – disappointing, I thought the great Lord Rivers would be more composed.

 

Hormones, if I had to guess. 

 

"I could always kill you.”

 

That shut her up.

 

“Just think of this as a learning experience.” What she’d learn was anyone’s guess, but she’d certainly learn something. “Besides, it happened to me, and I turned out just fine.” 

 

Turning back around to face the passageway, and glancing at Brynden – need to think of a better name. Brandy? Brunhilde? – over my shoulder, I spurred her forward with a slap of my thigh. “Come along, now, be a good girl.”

 

Her teeth grit and fists clenched, nails cutting bloody crescents into her palms – but, right at the last second, just before the tantrum began in earnest, she sharply inhaled, straightened her shoulders, and cobbled back together the remnants of her shattered dignity.

 

“You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met.”

 

“I try.”

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

The four of us continued north along the gravelly banks of the mainstem Milkwater; gloaming pine barrens gradually flattened to open tundra – austere and still, dotted with thaw ponds, rust-red lichens encrusting the permafrost – then swelled to rocky highlands, with the jagged peaks of the distant Frostfangs spearing through the clouds.

 

All things considered, we made good time, and any bullshit drama was (thank God) kept to an appropriate minimum – not so much for want of friction, mind, but an unwillingness to break the fragile peace that had since settled between us. I passed the hours caroling, resorting to the likes of Annie Get Your Gun after the well of D'Oyly Carte ran dry, while Thoros studied his divinations, Ed brooded and angsted, and Brynden – when not dozing in the wagon I’d hitched to Ed’s gelding – played tour guide.

 

“See the flowers, the blue ones, up there on the ridge? Coldsnaps, they're called – symbolize vitality, resilience, triumph through adversity and whatnot. I’ve always admired them.”

 

“Among the wildlings, rather than the pageantry of courtship, a man simply abducts his bride, and holds her captive until she submits to him. It’s a test, you see, of whether he can provide for a woman. After all, every burden is a liability in lands as harsh as these.”

 

“Keep a lookout, those are shadowcat tracks. Damned vicious things, they’ve a ghastly penchant for devouring children. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. If only I were restored to my proper form … ”

 

I had a sneaking suspicion she was trying to tell me something. 

 

Paradoxically, as the valley deepened and hills steepened and terrain, on the whole, roughened, the chill lost the worst of its bite, and the foliage grew noticeably lusher – in other words, the climate got milder, or at least less viscerally hostile. 

 

Geothermic vents, we shortly discovered – concentrated around the valley due to some quirk of geology – ceaselessly belched into the surrounding environs plumes of scalding, sulfuric gas, which the high cliff walls, acting as an insulator, sheltered and diffused. Soil black and leaves green, this volcanicity offset the arctic bleakness, inducing a particular fertility, and fostering temperatures mild enough for my companions to strip their outermost layers.

 

What's more, clear signs of human occupation (quite the novelty after a week or two of lonely bush) began to clutter the heights: hunters’ caches tucked away in hollows, shanties plopped beside fallow fields, handfuls of tribals crouched around campfires. 

 

“The Valley of the Thenn,” Brynden exposited. “The last habitable tract before winter begins in earnest. Well-settled, I'd call it, insofar as anything can be this side of the Wall.”

 

And, soon enough, a narrow footpath slowly emerged by the riverside, broadening to a packed-dirt road the further we traveled, until butting up against a log stockade that ran the width of the pass. With the Milkwater flowing through a trench at the center, the palisade was bounded by a matching pair of squat wooden keeps, and slim watchtowers were positioned intermittently across its length. Pudgy men in bronze lamellar, matted hair curled into elaborate knots, idly paced its ramparts, scanned the horizon, or (confident that their superiors’ backs were turned) chatted and gambled amongst themselves.

 

Leaning on his spear, a listless sentry watched as we rode up to the gate; he signaled us to stop with a raised hand, and centered his gaze on me, the tallest and flashiest and unequivocally prettiest of our merry little band.

 

“Hail,” he grunted, with all the enthusiasm of a McDonald's cashier. “You intrude upon the borders of the realm of the First Men.”

 

His accusation bore no real heat, nor pressing scrutiny. If anything, the prevailing mood was apathy, underlined by a sense of obliged conscientiousness, the kind that typically accompanies a duty long-staled.

 

“You are foreigners, correct? Neither citizens nor kin?”

 

The Thenns’ language – an especially grating offshoot of the Finnish-sounding Old Tongue – was a dense one, stingy when apportioning syllables, yet steeped in subtext and implications and a certain clunky formality.

 

Little surprise, then, that a working translation takes some finagling (along with a fair splash of creative license), and even still comes out hammy and forced, like a bad period drama.

 

“Last I checked.”

 

Close enough for government work; he took that as a yes. 

 

“What are your intentions?”

 

“Sightseeing.”

 

Had the sentry actually cared, he'd have surely pressed me for something more substantial than clever laconicisms – for bureaucracy's sake, if nothing else.

 

“Proceed.”

 

Instead, he waved us through, before returning to his woolgathering. 

 

The road, from then on, was paved with thick, smooth cobblestones, and busily trafficked by messengers and peddlers, who buzzed up and down the chain of abutting relay stations and trading posts. Here and there, on terraces cut into the hillsides, crofters harvested tubers and barley, herded sheep and cattle, whilst gangs of burly menials picked and hauled and sorted within the nearby pit mines and quarries. Villages, too, sprouted up along the way, as did mills and foundries and granaries, and all those other infrastructures and industries endemic to civilization – simple, yes, primitive even, compared to the Seven Kingdoms, but civilization nonetheless.

 

We’d ridden some three hundred miles northeast from the border fort, through the piedmonts, and reached the base of the mountains proper when the Valley distended, landscape unfurled, and before us lay a wide, sweeping basin, granite cliffs enclosing forty leagues of grassy plains; where, on the shores of a turquoise glacier lake (the apparent source of the Milkwater), sprawled a settlement so vast, so expansive, that it could only be described as a city. 

 

Interlaced with winding canals and causeways, the town radiated outward from an immense pyramidal mound, and the colossal weirwood planted at its apex. Palaces and citadels – constructed of massive, dry-fitted diorite blocks, then plastered and whitewashed with lime – dominated the city center, the broad, airy avenues between them stuffed with shrines and gardens, market squares and law courts. The rest, though, the destitute plurality, settled for cramped, dingy favelas, long stretches of slum, slapdashed together from wattle and daub, mud and clay, pebbles and sticks. It all sat atop the unmistakable bulge of a tell, of thousands of years of garbage, debris, and successive reconstruction, each new layer sloppily erected over the collapsed remains of the last.

 

Even from miles away, the stench was appalling.

 

“Behold, the armpit of the world,” Brynden sneered. “One of them, anyhow.”

 

Just eyeballing the place, I reckoned it was home to a solid fifty, possibly sixty-thousand – a footnote in absolute terms, but remarkable given its context.

 

Well-settled, indeed.

 

“Has it got a name?”

 

“Thenn.”

 

A pause; I furrowed my brow.

 

“After the valley, or … ?”

 

She gave me a side-eyed glower, disdainful and weary. 

 

“Does it honestly matter?”

 

I frowned huffily, then grunted – we both knew it didn't – and flicking my feet in the stirrups, spurred Typhoon onward.

 

Sour sweat, barking dogs, streets littered with chicken bones and feces, the fetid urbanity brought to mind the squalor of the third world, and the rust of a late empire – so too, for that matter, did the feckless, feculent, sub-sapient untermenschen who infested it. These harridans and pickpockets, screeching infants and toothless layabouts, existed solely for the gratification of their base animal appetites; they wrote no symphonies, built no wonders, achieved, contributed, and understood nothing. As long as they'd their fill of bread and circuses, a bottle to suck and a warm hole to fuck, they – and their children, and their children's children ad infinitum – were content to spend eternity wallowing in their own filth.

 

Like most humans, really.

 

The city's rulers, meanwhile, skulls artificially elongated and faces ritualistically scarred, revelled and rollicked within their roomy stone halls, content in their anointed mastery over the stolid, fermenting masses. Frankly, they weren’t anything revolutionary, just stamped from the tired mold of archaic god-kings, with the typical pretensions of radiance and purity, and a penchant for grand, sweeping proclamations about their supposed greatness. 

 

Case in point, a cheering crowd had gathered at the foot of the mound, and to the wailing of horns and beating of drums, watched with rapt attention as a richly robed priest paced by the altar at the peak. 

 

From the mob’s periphery, I couldn’t but notice that, despite the weirwood’s magnitude, some wasting blight afflicted its raw, patchy bark, and its leaves shriveled as they hung from drooping branches – about as apt a metaphor for their society as you can get.

 

“Valiant fellows,” the priest exclaimed, “last of the First Men, these are the days of our deepest lament! The earth howls in anger, bites in rage, withers our crops and scourges our bodies!”

 

One hand swept the crowd, and the other clenched into a fist.

 

“The southern degenerates say this makes us weak! They say our nation bleeds! They say that our destiny is sickness and destruction, to scatter into obscurity!”

 

“Never!” the multitude roared.

 

Chest inflated, feet planted wide, the priest thrust his arms above his head.

 

“I say no! We are strong! We are brave! We are wise! Of all, our race is closest to the gods!”

 

For a moment, he almost seemed to revel in the adulation. 

 

“And I say, let our strength, and bravery, and wisdom appease the earth, and testify to our glory!”

 

A pair of acolytes – painted with crimson swirls and fitted with grotesque masks – dragged a kicking, crying captive onto the altar; stripped naked, the poor sod was then bent over a pedestal, the acolytes holding him in place as he writhed in desperation. 

 

“Gallant warrior, undaunted and unflinching, we give our thanks to you!”

 

With a flourish, the priest raised a flint dagger over the captive’s heaving chest.

 

“Great tree, spirits of the earth, accept your servant’s sacrifice! With his blood, we sate your thirst! With his blood, we quench your fury!”

 

The captive’s face contorted with a silent scream when the knife plunged through his breastbone, split his diaphragm, and sawed towards the navel; shoving a hand into the gash, the priest excised the still-beating heart, and with blood raining down onto his robes, held it aloft; he then handed the heart to a hunchbacked crone, whose eyes rolled back as she read the auguries, whereupon the acolytes seized the twitching captive by the limbs and tossed him headlong down the mound; bouncing and flailing, the body was caught by the executioners assembled at the bottom, who flayed and butchered it, and doled out the flesh to the crowd.

 

We didn't stick around for the rest. 

 

Further on from the city, across the rolling prairie, the road slanted to a gradual incline, squeezing through a notch in the cliffs, then meandered along the Frostfangs’ rugged slopes, temperatures falling as the altitude rose. If their foothills were fertile and insulated, then the mountains themselves were barren and exposed, rocks dusted with ice and snow, and greenery scoured by flurries and gales.

 

Once, the region had done rather well for itself (thrived would be too strong a word), as the abandoned settlements scattered about can attest; now, though, the few remaining residents – the stubborn ones, the hardy ones, the ones who refused to pack their bindles and bugger off south to the city – sluggishly scratched at frozen crops, or foraged for rabbits and mice, hollow-cheeked and frostbitten within their drafty huts.

 

Perhaps the only structure, population, institution of any real note was the small, isolated garrison hunkered atop a knoll, overlooking the spot where the increasingly derelict road conclusively transitioned to unpaved gravel. 

 

It was the platonic ideal of a punishment posting.

 

A wandering patrol, shivering underneath their heavy fur coats, gaped in bemusement when we passed them by, before shouting and scrambling towards us. 

 

“H-halt!”

 

Spears raised, they blocked our path, hastily assembling into some pell-mell facsimile of a battle line.

 

“State your business!” the apparent leader (or at least the gutsiest) barked.

 

A leaf-shaped spearhead trembled at the tip of my nose – I flicked it aside.

“Calm down, calm down,” I sighed. "There's no need for hysterics.”

 

That didn’t do much to assuage them.

 

“Look, we’ve got a tight schedule, so if you kindly step aside, we’ll be on our way.”

 

Frowning and grimacing in silent conversation, the leader nodded, and one of the soldiers took off towards the fort. 

 

The standoff continued until, a few minutes later – mere moments before my frayed patience finally snapped – the soldier returned with reinforcements, among them a fifty-something in noticeably finer kit. Arms crossed, bags under his eyes, the commander scanned my party, brow knitting when he caught sight of Bryden, then centered on his subordinate.

 

“Explain.”

 

“Sir, these – ”

 

“As I told your man here, we’re just passing through.”

 

The commander searched my eyes, then snorted; “Be it on your heads,” he dismissively grunted, and waved his troops to stand down. 

 

Only a short ride away, the decisive boundary between Thenn territory and true terra nullius sat in a boulder field between two escarpments, demarcated by totems and cairns and strings of colorful prayer flags.

 

Had I been the sentimental sort, I’d have probably delivered some plodding soliloquy, full of flowery homilies and allusions to the Rubicon – as things were, though, we crossed over without a second thought.

 

By this point, the four of us just wanted to get it over with.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

“I never wanted to be a priest.”

 

Raising an eyebrow, I looked up from my drink – something sour, forget the name – and glanced back at Thoros; unshaven stubble, bags under his eyes, a thick woolen cloak draped across his shoulders, he sat stooped on a low marble bench, hands clasped and elbows on his knees.

 

“Too many restrictions, you see. Too few allowances. I would pass them in the streets, the preachers in their sackcloths, and pity their want of the finer things. No, this mantle” – he grabbed and shook the collar of his ratty red robes – “was not my choice.”

 

That morning, we'd risen neither bright nor early. Dawn, after all, is the domain of the proles – a proper nob never stirs before nine (ideally noon, but needs must) – and this far north, the sun stayed crouched just beyond the horizon, holding the slate-grey sky in perpetual twilight. 

 

Still, the others, the fleshy ones, with their (relatively) mortal constitutions, needed a little time to scarf down their breakfasts, throw on their clothes, and splash some water onto their faces before setting out for the day. And so, while they faffed and puttered and rummaged about, I stood there and waited, glass in hand, staring in boredom at the surrounding mountains through the flaps of the tent.

 

Suppose that's the cost of traveling in groups.

 

Thoros chuckled, half-wistful, half-bitter.

 

“The first inherits, the second joins the army, and the third goes to the church. That is the rule, yes?”

 

His accent was thick, pronounced, yet not offensively so – Sallah, of all things, would be the closest analogue, having that same rhythm and bass.

 

“Well, being the eighth of eight, nowhere as smart, or skilled, or driven as the rest, to the church I went.” For a second, his lips seemed to curl. “Just given away, like loose change. Father had connections, though, money too, and I was soon elevated to the cloth.”

 

A snort.

 

“I am hardly fit to supervise a latrine, much less shepherd men’s souls. Nevertheless, the Lord's warmth embraced me.” Eyes unfocused, the priest instinctively, unconsciously, rubbed a hand against his chest. “His flame took root in my heart.” 

 

Knowing the kind of god he worshiped, I reckoned that ‘flame’ was quite literal. 

 

“An unwanted guest. For years, that was how I saw him. An unwanted guest.” He swallowed, wringing his hands. “Now, I mourn his absence. This cold, this … blight, has reduced the blaze to smoldering embers. Left him a mere dormant sliver.”

 

Almost to be expected, really.

 

Here, that ever-present rot, that cancer on the world’s soul, swelled and surged, clotted and congealed, thick enough to cut with a knife, and certainly dense enough to block any signals from one as maimed and gutted as R’hllor. Whatever cataclysm had afflicted this world (I had my suspicions, but you know what they say about assuming), these mountains weren't the epicenter – there’d be scars if they were – though the fumes and fallout, carried by the wind, had evidently made them home, contaminated them down to the bedrock, then used them as a base to percolate and spread until their poison stained the entire continent.

 

I’d never seen anything like it – at least, not on this scale, nor quite so sustained. While the word ‘apocalyptic’ might come off too strong, I simply can't think of any other way to express its sheer severity.

 

“What does it mean, I wonder, that even the Lord finds this place repugnant?”

 

“It means we should turn back while we still have the chance.”

 

Thoros blinked, and I swiveled around fully.

 

Brynden, voice flat, expression firm, stared me straight in the eyes. Perched atop a footstool, she was trying her level best to imbue her stance with some measure of authority.

 

The combined effect – the hands on her hips, the furry parka hanging down past her knees, the knowledge that, in truth, a dirty old man seethed behind that doll-like countenance – bludgeoned me over the head, and I found myself fighting back laughter.

 

“Oh?” Her face wrinkled when my giggles started leaking through. “Dare I ask why?”

 

“You know damn well why.”

 

“Humor me.”

 

Head tilted downward, as if it were physically pressed by the intended gravity of her words, she made an earnest effort at killing me with a glower.

 

“The Others are not the Ironborn,” she growled. “No, they're not nearly so benign. They are a force of nature, the wrath of winter, heralds of Death itself.” Her grimace turned a full-on sneer. “For a century, I’ve prepared for their return, and victory – survival – is still but a distant aspiration. What hope do you have, bumbling up to bash them with a hammer?”

 

“Ye of little faith!” I chortled. Part of me felt bad taunting the poor girl, but she made it far too easy. “I’ll have you know, that hammer and I have been through a lot together – and if I may say, I’ve gotten pretty good with it.” 

 

Had her fists been clenched tighter, her fingers would've snapped. “Not good enough.”

 

I offered a sympathetic smile – only mostly insincere – like she really was the child she appeared on the surface. “When I call myself a god, I’m not just being cocky.”

 

Just.

 

“Even gods die,” Bryden hissed, “and you – ” Abruptly straightening, shutting her eyes, she rallied her emotions only a second before they irreversibly erupted, and forced a steadying breath. “In the face of annihilation, one would expect some humility.”

 

At this, I couldn’t help but scoff. 

 

Humility? 

 

An idiot could tell, within the first minute of meeting me, that I’d a chronic shortage of the stuff.

 

Hardly as if I needed any. 

 

“Then one would be deluded.” 

 

The dam burst.

 

“Deluded? I’m deluded?” Hopping off the footstool, she thrust an accusatory finger. “You’re the one traipsing into the lion's den! You're the one treating this like a game!” She stomped her feet. “The Prince isn't ready yet! The world isn't ready yet! You'd sacrifice civilization, life itself for what? Amusement? Impatience? Your own damned pride?!”

 

Raising his hands in an attempt at consolation, Thoros decided to interject. “My frie – ” 

 

Brynden, spit flying, spun around to face him. “Shut up!”

 

However, undeterred, he pressed on. “I've seen the Cold Ones, their march upon the living, and understand – if nothing else – that they must be driven back.” Good to see his prognosticating hadn't been a complete waste. “If not by Her Grace, then who?”

 

“The Promised Prince! Azor Ahai! With resources, and a plan, and an army at his back!” 

 

The evocation of his faith’s messiah – and the prophecy that underpinned near all of its doctrine – gave Thoros pause. But whatever the dogma happened to be, regardless of the sermons and synods and scriptures, his Lord had come down from on high, reached through the flames, and personally bestowed him with purpose, a mission.

 

Had any other cleric been in his place, they’d have written it off as a trick of the light, or denounced me as some servant of the Enemy, or otherwise struggled to reconcile my existence (and R’hllor’s apparent acceptance thereof) with their narrow cosmology. 

 

But this drunken lout? 

 

I hesitate to call him heterodox, for that would imply he’d a care for theology, or even a teaspoon of principle – any conviction, any reverence, had died with Rickard and Brandon Stark, long been choked by Aerys’ wildfire, and thoroughly doused with liquor. A decade in the court of the savage sunset kings had left him a mooching, purposeless bum, who only stuck with the church for the stipend, and whose exploration of the human condition only took him as far as beneath a whore’s knickers. 

 

And it's the unfulfilled ones, the lost ones, the ones stuck searching for meaning, who – after a firm kick in the pants, mind you – always make for the truest believers. 

 

So beholding the sheer enthusiasm with which his dying god had seized on the glowing statue lady with baps the size of watermelons, he put his rekindled faith not in me – not in my power in its own right – but in the esteem that his Lord held for me, and used it to steel his resolve.

 

“It is still our duty to fight for the living.”

 

“Fat load of good we'd do them if we joined the dead!”

 

Panting, pacing, raking her fingers through her hair, Brynden then remembered that Ed was there, too, leaning against a column, chewing on some toast, quietly watching the drama unfold.

 

“Boy!”

 

He tilted his head; she took a step towards him. 

 

“You've got sense, tell her you won't play along with this lunacy!”

 

Ed's leg, the missing one, hadn't grown back with the rest of him – he frowned and furrowed, fingers absently drumming against the thigh of his prosthesis, thumb tracing its pale golden filigree. He searched Brynden's eyes, then mine, before crossing his arms with a sigh.

 

“She'd just do it anyway,” the kid grunted. “Her mind's already set.”

 

Ignoring the initial dazed stupefaction, Brynden's knee-jerk instinct was violence – to hurl herself at someone, something, and pound and thrash and wail away until it lay broken on the floor. But as she trembled and clenched, and her breathing picked up speed, the reality of her situation once more barged to the forefront of her mind, and something within her snapped; her too-high voice caught in her throat, tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, and with her head hung low and shoulders hunched forward, she burst out crying. 

 

Taking one last sip of that awful, bitter wine, I set the glass onto an end table.

 

“Finished?”

 

Eyes red (well, redder), she waved a hand and shook her head. “Just … ” she sobbed, before devolving once more into tearful blubbering, arms folded in a self-embrace. 

 

Burying my nascent pity before I actually felt something, I shot the other two a pointed frown and a firm flick of my chin: alright, hurry up . 

 

After some dithering, a few concerned glances back and forth between Brynden and me, Thoros rose with a groan, tied his cloak, and buckled his sword belt over his beer belly – seeing as our resident Targaryen wasn’t in much of a state to use it, he’d re-hilted Dark Sister with cannibalized parts, and crammed it into a makeshift sheath stitched from scraps of canvas and leather. 

 

Ed, meanwhile, wiping the crumbs from his mouth, double-checked the straps of his armor. Though no small part of him resented the Erdtree on his breastplate, practicality (and the engraved heating runes) rather outshined his distaste.

 

Sparing Brynden another look, and noting that she hadn’t let up, propriety insisted that I proffer an olive branch.

 

“You could always stay in the tent.”

 

That is, the extradimensional space anchored to its interior – the horses found it comfortable enough. 

 

My words took a moment to register; sniffling, shuddering, she affected a somber, forlorn poise, the kind only seen in the condemned. 

 

“No,” she all but whimpered, then sharply inhaled. “If I must, I'd rather die like a man.”

 

I didn't take the shot – frankly, it's poor form to pluck such a low-hanging fruit. 

 

The girl dried her tears, slipped on her boots, and, trundling towards the exit, flashed me about the evilest an eye a Hummel figurine could give. 

 

By this point, the priest and the kid had finalized their preparations, bundled up and strapped in, and so, taking my natural place at the lead, raw dogging it in one of my usual dresses (the cold lets you know that you’re alive), I stepped out into the snow; the others trudged along behind me, and Ed, without prompting – like a good little coolie – got to work packing the tent. 

 

And then, we were off. 

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Sniffing out our quarry – actually finding the Others – had proved somewhat trickier than we might've hoped.

 

In hindsight, I should've expected this; hell, the circumstances nigh guaranteed it. We’d thousands of miles of wilderness to comb through, and while my more metaphysical senses could make out the hotspots, those places where the infection piled highest, I just couldn't glean anything specific, much less actionable, through the thickness of the rot (at least, not without far more effort than I was willing to spend on what ultimately amounted to pest control). 

 

Thus, an alternative strategy – if Mohammed can’t find the mountain, then give the mountain a bloody good reason to come and find Mohammed instead. 

 

As a matter of prudence (I won't insult you with any claims of modesty, or pretensions of humanitarianism), I usually kept my aura, my presence, the outward emission of my power constrained, or at least spared the mayflies the brunt of it. Magic, after all, has a palpable weight to it – this is probably old hat by now, but I think it bears repeating – and gods such as myself (the descriptor still feels strange on the tongue, even after all these years), in keeping with our nature as living fonts, impose that weight onto our surroundings, enough to make some measure of self-restraint a practical, everyday necessity. 

 

Of course, I loosened the leash on occasion, and chuckled when the lowlies fainted and foundered, but that's neither here nor there.

 

All it took, then, to make our trespass as blatant as possible was opening my trenchcoat and flashing my divinity, letting it hang out for all the world to see, so potent that the others had to squint and turn away. With each jerk and twitch, flex and flair, the air shimmered and atmosphere buckled, golden grace shining like a lighthouse on a moonless night. 

 

Put simply, we weren't commandos, sneaking behind enemy lines, but a marching band, trumpets and horns screaming full-blast as we stomped our way northward, closer and closer to the edge of the earth, into the heart of winter itself.

 

They'd no other option, now, but to confront us – and confront us they did. 

 

First came an unnatural stillness, an uncanny pressure, an aberrant thrumming right behind the ears; then, a cold, white mist, rising up from the ice, creeping through the air, enshrouding the anemic twilight; finally, somewhere ahead beneath the blanket of fog, sharp through the muffling silence, the squeaking and crunching of footsteps in the snow. 

 

Arm outstretched, I snapped to a halt. 

 

One of the hangers-on, I'm not sure who, stumbled at my abruptness, and arrested his fall with a hand against my shoulder blade. 

 

“Wha – ”

 

“Quiet.”

 

Steadily, methodically, more footsteps, more crunching, emerging from the front and sides and rear – louder, harsher, closer. 

 

The men shakily readied their weapons, and Brynden, cradling a kitchen knife, huddled between them.

 

“Lord of Light, defend us,” Thoros mumbled in his native Myrish, “for the night is dark and full of terrors … ”

 

We could see them through the mist, now, the cold undead, shambling, limping, their vacant eyes flickering Zyklon blue. 

 

Tribesmen, Watchmen, even the rare Essosi, the Others hadn't discriminated – all life, in their eyes, was equally contemptible, better put to use in the service of death. Over the centuries, millennia, they’d poached scores of loners and drifters, outcasts and stragglers, snatched them up in the blackness of night, or cornered them in the shade between the trees, or recovered their unburnt bodies from beneath the frozen earth. 

 

Flesh smooth and faces peaceful, I’d have almost mistaken the newest ones as living if not for their bloated, frostbitten hands, and skin as pale as paper; the oldest, meanwhile, were hardly more than skeletons, with strips of bleached cloth and dried flesh clinging to their windstripped bones. 

 

In an instant, as if snapping to attention, they stopped and stilled, transformed into rigor-stiffed corpses.

 

Brynden sharply inhaled. 

 

The slender forms of three White Walkers drifted like fog through the horde. 

 

Diamond tresses, sapphire skin, spindly limbs and slender faces, they’d the radiance and brilliance of faceted gemstones, and the majesty of sculpted ice. Their delicate armor twinkled like chandeliers, colors shifting like oil on the water, and plates chiming with each ethereal motion. The longswords cradled in their willowy fingers were fashioned from brilliant crystal, thinner than a hair and sharper than a razor. 

 

They were beautiful.

 

Only their eyes – burning like the stars – betrayed their hatred. 

 

Their hatred of life, of warmth.

 

Of us. 

 

The Others hated the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, the rustling of grass and the laughter of children, the sun shining bright in the summer skies above. Hate was their essence, what drove them onward, the core that powered their beings. The remainder of the spectrum, fear and joy and all the rest – whenever the Walkers deigned to feel them – just tinted that malign foundation. 

 

They weren't merely twisted by the rot, or corrupted by its blight; they were born of it, given form by it, the rancorous products of a putrefied world. 

 

Dazzling as they might've looked, their very existence was an abomination.

 

Hammer tapping idly against my shin, I watched as they glided out in front of their thralls, and scrutinized them as they closed the distance, studying me in kind, chattering and gesturing amongst themselves, until coming to rest a few paces away.

 

Curiosity, it seems, had trounced their common sense.

 

Well, far be it from me to squander such a generous opportunity.

 

The leading one, the closest one, hadn't envisioned that my hammer would pulverize everything above his shoulders; the other two startled, reflexively baulked, and I pounced at the next one – the Walker on the left – with a quick upward swing, gouging a canyon from his gut to its collar; then, before he could raise his sword, I closed the distance to the third and seized him by the neck.

 

There was panic in his eyes. 

 

“I expected a better fight,” I sneered. “Something more befitting your kind’s reputation.” My grip tightened, and the Walker frantically clawed at my wrist. “I must say, I'm disappointed.”

 

With the benefit of hindsight, it was stupid of me to gloat.

 

A flurry, a lunge, and the second's sword pricked my forearm, the tip just piercing the skin; it only got so far before, cracking, splintering, the blade gave a shrill, keening whine, like a stuck pig, then shattered to pieces.

 

I staggered, moreso from the surprise than the impact itself. As my arm jerked, my fingers twitched, accidentally snapping the third Other’s neck, and I unthinkingly flung the flaccid body to the ground just as my head whipped towards my attacker. 

 

Mangled by the jagged shards of his sword, the second Walker – the one whose torso I’d cleft in two – writhed and flailed and hissed on his back, hands pressed against his shredded eyes, cyan blood spilling out onto the rocks. 

 

Evidently, I hadn't hit him hard enough.

 

Sloppy.

 

I looked at the spot, the hairline notch, where his sword had nicked my arm, chipping my stone skin, and exposing a glimpse of the luster underneath. 

 

(You must understand, my corporeal form was essentially an airbrushed facade: beneath the alabaster shell, I was a luminous being of runes and starstuff, glued together by dark matter, then molded to a shape that the original had found sufficiently queenly.

 

She used to be a brunette, believe it or not, back before her ascension. 

 

I can’t explain why, exactly, I’ve stuck with that emphatically female sheath, instead of fashioning something more in line with who, what I’d once been. Perhaps her memory’s influence on my own self-concept was just that strong, or maybe some unconscious, unconfronted part of me agreed with her residual id. 

 

Not sure it matters, either way – after so many years as a lady, I struggle to see myself as anything else. 

 

Matter over mind.

 

But I digress.)

 

I growled in frustration, mostly at myself, and when the third Walker, head lolling back, clumsily rose to his feet, I reduced his abdomen to paste. Catastrophic as the damage to him might've been, though, it would've only kept him down for another minute or so; already, the ice and snow were refilling the holes, and re-setting his broken spine. 

 

Frankly, I could’ve reduced him to atoms, but he’d have still been in some way alive, tethered to the world, and therefore capable of eventual regeneration.

 

Magical problems have magical solutions – this was elementary, yet here I’d been relying on blunt force alone. 

 

Just sloppy.

 

So I reached inside the shadow of my inner light, channeled the Rune of Death, and shot the Walker with a bolt of crimson flame. 

 

(A history lesson:

 

Destined Death, as it is also known, stipulates that all things are fated to one day die – unavoidably, irreversibly, absolutely.  

 

Following the defeat of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, her last true rival for supremacy, the newly ascendant God-Queen Marika feared the dissolution of her reign, and for this reason plucked Death from the Elden Ring, and sealed it within her brother-cum-dog-cum-minder, Maliketh. 

 

Consequently, she and her children would live forever, absent a universal commandment to the contrary – hence her regnal epithet, the Eternal.

 

This was the beginning of the Golden Order.

 

From that day on, the souls of those whose physical bodies died, rather than venturing onward into the undiscovered country, were fed to the Erdtree, where they were scrubbed of their identity, and thereafter born anew, like fruit from its branches. For the majority, mortality had thus become a closed circuit, an endless loop of salvage, more and more vitality lost to oblivion with each subsequent reincarnation.

 

What's more, there existed a substantial minority of true immortals, ‘gifted’ life everlasting by dint of their ancestry, or their service to the empire. Sooner or later, as the years wore on, their bodies stooped and shriveled, and their eccentricities increasingly guided their actions, until senility took them entirely.

 

Put simply, she denied her subjects a true, final rest, and thereby doomed them to an agonizing entropy – and her civilization to an inevitable collapse. 

 

Only when the Order had decayed into decadence, and Death managed to take her favored son, did Marika comprehend the depths of her folly, but she still couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.

 

No, she fobbed that job off onto me.)

 

The bolt sliced cleanly through the Walker, flesh bubbling in its wake, spurts of flame sizzling around the entry wound. 

 

Eyes wide, he gave a gurgling groan, before his fingers slackened and chest – 

 

“ – LP US!” 

 

A blink. 

 

I'd forgotten about the wights.

 

Seriously, did I get dropped on the head or something?

 

Bumbling up with a hammer, indeed.

 

The wights had surrounded, besieged, strangled my companions – practically threw themselves upon them with suicidal abandon. Thoros hacked away at the mob with that Valyrian sword, while Ed struggled to hold them back with an axe and shield. 

 

Brynden, clinging to Ed’s back like a chimpanzee, blindly lashed out with her knife, and screamed in terror over the din of battle. 

 

“HELP US, YOU FUCKING CU – !”

 

Right.

 

A flick; seeded with the flames of Destined Death, the turbulent mountain gales erupted into a firestorm; wights, Walkers, the whirlwind seized them all, twisted them through the air, and burnt them to a crisp.

 

My hand clamped to a fist –an unnecessary affectation, sure, but a satisfying one. 

 

The conflagration buffered, contracted, then exploded; the shockwave blasted forth, stripping rocks and snow, and tearing the peaks from the neighboring mountains. 

 

Ashes rained down, the booming echoed through the hills, and the lingering heat simmered – and then, silence.

 

“Get in the tent.”

 

Shaken, numb, the three of them gaped and furrowed and swallowed. 

 

“Now.”

 

They didn’t argue, or at least lacked the will to – Ed got to work driving stakes and raising poles, while Thoros and Bryden quietly watched him. 

 

“Stay inside”

 

The skin on my forearm reknit, unblemished and smooth.

 

"Don't leave. Don't follow.”

 

I summoned my armor, taking solace in its comforting weight as I tested the joints and adjusted the helmet.

 

“I'll return when I'm done.”

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Wreathed in Death’s black-red flames, the head of my hammer slammed through the ranks of living dead, limbs flying as ten score wights toppled from the ridgeline. 

 

I overswinged the follow-through, setting me off-balance; a reanimated giant – jaw ripped away, intestines scooped out, fingers worn down to the knuckles – scrambled to exploit the opening; my back leg whipped forth, smashed against the giant’s sternum, and its body sprayed across the rocks.

 

Inertia tugging me a few steps forward, I glimpsed a frenzied blur in the corner of my vision, felt a cautionary tingling at the back of my skull – in a word, my instincts screamed; I evaporated, astralized, beamed myself some twenty feet away with a great booming flash, just in time to dodge the Other atop a skeletonized polar bear. 

 

“Come on!” I cackled, vaporizing the rider and mount with a beam of crimson fire. “You can do better than that!”

 

It was the most fun I'd had in decades

 

Powering through my mistakes – that’s about the easiest way to explain my, her, our fighting style (for as much as one can call it a ‘style’). Having not the means, then time, then inclination for any formal training, the original had learned on the job, as it were, and relied on her tremendous strength to compensate for any technical shortcomings. Over time, she’d achieved a respectable proficiency, though as far as actual skill went, she’d never really risen above the level of a talented amateur. 

 

This was, I would argue, rather in keeping with the rest of her character. 

 

For a goddess of Order, an ordained and proclaimed champion of civilization, the original had always lacked a certain refinement. Not with respect to her manner, no (it might have taken a few centuries, but she’d mastered the outward trappings of royalty, or at least outgrown the worst of her gaudy nouveau riche), though her fundamental nature had always remained decidedly savage – beneath all the glamor and gilding, the speech and the dress, she was still a conquering warlord, tossing her sword onto the scales; a barbarian Khan, trampling her enemies as she reveled in their lamentations; a street rat, swiping purses and discarded crusts of bread.

 

Bare-chested Radagon, the simple soldier, was always the idealist of the pair, the one who’d hogged for himself all the conscientiousness and rectitude. I always appreciated the duality of it – the yin-yang of their singular whole – in a detached, intellectual sort of way. 

 

And while I like to think that, over my stay, I'd smoothed her rougher edges, what's a drop of a lifetime in a sea of eternity?

 

Innumerable wights felled, immeasurable distance traversed, the swings and strikes and slashes began to blend together, and time lost its meaning. 

 

Mountains melted away like wax, and the crevasses and seracs leveled to a solid sheet of ice, hard as stone, stretching out past the horizon into the blind infinity. Auroras blazing in the arctic midnight sky, here, beneath the ice, lay the empty husk of a forgotten city, the entombed remains of a primeval metropolis, built from that dreadful oily black stone. Only its tallest spires poked above the ice, their masonry varnished with glimmering rime, and roof tiles wreathed with icicles. 

 

Spiders and mammoths, undead thralls, the Others charged me with everything they had, thrust and lunged, stabbed and rammed, scratched and bit – until they simply hadn’t any more to send. 

 

The last White Walker died impaled on a spear of flame, surrounded by its vanquished fellows; burning from within, frozen flesh melting to a watery slush, it rasped a dying curse – “May Father take you,” it coughed, voice like crackling ice. “And may Night embrace us all.”

 

When it breathed its last, there was no grand fanfare, no great renewal, no miraculous abatement of the rot.

 

The cold, lonely wind just howled and cried.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

In the beginning, a grand singularity shattered under the weight of its own infinitude, birthing from its scattered remains two fundamental forces: the Frenzied Flame, and the Greater Will.

 

Whereas a wrenching nostalgia seized the former, who endeavored to melt the wreckage back down into some semblance of that erstwhile chaos, the latter blazed with ambition, and to that end forged the cycles and binaries and hierarchies that we now understand as existence; the Will then looked upon its creation – the light and the darkness, the heavens and the depths, births and souls and individuality – and seeing it was good, named it Order.

 

And thus, the Flame and the Will, equal and opposite, dueled for eternity across the boundless cosmos, building and breaking, razing and restoring, neither ever truly overtaking the other.

 

It is, accordingly, a common tactic of dissidents and heretics – those ‘freethinkers’ and ‘skeptics’ inflamed by base rebellion, or who've already chained their immortal soul to some odious Outer God – to characterize the Greater Will as a sort of fastidious tyrant, enslaving the world to try and effectuate some impossible ideal of structure and harmony. 

 

Nothing can be further from the truth.

 

The practicalities, you see, the particular flavor that Order takes – Aragorn's tax policy, if you will – means nothing to a conceptual, perpetual, multiversal being; its chief concerns are far more transcendental. Once Order’s been imposed, the Will turns its eyes to the next battlefield, leaving the drudgework of daily management to its Gods on the ground, its physical agents imbued with infinite and infinitesimal slivers of its power. 

 

Agents like Marika.

 

For her part, when she first hoisted the sublime burden of divinity, the fledgling God seethed with purpose, and resolved herself to conquer the world to replace it with a better one – and (though she'd never admit it) carve her pound of flesh from the society that had spurned her.

 

She took pride in her Order, in its atrocities, in the billions she’d trampled on the road to utopia. Her politics were purity, in the Hitlerian sense, the wholesale excision of the vapid and degenerate, and the triumph of the will over indolence and turpitude. With the point of a spear and the nails of a crucifix, she founded an era of glory and gold, prosperity and peace, consigned the beasts to the pits and raised the Numen to their rightful majesty.

 

And once her work was done – when the world had been pushed as close as it could to ‘perfection’ – she traded her laurels for a diadem, and relished in her uncontested supremacy. 

 

But comfort breeds complacency, and success begets weakness.

 

“When Carthage,” Sallust expounds, “the rival of Rome’s dominion, had perished root and branch, and all the seas and lands were open, Fortune began to thrash about, and throw everything into confusion.” Those early days of rapturous struggle choked on the poisoned fruit of victory – now, the ardor that had inflamed men’s souls yielded to frivolity and cynicism, freedom was smothered under petty legalisms, heroism withered to impotence.

 

Marika watched as her civilization descended into the very decadence that she’d fought so hard to supplant; as Radagon and his fatuous band of priests and scholars and eunuchs seized the slackening reins of state; as once-vanquished foes slithered from their boltholes to chip away at the foundations; and as the quarrelsome demigods quietly gathered strength in rapt anticipation of the oncoming collapse. 

 

Rise and fall, expansion and decline, such is the natural course of empire. 

 

The God-Queen, however, rejected the fate of her innumerable predecessors – she had halted Death , she had named herself Eternal, and she would be the exception.

 

If war had created the Golden Order, then war would save it.

 

She would harness the collapse, accelerate it, engineer it to be as ruinous as possible, and out from this crucible – once the Lands Between had been cleansed of mediocrity – the fittest, the strongest, the sole deserving victor would rise to reforge the Ring, and join Marika as her new Elden Lord.

 

Together, they would herald a great renewal, propel the resurgence of the spirit, until the cycle turned once more and it again came time to sweep away the clutter. 

 

Every forest, after all, needs a periodic burn.

 

Her logic, in a word, was monstrous – if only I hadn't found it so compelling.

 

Beneath the horror and shame, part of me preened with satisfaction, and a profound sense of achievement. I might’ve judged her plan utter madness, though a not-insubstantial part of me – just as large as that which insisted I bury myself in the pleasures of royalty and let come what may – begged to see it through. Better defiant than craven, rather an abhorrent victory to an honorable surrender, and what better way to surpass the original than completing the work she'd so cowardly abandoned? 

 

The Shattering was my only chance, that seductive voice crooned, to save my works, my power, myself from the inexorable march of history.

 

But this wasn't my Order, the other part screamed, my body, my family, my world, why should I care what happens to it?

 

And yet … 

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

I blinked. 

 

Across the room, the maid I'd dragged into my bed propped herself onto an elbow; the mattress beneath her creaked, and the blanket pooled at her hips. A pretty young thing, barely scraping her first century, she softly panted as sweat trickled down her perky breasts.

 

The sight only stirred in me a sort of vague aesthetic appreciation.

 

Marika had always preferred beefcake.

 

“Clean yourself up.”

 

Bowing her head, she padded over to the washbasin in the corner and wiped herself down with a damp cloth.

 

I'd inherited her body – that much I've made my peace with – so why couldn't I stomach the perfectly reasonable conclusion that I'd also inherited her tastes?

 

Really, what's one more loss on the pile?

 

Tying her hair into a neat bun, then smoothing her uniform skirt, the maid demurely folded her hands and presented herself for approval; grunting, I flicked my chin towards the door.

 

With a curtsey, she left me alone to my thoughts.

 

A hand snaked between my legs. 

 

Bone dry.

 

I summoned a bottle of port.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

I don't think they expected me to return so soon.

 

Or, quite frankly, at all.

 

Brynden, certainly, had written me off, and startled and screamed and scrambled for a knife when I burst through the flaps of the tent. 

 

Ed, too, recoiled, and with his axe held at the ready, retreated to the far side of the table, yet he wasn't so much surprised as understandably wary. 

 

Of the lot, Thoros looked happiest to see me – while he might not have cared a lick for me personally, my apparent success vindicated his faith. But even his rapture wasn’t enough to drown that nugget of doubt lingering deep within his soul, and he kept his distance with a smile. 

 

I laughed.

 

“That's no way to greet the conquering hero! Ha!”

 

Strolling past them, deeper into the tent, I then stripped down to the nude and flopped onto a settee – nothing like letting your tits air out after a long, productive day of violence.

 

“Your Grace … ” the priest tentatively started, but the girl interrupted him with a derisive scoff. He shot her a glare. “Do you have something to say?”

 

“No, no, of course not, ” she grumbled. “Please, keep on flattering the great golden bitch.”

 

Childish of her, undoubtedly, but I can't say that it wasn't somewhat justified.

 

Ed didn’t bother stifling his snort. 

 

Red-faced, Thoros now looked a second from bashing her head in, and riposted with some affronted blustering – I can't be arsed to recall the specifics.

 

An argument predictably unfolded from there.

 

“ … if the Others … ” 

 

“ … she hasn't been … ” 

 

“ … I say we … ” 

 

Someone slammed their fist against the table.

 

“You da – !”

 

A twitch of annoyance.

 

“Quiet.”

 

Their mouths clapped shut.

 

“I won't have my good mood ruined by your bickering.”

 

For a moment, I luxuriated in the silence, smothering my budding irritation; then, stretching, kicking my feet up, I sent Brynden's way the smuggest look I could without it being vulgar.

 

“Your fears were overblown, Lord Commander.” As Bryden pursed her lips, I loosened my braid, letting my hair drape free across my shoulders. “Well, maybe it wasn't the easiest party I've ever attended, I'll give you that much.”

 

My head leaned back against an armrest.

 

“I've said it before, though, the Others were just a symptom.”

 

Little wonder why the Red Faithful blamed the rotten state of the world on a ‘Great Enemy,’ or ‘God of Night and Terror,’ or any other number of macabre epithets. However unreasonable it may seem to pin sapience on what was, by every indication, the spiritual equivalent of Chernobyl 4, malice had almost certainly factored into its creation – a collapse this total simply cannot have occurred naturally. Someone had to have pulled just the wrong lever, pressed just the wrong button, at just the wrong time.

 

But who, and why?

 

I stared up at the ceiling.

 

“How does your prophecy go, again? Ice and fire? We’ve about had our fill of ice, I’d say.” 

 

There’s nothing more fun than a mystery. 

 

“What’s Valyria like this time of year?"

Chapter 15: Interlude I – The Missionary

Tyrion's third cousin twice removed – Ser Emrick, if he recalled correctly – was only remarkable insofar as how neatly he fit the typical Lannister mold.

 

Brilliant blonde hair, shining green eyes, slim pointed nose and sharp cleft chin, he'd the standard looks, accouterments too, crimson doublets and golden capes, and he carried himself with that customary air of self-important snobbery. He was proud of his pedigree, assured in his station, yet wholly content (or resigned – same difference, really) to unremarkably fritter his days under the all-consuming shadow of the Great Lord Tywin.

 

Today, however, his poise had fled; dragged before the gilded throne of the ancient Kings of the Rock, it was only by the grace of God that he hadn't soiled his pants.

 

“I ask again, Ser – are you a traitor, or an incompetent?”

 

Emrick swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a chicken.

 

Tyrion almost pitied him.

 

“M-my Lord,” the knight sputtered, “I have f-faithfully – ”

 

The lord raised a hand; his signet ring gleamed in the blood-red beams that streaked through the stained-glass windows, and Emrick all but choked on his tongue.

 

Tywin Lannister had seen better days.

 

From a distance, sure, he still radiated authority, loomed just as harsh and imposing as the lickspittles had come to expect, but Tyrion had endured enough of his Lord Father's company to recognize the signs that he was fraying at the edges: the twitching fingers, the bags under his eyes, the stubble dusting his chin.

 

The annexation of the Iron Islands hadn't gone nearly as smoothly as hoped.

 

When resettlement began in earnest, the smoldering embers of the Greyjoy War erupted into wholesale rebellion. Outposts fell silent, patrols disappeared into the night, while stockpiles burned and bridges collapsed and garrisons cowered behind thick stone walls.

 

This latest fiasco was but the most disastrous – two thousand dead or captive, another thousand wounded, and some six months of provisions all but gifted to the enemy.

 

And Emrick, the ranking officer, the one who’d blundered his command straight into an ambush?

 

Well, he made it out just fine.

 

Tywin studied the man as one would a cockroach, lip curling in disdain.

 

“No,” he mused aloud, “you haven't the stones for treason.” His gaze sharpened. “Say nothing of the decency to die with honor.”

 

Not that Tywin gave a rat's ass for honor in its own right, but he knew this sort of thing would reflect rather poorly on the Lannister name. Clegane's … handling of Elia and her children, however necessary (and however cathartic), had caused enough damage as is – the last thing his reputation needed was the stain of a kinsman's cowardice.

 

Especially considering his own absence from the battlefield.

 

A hum.

 

“Whatever the case, failure demands consequence.”

 

A flick of the wrist, and a pair of guardsmen, trooping up from behind, seized Emrick by the arms.

 

The knight resisted, of course, reddened and blustered and tried to pull away, but his heart skipped and muscles seized and eyes widened to hen's eggs when, head whipping towards the throne to demand an explanation, he beheld a glower fit to peel the skin from the bones.

 

Tyrion snorted – his father always had to make a show of things. 

 

Dampening his rage, beating his death glare down to a mere withering scowl – it's a fine line that a lord has to walk; too much anger and you're hysterical, too little and you're soft – Tywin straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and leaned ever so slightly forward in his seat, just enough to make Emrick squirm.

 

“From now until death, you are banished from the Westerlands.”

 

One could almost hear a pin drop.

 

“Your properties are seized, and honors forfeit. Your wife, if she does not join your exile, will return to her family a widow. Your children … ” 

 

Crossing his arms, Tyrion tuned the rest of it out – ‘Why bother with the sermon,’ he grumbled. ‘Just get on with it.’ 

 

Twist the knife, sure, that's half the fun, but don't make it tedious. 

 

Gaping, shuddering, Emrick tried taking a rattled step backwards, but the guardsmen tightened their grips; he struggled, they resisted, and his outrage twisted and bled to desperation.

 

“We are family!”

 

Eyes burning like coals, Tywin clenched his jaw. “It is only because we are family that you still have your head.”

 

Executing a relation for anything less than red-handed regicide? 

 

Simply beyond the pale.

 

But exiling a relation, reducing him to penury, then making a show of quiet solemnity when, a week or so later, a ‘mugger’ garrotes him in an alleyway?

 

Well … 

 

Let's just say ‘relatively palatable.’

 

And yet, this ‘mercy’ did nothing to reassure the onlookers – watching Tywin seethe as Emrick tearfully blubbered for forgiveness, they furtively whispered into their neighbors’ ears, accusing their lord of despotism, betting which poor soul he'd ruin next, questioning his continued sanity.

 

Comparing him to Aerys.

 

Tywin was a harsh ruler, they could accept that (even respect it, to a certain degree), for his tyranny had always been measured, selective, deliberate – a scalpel, not a hammer, excising whoever'd dare slight his family name. 

 

No more, and no less.

 

So long as his bannermen stuck to their oaths, stayed within their lanes, kept the corruption and intrigue and other such nonsense to an appropriate minimum, they could expect to be safe from the lion's claws.

 

Today's performance, however, beat that understanding to a sinewy pulp, then ran it headfirst through a woodchipper.

 

After all, the courtiers reasoned, if he'd attaint a Lannister for mere incompetence, just imagine what horrors he'd inflict upon the rest of them for so much as looking at him funny.

 

Perhaps, they thought, it'd be best to tread lightly, seclude themselves in anonymous mediocrity until Tywin had spent his wrath.

 

Or, maybe they ought to confront him, appeal to him as concerned subjects, and try their damndest to make him see reason.

 

Or, they might find it best to pursue … alternatives.

 

(Seems the mailed fist can only take you so far – fear has a rather nasty habit of simmering to resentment.)

 

Tyrion had never felt so smug.

 

Even though his father still refused to name him heir, balked at granting him his birthright, the erstwhile dwarf simply couldn't bring himself to care. With Her Majesty's blessing, he’d power now, real power, independent the fragility of titles and reputation, outside the confines of tradition and propriety. 

 

A lord can be sidelined, a king overthrown, but a sorcerer?

 

Magic is feared for a reason.

 

Let the sheep lock horns over castles and gold, he'd far grander things in store.

 

And as Tyrion watched the guardsmen drag Emrick kicking and screaming from the hall, a stray thought slithered from the roiling depths to tickle at the forefront his mind – ‘Why am I still here?’

 

The notion had struck him oft before, in moments of wanderlust and whimsy, but, until now, he'd never really given it serious consideration.

 

‘Why don't I just leave?’

 

It's not like anything was stopping him, certainly not anymore. Lannisport had ships enough, and his capabilities would trivialize the logistical particulars (surely his father wouldn't mind if a ton or two of coin were ‘borrowed’ from the treasury), along with any obstacles he might encounter on the way, manmade or otherwise.

 

Slowly, staidly, subconsciously, a plan weaved itself into being.

 

A plan to escape Casterly's suffocating air.

 

A plan to see the world and all its wonders.

 

A plan to spread the word of his Goddess, and in some small way repay her benevolence. 

 

His grin almost hurt.

Chapter 16: Chapter 15

Sometime deep amidst the murky depths of antiquity, the silver-skinned Nox ruled the Lands Between.

 

One of many offshoots of the Numen (the malleability of my new race's flesh lent itself to speciation), they built some things, fought some wars, lived and died, worked and played – scribbled their signature into the annals before their relegation to the dustbin. In the end, their Regimen Stellarum , as it was called – their turn behind the wheel – proved no hasher or kinder, insignificant or consequential, than those myriad that came before and after.

 

Had the collapse of their empire not been so spectacular, hardly anyone would remember them at all.

 

You see, the Nox believed that Creation had long surpassed its Creator, and thus rejected the worship of the Greater Will, seeking instead to harness the glittering firmament above. This alone was still perfectly kosher, so to speak (if somewhat risky, as the malformed Astel can attest) – Order was Order was Order, in the Greater Will's eyes, irregardless of whether the mortals paid homage – but the Nox, in their enthusiasm, went a bridge too far: 

 

They started to meddle with the infrastructure.

 

By means of some appalling ritual, the details blessedly lost to time, their priests wrenched a blackened, twisted blade from the womb of a desecrated maiden – a blade capable of wounding divinity. Brandishing it high, they then set upon the Fingers, the Will's ostensive heralds, envoys, messengers – angels, one might think them – and stormed the consecrated ground where Metyr, the Mother, was said to have communed with her Father; the slaughter lasted from nightfall to sunrise, and, by the end of it, the few surviving attackers – having torn their way through scores of her lesser children – ran the poor creature through to the hilt. The conquering heroes then returned home, dedicating, as per custom, the newly christened Fingerslayer Blade at a Chair-Crypt of the Bona Domina.

 

Thus the Nox invoked the ire of the Greater Will, and reaped the calamity that their sacrilege had sown.

 

At least, that's what the histories say.

 

I myself reserve a fair bit of doubt.

 

After all, the histories also say that Metyr, her flesh suffused with the Creator's grace, soon made a full recovery, and shortly resumed her exalted duties as mother and medium both – patently absurd, having seen firsthand just how badly her wounds have since necrotized.

 

Dumb luck, odds are, kept her alive that day: the auguries of the birds and alignment of the stars, the angle of the stab and length of the blade, a slow-acting poison instead of a quick, clean stroke. 

 

Certainly a more plausible explanation than divine intervention, salvation, and/or retribution, at any rate – meddling in the affairs of its lessers just isn't the Greater Will's style; a bit like expecting gravity to stop pushing so hard when you're trying to move some boxes, or the wind and the waves to be so kind as to whisk your ship straight into port.

 

Besides, the Will had decisively abandoned Metyr for the newer, shinier Elden Beast some few eons before.

 

(Frankly, for all their pretensions of divine patronage, the Fingers were little more than the crude first stage of a primeval terraforming, an obsolete proof of concept, readily discarded once their use had been served, yet stubbornly refusing to die – shouting into the void for guidance, and gleaning what they wished from the echoes.

 

In their eldritch inscrutability, they managed to keep this truth tight under wraps, if they themselves even understood it in the first place. Only after centuries of dealing with their nonsense did a thoroughly disillusioned Marika realize that they were essentially God's dumpster preemies.)

 

Of course, for all we know, it’s entirely possible that the shock of the deed resonated upward through some lingering connection, and the Will swatted at the Nox as one would a fly – a momentary fit of what we might equate with irritation; just as it's possible that Metyr herself, brimming with spite, as powerful as she was primitive, retaliated in kind; or that, perhaps, in all the excitement, the Nox's leash on the Moon and Stars slipped, and forces once fettered danced in exultation, much to the misfortune of those below.

 

With a disaster on this scale? Virtually anything's possible – things go wrong far easier than right.

 

Nevertheless.

 

With bolts of flame lancing through blackened skies, the empire's triplet capitals, the Urbes Aeternae , toppled headlong into the ravenous earth, their inhabitants flash-calcified as they screamed for salvation.

 

A small handful of scattered enclaves managed to escape the worst of it, some persisting long into the age of the Erdtree (Sellia comes chiefly to mind), but the bulk of what remained above the surface – the roads and walls, castles and temples, towns and villages and all the rest – cut off from governance and trade, withered to dereliction; then, eventually, as memory faded, the overgrown ruins were put to use, scavenged or squatted in or otherwise repurposed.

 

Case in point, the Leyndell sewers.

 

For the Nox, cleanliness was a matter of national pride (one more thing to hold over the barbarians), so they'd spared no expense, material or manpower, in the construction of their Cloacae Maximae , which thus survived the fall relatively intact.  

 

It was Marika's good fortune – she didn't know it at the time – that the site chosen for the seat of her Order, the massive impact crater at the northeast corner of Altus, was blessed with one such complex, courtesy of the Eternal City now moldering below. And, in time, as Leyndell thrived and Order spread and the proscription lists grew ever longer, this sewer proved a tremendous utility, good for far more than basic sanitation – in the God-Queen's eyes, it was only good sense that certain undesirables, unseemly things better left unspoken, would be shunted underground with the rest of the muck, and left to rot in the darkness.

 

If only she could forget them.

 

Out a winding passage from the palace's cellar, through rusted pipes and neglected service tunnels, the narrow vaulted chamber where muscle memory had taken me was tucked behind an illusory wall near one of the lower sluices. 

 

Its original use remains something of a mystery, though a Mithraeum of sorts would be my guess, weathered inscriptions cluttering the walls, and a small votive niche over at the far end.

 

Had I the choice, I'd have kept my head buried in the chamber’s history – something distant, lifeless, irrelevant; a welcome distraction from the weeping scab that was its lifelong prisoner.

 

“Come again to taunt me with Mother's visage, have thee?”

 

Life, unfortunately, is rarely so kind.

 

Morgott the Omen, jaundiced eyes glistening with gold – an indulgence Marika allowed herself – sat hunched at the foot of his bed.

 

Credit where it’s due, since the original first locked him away, the room had been furnished quite comfortably, or at least about as comfortably as a place like this can be: carpets along the floor, piles of books reaching to the ceiling, proper wooden frames and soft silk cushions.

 

Were it not for the shackles of grace nailed through his flesh, he might’ve even thought the place homey.

 

A grunt, whatever edge it could've had dulled by melancholy.

 

“‘Tis thine prerogative, I suppose.” 

 

Halfheartedly straightening, he spread his arms wide in invitation, before smacking them back down onto his thighs. 

 

“Go on, then. Mummer away.”

 

I can't say I'm proud of the way my breath shuddered.

 

“Must you … ” 

 

Eyes downcast, I winced, the rest of the words stuck in my throat.

 

Morgott's gaze slipped off to the side – a momentary flash of shame.

 

“Allow me this pettiness.”

 

Silence.

 

A minute, then two.

 

Then, as I lingered in the doorway – sitting felt presumptuous – impulse goaded me to pop the bubble.

 

“They're still fighting over Stormveil.” 

 

More disappointed than surprised, Morgott raised an eyebrow.

 

“Still?” 

 

Politics – another welcome distraction.

 

“Hmm. Right now, it's a draw between Godiva, Godefroy, and Godescalc.” A snort. “I'd never even heard of that last one. 20th generation, apparently.”

 

Nobody expected Godwyn's death, least of all Godwyn himself.

 

Little surprise, then, that his legions of offspring, absent a will to constrain them, burst forth like wild hogs to each claim their slice of the inheritance – and the crown jewel, the main event, Stormveil Castle and the Lordship of Limgrave, suffered a veritable revolving door of claimants.

 

“Whatever happened to Godabert?”

 

Godwyn's thirdborn's daughter's twelfth – be fruitful and multiply, indeed. A reasonably competent spellcaster, he'd been in the running for nearly a decade, no small feat given all the competition.

 

“An unfortunate hunting accident. Story goes he was mistaken for a boar.”

 

Morgott made a face, more so at the method of the killing than the death itself.

 

“Disappointing.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Most reacted much the same. 

 

Frankly, the thinking was, if a scheme that clumsy did you in, then you never deserved power to begin with.

 

Even now, deep into decadence, the Order was quite Darwinistic like that.

 

(And ever since that horrible night, when the Black Knives smashed open the floodgates, it simply became a fact of life that even the inviolable Demigods can die.

 

Few, however, dared to acknowledge the inherent contradiction.)

 

“Personally, my money's on Godefroy. Utterly ruthless, I tell you, not a scruple in his body.”

 

As the scripture reads, ‘The God-Queen stands above. Men's are the earth, and Her's are the heavens.’ Blind as they were to their strings, the rabble even believed it.

 

The demigods, though, knew better, and of them, Morgott knew best – she, I, we trusted him alone (not with the whole truth, mind you, never the whole truth, but with enough to soothe that shriveled husk we called a conscience). Damm cathartic, it was, this rare chance to speak with such candor, no need for courtly polish or godly esotericism. 

 

After all, who could he blab to?

 

We continued on for a while, flitting from topic to topic, skirting the elephant in the room – until … 

 

“Oh, and Miquella’s finally planted his tree. A haven, they're calling it. For outcasts and the like.”

 

I'll admit, it was tasteless of me.

 

Whatever the excuse – a lapse of judgment, thoughtless honesty, innocent misunderstanding – I must've, on some level, known full well that I'd crossed a line.

 

“Albinaurics, misbegotten … ”

 

Did I mean it as a gloat? An invitation? 

 

I still don't know myself.

 

Morgott stilled.

 

“And this is permitted?” 

 

Of the few temporal laws enshrined within the Order, almost a fourth were racial, targeting quite the motley myriad – the bestial, the horned, the manufactured – the reactions of whom were equally diverse:

 

Some resisted, of course, by and large fruitlessly.

 

Some – most – begrudgingly took their lumps.

 

And some, like Morgott, turned Quisling, justified their treatment, ascribed to it a higher motive than simple prejudice – it's easier to suffer for a good cause.

 

“Yes.”

 

To my surprise, he started laughing – merrily, at first, hearty and clear; then, decidedly strained, like a fly had gone down his throat; finally, almost painfully, jittery and scratchy and wet.

 

Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand rested on Morgott's shoulder, and gave him a comforting squeeze.

 

This sliver of affection smacked him like a thunderbolt – and a starving man clamored for more. Eyes closed, toes curled, he snaked his arms around my waist, and batted his head against my chest.

 

“Mother … ” 

 

Barely a whisper.

 

For an endless instant, the abandoned child played pretend.

 

But reality always rears its head.

 

A frenzied shove; he scrambled away, curled in on himself, twisted horns ripping the bedsheets and scraping the headboard.

 

“Thou'rt not – ” Morgott barked, sputtered, cried. “She’d never … ” 

 

I took a step forward; he grit his teeth.

 

"Leave me.”

 

I swallowed.

 

His voice trembled.

 

“Please."

 

Something shattered within my chest.

 

“I – ” 

 

An apology crouched on the tip of my tongue, begging to pass my lips; but shaking my head, I shoved it down inside, bludgeoned and bound and buried it.

 

However sincere, it would have only rung hollow.

 

So with the gentlest nod I could, I left Marika's son to his solitude.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

“ – ildren?”

 

Reality reared its head.

 

I blinked.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Catelyn Stark carried her fourth pregnancy well: straight back, clear skin, fresh and lively and plump, idly rubbing her swollen belly through a billowy, fur-lined gown.

 

Comfortable with motherhood, in short, but not yet jaded by experience.

 

Seated between myself and her husband (rather like an ape defending its territory), she made a passable effort at playing the cheerful hostess. I won't describe her gaze as disapproving – that's too strong a word – but she certainly wasn't a good enough actress to entirely mask her distaste.

 

A corrupter of youth, she probably thought me – a queer golden gadfly come to piss on her Andal sensitivities.

 

“Your Grace, from what I recall, you are a mother yourself – nine children, was it?”

 

I very deliberately did not flinch; she took my silence as confirmation.

 

“It's impressive. Inspirational, even.” The Lady clicked her tongue. “I must say, though, it's a shame that you haven’t brought them with you.” Affecting an impish grin, she leaned in and lowered her voice. “Just between the two of us, mine would've loved the company.”

 

I reached for my cup – the itch needed scratching. 

 

(Nothing exceptional, just some mediocre strongwine, high enough proof to make up for the taste.)

 

“Their duties keep them.”

 

‘ And not you? ’ Catelyn's stare accused, but she'd at least the tact to keep things outwardly cordial: “Ah, such is life,” she tittered instead, waggling a finger. “I know my own keep me.” Her grin turned a touch softer. “A mother's work is never done.”

 

I suppose she thought that rebuke was subtle.

 

My gaze started to wander.

 

Honey-baked chicken and oven-roasted pork, grilled black pudding and fried pink salmon, steak and kidney pie, beef and barley stew, carrots and onions, a haggis or two; flickering torches belching smoke, dripping grease and splashing wine, slurred banter peppered with booming guffaws, pinching fingers assailed by slapping hands; grey stone walls draped with grey direwolf banners, grey pewter cutlery on faded grey hardwood, grey-clothed men with grey-flecked beards and grey-tinged eyes.

 

Thoros carousing among the guests, his heart not truly in it; Ed flirting with some buxom wench, long past the point of caring; Brynden fuming at the kids’ table, all gussied up in ribbons and curls.

 

You get the idea. 

 

Begrudgingly endearing, I'd call Winterfell, its Starks and their hospitality, in a well-worn, rough-hewn, noble savage sort of way – better than Bear Island, anyhow, but that's a rather low bar.

 

Catelyn tilted her head.

 

“Might you tell me about them?”

 

A swig. “That's a tall order, I'm afraid.”

 

A laugh. “I'd imagine so! Nine …” She shook her head. “Quite the handful, yes?”

 

‘ – birth of our dynasty – ’

 

‘ – reject thine Order – ’

 

‘ – have never known defeat – ’

 

“Your Grace?”

 

My smile was a tight, brittle thing.

 

“Seems you've caught me in an … introspective mood.”

 

I finished off my drink, scoured it for dregs, then huffily tapped my cup against an armrest as I scanned for more.

 

Drunkenness, true drunkenness, had long managed to elude me (divinity brought with it an inescapable lucidity) – but that didn't mean my body couldn't fake it. A half-life is better than none, and a half-cocked artifice better than life unfiltered.

 

Catelyn flagged down a servant.

 

“I apologize for any offense.”

 

Waving her off, I put my weight onto an elbow. 

 

“No, it, um … ” 

 

As I took a deep breath, the servant scuttled over and poured me a refill; and as she bowed farewell, I snapped my fingers, motioning her to leave the jug on the table.

 

I frowned.

 

“Well, no sense dredging up what's best left buried.”

 

Then, some more wine – it really was a shit vintage.

 

Catelyn furrowed her brow, affable veneer discarded for genuine concern.

 

“They are your children.”

 

I couldn't meet her eyes.

 

“They don't need me.”

 

“And your husband?” Catelyn seemed to have surprised herself with this – as if the words had just coalesced from the aether, or she'd suddenly been possessed by a spirit of indelicacy – but forged ahead anyway. “What of him?” she pressed.

 

The question hung heavy in the air.

 

My fingers drummed against the cup.

 

“Irreconcilable differences.”

 

The look she gave me in reply dripped with something tender, pensive, sullen – I refuse to believe it was pity.

 

Wilfully ignoring her, drowning out my thoughts with another toss of wine, I quietly set to work on my food.

 

Another bloody feast.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Bathed in moonlight, the heart tree wept.

 

In the reciprocative dance of hospitality that the Westerosi took such pride in, a banquet such as this had no definitive end – rather, the host would serve until his larders ran empty, and a guest would stop eating once he’d had his fill; anything less or anything more was derided as bad taste.

 

Thus, two or three hours past midnight, the hall gradually began to empty – guests retired to their rooms, or spilled out into the surrounding courtyards, or wandered to a nearby brothel for a ‘nightcap.’

 

I, for one, enjoyed a drunken stroll through the godswood, before slouching on the bank of a small, shallow pool of cold, black water.

 

It didn’t take long for Eddard Stark to find me.

 

He motioned to scrape and bow; I cut him off with a snort.

 

“None of that.” Resting my head on a moss-covered stone, I lazily batted a hand. “Go on, sit down.”

 

He stayed where he was, arms held stiff at his sides. 

 

Neck twisting backward, craning over the rock, I eyed him with a raised brow – then, a shrug. 

 

“Your loss.”

 

We loitered in relative silence: chirping crickets, rustling leaves, the low drone of distant chatter. I’d no pressing engagements – quite the opposite – and Eddard, by the look of things, needed a moment to gather his thoughts.

 

They always did. 

 

“Has Winterfell been to your liking, Your Grace?”

 

Rolling onto my side, I propped my cheek against my palm.

 

“Yes.”

 

When it became clear I hadn't anything more to say, Eddard gave a feeble nod – “Good,” he all but rasped – and went back to twiddling his thumbs.

 

I watched him sweat for a bit.

 

“Lord Stark, I assume you’re here for a reason.”

 

He stilled, then dithered, then started fidgeting again, before closing his eyes and sharply inhaling and meeting my gaze head-on.

 

“How much longer do you plan to stay?”

 

Kudos to the quiet wolf, he knew how to cut the knot.

 

I chuckled. “When'll I fuck off, you mean.” Ned swallowed, but didn't bother denying it; absently drumming my stomach, I shot him a not unkind smirk. “A day, two at most. Won't hang around, if that's what worries you. Casterly Madhouse put me off lodging.”

 

Sitting up Indian-style, I turned around to face him properly. 

 

“Besides, I've business down south. Been too long since I last saw Robert” – a flash of my brow – “or had a go at his ‘hammer.’”

 

King's Landing, of course, was also the continent's biggest port, far and away the simplest route to Essos, but such logistical talk made for poor conversation.

 

“His Grace is married.”

 

I chuckled some more.

 

“Nominally. No sooner did he spout his vows than break them.”

 

At this, Eddard actually looked offended; it took me quite a lot not to roll my eyes again.

 

“Oh please, I don't blame him – hard to do worse than Cersei Lannister. Safer to have a viper in your bed, at least then there's no pretense.”

 

I was prettier than her, anyways. 

 

“They swore an oath,” the lord asserted, trying just as hard to convince himself as me.

 

He wasn’t an idiot, he knew full well his friend's predilections – hell, he'd practically a front-row seat to our marathon at Pyke – but his kinship for the man, and fealty to his liege, obliged him to at least make an effort (however plainly asinine that effort may be).

 

Rising to my full height, I stared down my nose at him, perhaps a touch more snidely than intended. 

 

“You swore an oath to Robert, yeah?”

 

He pursed his lips, and took a half-step backward.

 

“I don’t – ”

 

"Promise me, Ned."

 

Like a bucket of ice water, or hydrogen bomb.

 

“How do you think your king would feel, if he discovered Lyanna’s little dragonspawn?”

 

For a moment there, I felt quite smug for having won our ‘duel.’ But as I opened my mouth to rub it in, I looked at him – really looked at him: his tight jaw, wide eyes, ashen face.

 

He was trembling.

 

My heart skipped a beat.

 

“I wouldn't … ” 

 

Tongue heavy, breathing shallow, I blindly croaked the first thing that came to mind. 

 

“You have a beautiful family.”

 

For a time, neither of us spoke – really, what more was there to say?

 

Finally, Eddard bowed – “Your Grace” – and marched back towards the hall.

 

Watching him leave, I felt the strangest ache in my chest.

 

The roast mustn't have agreed with me. 

Chapter 17: Chapter 16

So resumes the travelogue.

 

Wading the Neck, crossing the Twins, fording the Trident, we took the Kingsroad south from the scraggly North, through the fertile Riverlands, then down into the marshy Crownlands.

 

Much has been said of this part of the world, of its perennially feuding nobility and unfortunate standing as the continent's battleground, but its day-to-day reality was decidedly more mundane.

 

Babbling brooks and rolling hills, fragrant meadows and gentle valleys, vast stretches of bocage and hedgerow dotted with plaster and thatch; Fields of golden wheat beside quaint little homesteads, broad-faced men plowing and picking as their women washed and children played, a faint whiff of manure on the breeze; Market towns sprawled at the foot of a sturdy holdfast, all festooned with flowers and pennants, with rows upon rows of bustling stalls, and garlanded maypoles in the square.

 

All in all, the model of rural domesticity.

 

It just about bored me to tears. 

 

Looking back on that wasted month, only one thing even remotely stands out: in the middle of the third week, when we were passing through a small patch of shady forest, an actual, bona fide, honest-to-God bandit gang leapt up from behind the trees, swaggered into the middle of the road, and demanded that we empty our pockets. 

 

“Or,” the one in front leered, to the whistles and sniggers of rest, “we can have our fun with your lady friend.”

 

I was dumbfounded.

 

That slovenly fellow at Lannisport, at least, I could understand. There was a war on, and rapine was more or less the Ironborns’ national pastime.

 

But this? 

 

During high summer's peace? 

 

A week from the capital? 

 

Along the only proper road in the entire fucking country?

 

I don't know which was worse – the utter mismanagement that made the whole thing possible, or the fact that it was so utterly, bafflingly, painfully cliché.

 

I mean, honestly, a bandit ambush ?

 

Why not find yourself an old, wizened mentor and save the princess, while you're at it … 

 

Christ. 

 

Deserters, I assume, or discharged levies, there were only a few odd dozen of them, decked in mud-drenched gambesons and boiled leather, bolts of silk wrapped around their shoulders and pouches of coin jingling at their belts.

 

Merry Men of Sherwood, these vagrants were not – no, what spurred them was greed, petty opportunism, that hot-blooded grandeur so endemic of the impotent when given the smallest crumb of power. With their splintery pikes and pig iron swords, they fancied themselves the ‘strong’ ones, now, and wielded their newfound might with all the subtlety and grace of a toddler who found his dad's gun.

 

To spare you the details, I corrected this belief, and they lived just long enough to regret their choice of occupation.

 

Later that evening, while Ed raised our tent on the side of the road, and the other two stretched and groaned by the fire (they'd been riding double since our wagon conked it in the mountains), the question that'd been percolating through my mind since we first left Winterfell finally bashed its way to the fore.

 

‘ Why the hell didn't I just teleport there ?’

 

Would've been easy as breathing. 

 

Just a thought, a wish, a flash of light, and I'd have spared us weeks of road dust and rain, bouncing saddles and glaring sunlight, bugs and boredom and hack fantasy bandits .

 

And what about the drama, the bullshit, the waste, all the defects of mortality – why'd I tolerate any of it?

 

I'd the means, you know, of shedding my stone shell, abandoning my body, my mind, my self, and becoming something truly transcendental. No more loss, no more pain, just the bliss of pure, unfiltered will.

 

The mere prospect was beautiful – it filled me with dread.

 

Dread of losing yet more of myself.

 

Of abandoning the last of my humanity.

 

Of forgetting better times.

 

And yet, as the days wore on, and Brynden began to whine about her sore arse, I found myself thinking it wouldn't be so bad.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

King’s Landing smelt like shit. 

 

Surprising, I know.

 

Just our luck, then, that the gothic monstrosity known as the Red Keep – jagged pinnacles, rust-red stone, perhaps a few vampires lurking in the attic – loomed high enough above that landfill that called itself a city to avoid the worst of the stench.

 

Past a bounded checkpoint at the end of a narrow street, up zigzag steps cut into the limestone, my minions and I crested Aegon's aptly named Hill and rode through the Keep's outermost gate. Stag-liveried spearmen patrolled the battlements, scoping us as we crossed the drawbridge over a seawater moat, and towards the second gatehouse; progressing under its stout portcullis, we then emerged into an uncovered courtyard.

 

Roughly an acre from end to end, the yard was a practical place, of smiths and launders, dry-packed dirt and drifting sawdust. Brynden, though it'd been some time, still knew it well enough to point us to the stables – “There, in the corner, by those training dummies.”

 

If you've ever been to Monaco, then you'd understand that a limited space with numerous visitors requires a certain ingenuity – the stalls, thusly, enough of them to fit a couple hundred beasts (or so I've been told), had been tunneled deep into the Hill itself. Approaching the entryway – more of a hole, really, sloping downwards, lit by torches – we dismounted, and the stablehands quit their milling about to lead the horses inside.

 

“Stay or go?” I asked Typhoon, rubbing his chin.

 

He nickered, pawing at the ground.

 

“You sure?”

 

He blew his nose.

 

“Alright.”

 

I whistled into the ring, and Typhoon astralized; the stablehands started working faster.

 

Sure, I get it – the Seven, witches, superstition or whatever – but after, what, six, seven months, you'd think they'd have gotten over it.

 

Not like I'd killed anyone.

 

Well, not anyone here. 

 

Brynden, arms crossed, took the lead.

 

“This way.”

 

She guided us up another flight of stairs, through another gate, and into another courtyard.

 

Seems Maegor had a thing for redundancy.

 

Grass and gravel, it'd been meticulously landscaped, but boasted not an inch of cover or shade – which, I suppose, was rather the point, judging by the archers’ nests studding the wall ahead of us. 

 

This wall, the third, sheltered the castle proper. Nearly twice as tall and thick as the others, it stood at a slight angle, with high round towers marking each bend, and regular embrasures along its length. A colonnade, the ‘Traitor's Walk,’ ran across the top, where, impaled on a hedge of wrought-iron spikes, the heads of killers and thieves and Ironborn rotted in the midday sun.

 

A striking visual, if a little grim – probably not the sort you'd want right outside your house. 

 

One last gate; then, a cloister, four stories high, lined with arcades, sandstone floor mosaiced with geometric swirls.

 

It was absolutely packed.

 

The jabbering crowd – merchants, gentry, knights; reasonably important people, on the whole, but not so important (or entertaining) that they could drop by anytime and expect a royal audience – had crammed together in a blobby approximation of a line, each waiting their turn for the herald up front to cry their name and usher them into the throne room.

 

(I later learned that this clump was what passed for open court under the Baratheon administration – in theory biweekly, in practice held on those few occasions that Robert happened to be in the mood. The actual movers and shakers learned to go to the Hand with their concerns, while the commons had given up entirely.)

 

Chin lifted over their heads (height has its advantages), I scanned for a quick way through; not finding one, I squared my shoulders.

 

“Please don't,” Brynden sighed.

 

I pretended not to hear.

 

Of course, many took exception when I barreled through the herd like a freight train, “Hey”-ing and “Oi”-ing and shaking their fists as they toppled like bowling pins, but there really wasn't much they could do about it – the smarter ones, hearing the commotion, simply got out the way. Shoulder-checking a grizzled old banneret, tripping some perfumed Essosi, bewildering the herald, I barged over the threshold into the hall, Ed, Thoros, and Brynden trailing in my wake (the latter two looking somewhat abashed).

 

A guardsman reached out to seize me by the arm, but an older colleague held him back; shaking his head, he whispered into his junior's ear, and the reacher blanched.

 

The Red Keep’s throne room was cavernous, almost comically so, dwarfing Casterly’s nigh-exponentially, to say nothing of Winterfell’s (probably why the rest of the hill was so cramped, now that I think about it). Ivied columns, pointed arches, glowing braziers and high narrow windows, it had a vaguely sinister air about it, shadows creeping in the dimness. Even after nearly a decade, it reeked of the ancien régime: hunting tapestries lazily concealed bas-reliefs of the Freehold, while the hooks that once fastened the polished skulls of Balerion and friends jutted unused from the masonry.

 

Finally, at the end of the hall, beneath a massive stained-glass of a seven-pointed star, heaped the thousand blades of Aegon's enemies – a lopsided lump of tangled steel, fanned talons, and wrinkled slag.

 

The Iron Throne.

 

Even uglier in person.

 

Down on the floor, up in the gallery, the audience cringed and muttered.

 

Half-asleep on his throne, the king visibly perked.

 

Engrossed in his prattle – or, perhaps, now that he’d finally a chance to say his piece, unwilling to acknowledge the interruption – the present petitioner rambled on.

 

“ … at the current tariff, Your Grace, it is simply not practicable to – ”

 

I stepped in front of him.

 

“Robert.”

 

The petitioner sputtered, skittishly glancing back and forth, and the crowd fell silent.

 

Brynden swore under her breath.

 

Then, with that big, booming guffaw of his, Robert jumped to his feet and started down the steep iron steps.

 

“Marika!”

 

Strange, hearing it said so fondly.

 

Positively delighted, he stood on his tippy-toes and clapped me on the shoulder. His Queen and Council, meanwhile, none too chuffed to see me, arranged themselves behind him – Jon Arryn, especially, looked fit to burst a vessel, Cersei the Kind much the same, whilst Baelish and Varys and that doddering old maester (Pucey or something) at least took the trouble to plaster-on a welcoming facade.

 

Of the lot, Stannis took it most in stride, his jaw and brow no tighter than usual. He struck me as a pragmatic sort.

 

“It’s been too long!” Robert cheered. “How’ve you been?”

 

Eh.

 

“Just great. You?”

 

“Good enough.” Hands on his hips, the king shrugged. “I manage.”

 

I offered a smile. “Well, it's good to be good.”

 

The petitioner sheepishly reminded us of his existence. “Your Grace … ” 

 

As if he'd momentarily forgotten where he was, Robert furrowed his brow, but then dismissively waved his hand, eyes all the while fixed upon mine. “Later.”

 

I think the petitioner wanted to protest, but quickly thought better of it, and let Baelish take him aside.

 

Robert peeled his gaze from me, deigning to acknowledge my retinue. Ignoring Ed, bobbing his head at Thoros (they were, remember, longtime drinking buddies), he leaned over and shot Brynden a questioning frown.

 

“Who’s this, then?”

 

I gave what might’ve been a motherly grin, toothy and sharp.

 

“Her name is Brynden.” I never did get around to rechristening her. Well, no matter, there’s something to be said for refuge in audacity. “Poor girl, found her all alone in a cave beyond the Wall.”

 

Now, appearances notwithstanding, Robert wasn’t a complete dullard, having a respectable grasp on his kingdom's history (he liked reading about the battles). The name Brynden, while strange for a girl, didn’t in itself strike any chords – but, combined with the long silvery hair, lone ruby eye, and little black frock …

 

A Pandora's box of worms best left unstirred, the way he saw it.

 

“ ... Well met.”

 

Brynden grunted – she sounded like a kitten.

 

The king knew better than to press.

 

Ever the charmer, Cersei the Pious barged in, slinked closer to Robert, and wrapped herself around his arm. Batting her lashes, she kissed him on the cheek, before trying (and failing) to look down her nose at me. 

 

It was all rather juvenile.

 

“Hello again,” she drawled in her best Regina George. “I see you and my husband are getting along nicely. It must be wonderful” – she side-eyed Thoros – “to have so many friends .”

 

Bitch.

 

“Almost as wonderful as family.” Tilting my head, mostly for effect, I kept my voice airy and bright. “Where is Ser Jaime, speaking of? Never had the chance to properly introduce myself.”

 

The big vein in her neck twitched.

 

She made it too easy.

 

“He’s watching my son,” Cersei hissed, “the Crown Prince.” Pursed lips, white knuckles, Tywin-esque glare. “You never know what unsavory characters might be lurking about.”

 

A momentary lull; the queen, scanning the audience, restrained herself, and carved something stately from her sneer. Fingers drumming against a bemused Robert’s bicep, she took a second stab at me.

 

Her pride demanded nothing less.

 

“I am curious. What was it like, that far North? Beyond the Wall? Wholly divorced from civilized society?” She scrutinized my dress, as if her cleavage wasn’t practically spilled across the floor. “Cold, I imagine.”

 

I won’t say she was phoning it in (far too spiteful for that), but she certainly wasn’t putting her back into it. Nerves, I suppose. 

 

That, and the woman really needed some new material – hypocrisy aside, you can only call someone a whore so many times before it goes stale.

 

Entertaining a diversion this might’ve been – Cersei the Chaste really was a fascinating specimen – finer things awaited me than a shitflinging catfight. Clicking my tongue, I shrugged off the queen and gave Robert another smile, this one decidedly mischievous. 

 

“Hear Her Roar.”

 

The dismissiveness slapped her harder than insult ever could.

 

He coughed a chuckle into his closed fist; then, yanking his arm from Cersei's grip – she didn’t even bother feigning hurt – he leisurely sauntered back towards the throne, inviting me to follow.

 

I did.

 

With a sweeping gesture towards his tetanus infection of a chair, Robert shot me a grin. “So, what do you think?”

 

“Needs a few pillows.”

 

“Hah! Ghastly old thing … ” His lip curled. “Half a mind to melt it down.” He cast an eye about the room: red stone and black tile, dragons etched into the brickwork. “Build myself a new one … ”

 

Pausing, hand on his hip, he turned to face the crowd.

 

“Court's over!”

 

To the din of murmurs and shuffling feet, the onlookers filed from the hall – Arryn, grumbling, set about the usual damage control, the other councilors finding their own excuses to slink off into the background.

 

Cersei stayed scowling.

 

“So, what's next on the itinerary?” I looped my arm through his, and together we made for the doors. “If you say a feast, I'm bashing someone's skull in.”

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Robert loved hunting.

 

The stalk, the chase, the kill; the communion with his primal savagery, and the nagging risk – however slim – that he might instead land himself above his prey’s mantelpiece.

 

It made him feel alive, like a man, in a truer, purer way than anything else could anymore. Drink dulled his senses, Sex left him empty, and War had been tainted by the memories of mud and stink, rubies in the ford, tufts of fair hair peeking from beneath a Lannister-red cloak.

 

Lyanna loved hunting, too.

 

I could take it or leave it.

 

Bloodhounds and beaters howling in the distance, he and I and a handful of his entourage tromped through the underbrush. 

 

Using a winged spear as a walking stick, Robert combed the treeline; hands casually tucked into the folds of my dress, I strolled a few steps behind, a passive observer.

 

Frankly, at my weight class, and that of the game on offer, actually partaking just would’ve been poor form.

 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to talk politics?”

 

He snorted, boot scraping against a rock.

 

“Rather disembowel myself.”

 

“Come now,” I tsked. “What would the people think if they heard their Good King Robert being so uncouth to a lady ?”

 

He gave my snicker a dirty look.

 

“They'd think what their Good King Robert commands them to.”

 

A hum.

 

“Seems you have this whole government thing figured out.”

 

He trampled a fern.

 

“Aye. Life's easy at the top of the dungheap. Do this, gimme that, sit, stay, roll over” – then, in something of a falsetto – “Yes, Your Grace, of course, Your Grace, it'll be my pleasure, Your Grace. No more taxes, or summons, or bows to some creature you’d sooner rip in two.” His voice, by now, had taken on a decidedly jaded edge. “Now all the whining children beg me to wipe their arses.”

 

Running his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, the king loosed a sigh.

 

“And I can hunt whenever I want.”

 

Suddenly, a rustle.

 

Robert screeched to a halt, hand held off to the side, the rest of us bunched behind him.

 

His spear creaked as his grip tightened. 

 

A pause.

 

Then, clods and grass flying, a slavering boar erupted from the bushes. 

 

Robert lunged.

 

The boar squealed.

 

The spear caught in its ribcage.

 

Frothy pink blood painted the leaves.

 

Swiping its tusks, the boar bolted away, and the spear ripped from Robert’s grasp, dragged along through the thicket.

 

Robert sprinted after it.

 

We found the boar in a clearing some hundred yards away – collapsed on its side, shredded lungs wheezing, blood pouring from its snout.

 

Dagger in hand, the king straddled its back, yanked on its wiry mane, and slit its throat.

 

Embarrassing as it is to admit, I genuinely enjoyed his company – I can't say I loved him, not truly, but there was a spark of something .

 

Hands dripping red, Robert laughed, and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm.

 

“Big fucker, ain't he?”

 

Honest, animal attraction, if I had to give it a name, and a quiet sense of kinship.

Chapter 18: Chapter 17

“Baron.”

 

Cloudy eyes, peeled skin, mycelium veins; he'd been shoved to the ground, hands bound behind his back, a golden spear pressed tight against his neck.

 

No fear, or rage, or shame – his visage bore naught but ascetic equanimity.

 

“You have my condolences.”

 

The flames lapping at his manor finally reached the clay-tiled roof: the structure collapsed in on itself, embers showering the smoldering corpses strewn about the once-manicured lawn – what little remained of his subjects, his retainers, his family.

 

Enthralled by a force far greater than himself, the Baron  – whatever shreds of him still lingered within his rotten shell – was just as much a victim as the rest.

 

“Nonetheless, I hope you understand.”

 

Outbreaks of the Scarlet Rot – incursions of that loathsome Outer God – warranted nothing less than wholesale extirpation. But the Legions, the regulars, simply hadn’t the necessary experience, the Inquisition the raw strength, the territorial reserves the reliability and Radagon's clique the decisiveness.

 

And so, a Wild Hunt, the Queen and her Guard, personally descended upon the blighted estate to deliver what mercy we could.

 

Riding hard and fast, through a haze of spores, trampling toadstools underfoot; towering lichens and rivers of pus, infested ruins and shambling husks, the sickly sweet reek of decay choking the stagnant air; hammer blows, sword swipes, jets of flame. 

 

It wasn’t a battle – it was a culling, a pruning of tainted branches. 

 

Fire, the Erdtree’s anathema, proved in this respect invaluable.

 

Perched atop a curule seat, I crossed my legs and sighed.

 

“Such a waste … ” 

 

The Baron tilted his head, unblinking eyes aglow.

 

“ Do not mourn. ” His voice was tender, sibilant, with the slightest gurgle bubbling up from beneath. “ Death is a joyous thing. What beauty there is, in serving as the seedbed for the new. ”

 

The thing puppeting him smiled.

 

“ One day, you too will see. ”

 

Frowning, I gave a gentle nod.

 

“Maybe.”

 

Then, I rose to my feet, and bobbed my head at the nearby Guardsmen.

 

“Get on with it.”

 

Silent behind their gilded facemasks, the one with the spear took a few steps back when his comrades raised their sprayers, and anointed the Baron with a seething mixture of Messmerfire and Erdtree sap (both vanishingly rare commodities).

 

Skin blackened, flesh melted, bones cracked.

 

He just kept on staring with that beatific smile.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Five in the afternoon was as good a time as any to drink.

 

Comfortably secluded in an out-of-the-way drawing room, I'd forgone consistency in favor of variety, and arranged for myself something of a private wine tasting.

 

(In other words, I spent fifteen minutes rummaging about the cellars, nicking whatever caught my eye.)

 

By now, I felt confident in saying that Westerosi wines, on the whole, weren't exactly much to write home about – thick, heady, vaguely … off. 

 

Consistently mediocre.

 

Of the lot that I’d filched, the Dornish stuff was best, with a pleasant kick of spice and an exotic hint of citrus. Nothing great, mind, but interesting enough to stand out above the rest.

 

‘Arbor gold,’ meanwhile, the particular variety of sparkling white that the locals never shut up about, was competent enough, good for what it was, though just I couldn’t force myself to like it – a bit too prissy frou-frou for my taste. 

 

The Vale pinot was the worst by a mile; greasy, sour, some real goonbag crap.

 

Still, wine was wine.

 

With rich orange late-day sunlight creeping through the thick-paned windows, I reclined on a low padded couch, a glass in one hand and a copy of Bastard Born – a swashbuckling chronicle of some long-dead Velaryon, high seas and hanky-panky – in the other.

 

Comfortable, quiet, it was a delightful way to spend the afternoon, and a wonderful change of pace (Robert was good company, make no mistake, but we all need some downtime every once in a while).

 

I almost didn’t notice when Varys minced through the door. 

 

His shiny bald head dipped in greeting.

 

“Your Grace.”

 

He certainly looked the part of your standard unctuous, obsequious, oriental eunuch: round shoulders and soft hands, a loose velvet gown damasked with flowers and ivy, cloying perfumes to mask the scent of urine. 

 

Indeed, as far as such charades went, his was a fairly effective one, going a long way to blunt his otherwise sinister reputation; it's hard to look at some flabby genderblob and believe all the talk of spiders and birds. 

 

Were it not for the glint in his eye, the tugging at the corners of his lips (and, I'll concede, no small amount of metaknowledge), it might've even fooled me.

 

I never liked his sort – too smug, too slippery. Utterly steadfast in their convictions, but nauseatingly evasive as to what those convictions actually were. Marika, the original, made a point of scourging them when they inevitably got too clever, and I can't say I disagreed.

 

“I must apologize,” he simpered, “events have thus far contrived to keep us apart. Now that I've” – a titter – “escaped their clutches, I'd like to welcome you again to King's Landing.” It had already been a week and some change – well, better late than never. “The rumors of your beauty truly pale to the reality.”

 

He really was quite good at the vaguely off-putting femininity.

 

I turned a page, not bothering to meet his gaze.

 

Was this a cheap power play?

 

Of course.

 

Was it satisfying?

 

Absolutely.

 

“How kind. Here for an interrogation, I assume?”

 

Hands folded together inside his voluminous sleeves, Varys took a few steps closer, the door creaking shut behind him. 

 

“Nothing so droll, Your Grace, I simply wish to inquire as to your … companions. I've heard quite a lot about them these past few days.”

 

I raised a brow. Having left them to their own devices, they’d all but slipped my mind.

 

(Look, I’ve never claimed to be an attentive caretaker – tossing the chicks from the nest was more my style. Besides, they were all adults (where it counted, anyways), so it wasn’t like they couldn’t handle themselves. At least in principle.)

 

“Trouble?”

 

Seemingly amused, he shook his head.

 

“I wouldn't go that far. Perhaps more along the lines of … noticeable. Yes, noticeable. Idiosyncratic, as it were.”

 

I dog-eared the page, finally deigning to look in the eunuch's direction; ‘he’ continued.

 

“Eddin, your Ironman, he's had an extraordinary run of the Street of Silk.” He feigned concern. “The … entertainment district, if you're unfamiliar. Remarkable stamina, or so I've been told.”

 

“Good for him.”

 

A hum. “Yes, and your priest – ” 

 

“He’s not mine.”

 

Brow furrowed, head tilted, Varys’ surprise wasn’t entirely feigned. “Pardon?”

 

I took a sip. “He’s not my priest. He belongs to R'hllor.”

 

This took him a second to digest.

 

“I see.” 

 

He didn't, not really – his eminent loathing for the higher mysteries blinded him to their potential. When you well and truly hate something, it’s all too easy to fall into the trap of dismissing it as trivial.

 

“Still, I suppose you are to thank for his renewed spirit. The poor man hasn't been this enthused since the days of His Grace King Aerys. It is heartening, I must say, to behold a faith so revitalized.”

 

Varys paused; I took another sip, gesturing for him to continue. 

 

“Then, we have little Brynden.” He clicked his tongue. “That is her name, yes?”

 

A nod. “Hmm.”

 

“Strange … there’s a particular Brynden that somewhat fits … her description … although … ” Trailing off, he covered his mouth and giggled – ugh – then exaggeratedly sighed. “Ah, please, excuse my mumblings, Your Grace. She’s been in a sour mood, I’m afraid to report. Pensive, brooding, reclusive. Some days ago, a few girls her age even invited her to a sewing circle, but she declined their offer quite … vigorously.”

 

I’d have paid good money to see that.

 

“She’s also gotten herself a pet, you know?”

 

“Oh?” 

 

Varys nodded.

 

“Yes, a raven. Docile thing, very well-trained, likes riding on her shoulder. The girl is too fond by half of threatening to peck eyes out with it.”

 

I propped my cheek against a palm.

 

“Precocious, isn’t she?”

 

He laughed again, this time fairly genuinely, though his mirth shortly petered out, until the both of us once more loitered in silence.

 

“Your Gra – ”

 

“If you came to ask me something, stop pussyfooting and say it.” A second’s delay. “Oh, and sit down, would you?”

 

He just stood there, frowning in unspoken refusal.

 

I rolled my eyes.

 

With a flick of the wrist, he was hoisted into the air and shoved onto the couch opposite mine; he struggled, of course, kicked and writhed, but tendrils of grace tied him to the seat, and bound his arms and legs. 

 

(Maybe a little rougher than strictly necessary, but I solaced myself with the fact that he'd made me sit through exposition.)

 

A knife slipped from his sleeve and clattered to the floor. 

 

Eyeing it, I chuckled, and floated it over for closer inspection. 

 

“What’s this?” I wiggled it around. “Insurance?”

 

Otherwise distracted, he didn’t answer.

 

“Doubt it'll do you much good … ”

 

I gave the knife one more lookover – “Oh well” – before flinging it off to the side.

 

Soon enough, Varys had tired himself out; panting, sweating, slumped against the backrest, he shot my way a scowl as withering as it was impotent, his effete mask, its usefulness spent, discarded along with his composure.

 

“Come on, use your words.”

 

I was having too much fun with this.

 

A growl clawed through his grit teeth; then, like a lightswitch, his back straightened, gaze sharpened, voice flattened – he shed the mummery, the flairs and affectations, and exposed the hollowed-out half-man lurking underneath.

 

He revealed to me his true face: empty, numb, insensate.

 

By this point, he’d simply no reason not to.

 

‘ There you are. ’

 

It wasn’t that he was some psychopath, physically incapable of feeling emotions – rather, it was that he’d gone out of his way to sever them, compartmentalize them, remold them to better serve his artifice; his soul, like the rest of him, had been wholly devoted his manipulations. 

 

Undoubtedly effective, though one can’t help but wonder how much he’d lost in doing so.

 

“What are you?”

 

I smiled, condescendingly, like he'd asked how babies are made.

 

“A god.”

 

Topping off the glass, I kicked my feet up onto a table. 

 

“And what, Lord Varys, are you?”

 

His impassive gaze almost turned bemused.

 

“The story I’ve heard, correct me if I’m wrong, is that a sorcerer, of all things, lobbed your bits off. Used them in a ritual or somesuch.”

 

The tension was palpable now. 

 

“In all honesty, part of me doubts you’re a gelding at all. Wouldn’t be the first lie you’ve told. That’s your job, after all. To wade through all the intrigue.” Resting my elbow on a knee, I leaned closer. “And I hope you know, I despise intrigue – no patience for it.” 

 

I paused to take a sip.

 

“You know chess? Cyvasse?” A dismissive wave. “Whatever it’s called here. I despise that too. Less to do with strategy than memorization. Too rigid, too abstract.” A snort. “Insufferable metaphors.”

 

“Is there a point to this?”

 

“You’re a damn good player. But I’m the type to flip the board, then bludgeon my opponent with a table leg.” 

 

Was my threat too subtle?

 

Grinning, I toasted my glass. “That’s the prerogative of godhood.”

 

Benevolent as I was, I gave Varys a moment to stew; then, dismissing the magic that hogtied him to the couch, I shooed him away.

 

“Well, toodle-oo. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”

 

Features blank, he stared some more, as if tracing my eyes and nose and lips would’ve yielded some greater understanding, before robotically rising to his feet and offering a shallow bow. 

 

“Your Grace.”

 

He then shuffled off.

 

I returned to my leisure.

 

Around an hour later, as the sky turned a shimmering coral, lamplights twinkling through the streets below – and, more importantly, I reached the bottom of my last bottle – I set the book onto a side table, stretched my arms, and wandered out into the hallway.

 

Not needing any, I hadn’t plans for the rest of the night – best to take things by ear, I figured, and avoid a commitment that I might in time regret. Dinner sounded wonderful, as did another dozen or so bottles, but I won’t deny that I was tempted to try and find Robert for a spot of fun, or perhaps to go and bother Brynden for a bit.

 

Thinking of her, I frowned.

 

The transition from one form to another wasn’t easy – I knew that from experience. Your skin’s too tight, like an ill-fitting jacket, every step introduces new stumbles and jiggles, the sound of your own voice causes you to flinch.

 

Maybe I should’ve eased up a little on the girl: no matter the age of her soul, her body was now that of a child, with all the attendant fragilities. 

 

And while I was at it, a stray thought scratched, why not – 

 

A door slammed open.

 

A gauntleted hand yanked on my braid.

 

A dagger lunged for my throat.

 

“JESUS CHRI – ”

 

Instinctively, I lashed out with a blast of raw force.

 

My assailant’s body popped like a balloon.

 

Blood, gristle, shards of bone painted the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

 

Some of it got in my mouth.

 

“Shit.”

 

Cursing under my breath, I glanced up and down the hall, wincing at nearby footsteps, balking at the murmurs of approaching conversation

 

“Fucking hell.”

 

Hurriedly, jumpily, I flicked the offal from my hands, vaporized the gore from my dress, and stuffed the scattered chunks of my would-be assassin into a nearby broom closet, jamming the door shut with a hard push.

 

I walked away, feigning nonchalance.

 

Somewhere from behind, a horrified scream.

 

I started walking faster. 

Chapter 19: Chapter 18

“Your Grace. If you would come with us.”

 

The guardsman, an officer, yellow stag surcoat over gleaming half-plate, shivered in his boots, his voice not much steadier.

 

“The King” – a shuddering breath– “demands your presence.”

 

Raising a brow, I rested my wineglass (the umpteenth of the night) down beside me on the bench.

 

Some twenty-odd soldiers, fully armed and armored, encircled the terrace where I’d … relocated to, and languidly spent the last few hours watching the moonlight dance upon the water. Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, goldcloaks from the City Watch, a handful of miscellaneous strays, their mistrust of each other – even now, in the middle of an arrest, house rivalries ran hot – was dwarfed solely by their quite understandable fear of me. 

 

Pale-faced, trembling, the officer fidgeted with the hilt of his sword. 

 

“Please.” 

 

My fingers drummed against my knee; my lips pursed; my eyes narrowed.

 

I rose to my full height. 

 

The greener ones recoiled; the tougher ones blanched.

 

Staring the officer in the eyes, I leaned down close, our noses nearly touching.

 

He stood his ground.

 

I scanned the ranks arrayed behind him, and silently weighed the prospects.

 

‘ No, more trouble than it’d be worth .’

 

“Lead on, then.”

 

At the end of a corridor between the throne room and royal apartments, ten or so minutes from the terrace, the small council chamber was only a tense, brisk march away.

 

Consistent with the rest of the Red Keep's sinister pageantry, the chamber loomed at the top of a black marble staircase, its heavy iron doors flanked by a pair of obsidian sphinxes; a small crowd of the usual parasites had flocked at the bottom, drawn by the whiff of scandal, craning their ears to catch a hint of muffled argument, held back by a cordon of guards.

 

Barging through, trooping up the stairs, my escorts took up spots around the doors, and I made my way inside. 

 

“ – murdered him!”

 

“Your Grace, for all we know – ”

 

The room, it seems, had been dedicated as a shrine of sorts to unbridled sumptuosity – Myrish carpets and crystal chandeliers, vibrant frescos and carved screens, jewels and ivory, gilt and pigment, lapis and pearl and porphyry. 

 

(I suppose that if you’re one of those poor souls stuck dealing with a king’s bullshit all day, you’d like to be surrounded by pretty things, too.)

 

“ – surely had a reason.”

 

“What reason could possibly justify – ”

 

A thick granite table dominated its center, surrounded by high-backed chairs, one on each end and three on each side; Robert and the rest, however, his queen and council, hadn’t bothered with protocol, and instead battled it out on their feet, huddled together at the near end.

 

“ – allow her to go unpunished!”

 

“And how do you propose we do that?”

 

“We’re hardly powerless! If we just – ”

 

I cut her off.

 

“Mind telling me what this is all about?”

 

Eyes widened, heads whirled around, mouths clacked shut.

 

“Well?”

 

Cersei, bloodshot and unkempt, thrust a trembling finger at me – “ You! ” she seethed.

 

Arryn pursed his lips; Stannis glowered; Varys and Baelish silently lingered at the back.

 

Robert crossed his arms, plainly uncomfortable with the situation, but not all that shaken up about it – like he'd walked in on someone else's kid throwing a fit over a missing toy. 

 

“Kingslayer’s dead,” he grunted.

 

What?

 

“What?”

 

How on earth did that happen?

 

Butterflies, sure, but it didn't even make sense. He can't have been much older than 20, fit and healthy from a lifetime of knighthood, and while his family wasn't particularly well-liked, I can't imagine that anyone actually had the gall to – 

 

Oh.

 

Oh, goddammit.

 

Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose.

 

Seriously? Not even a patsy? He just up and …

 

I mean, points for daring, but … really?

 

“Are you sure it was him? Not that I'm doubting you, but the, uh … the mess wasn’t exactly identifiable.”

 

Arryn – the perpetual bags under his eyes sagging especially heavy – took a couple steps closer. “There was enough. Scraps of armor, clumps of hair. An eye.”

 

Cersei sobbed into her hand.

 

I clicked my tongue. 

 

“Right.”

 

I frowned, hands propped on my hips.

 

“Well, it was hardly my fault. He leapt at me from a fucking closet.” I jabbed my neck with a thumb. “Knife to my throat and everything.”

 

Keenly aware of the darkening mood of the room, I crossed my arms over my chest.

 

“Don't give me that. He’d a history of this sort of thing, you know? Wouldn’t be his first regicide.”

 

But what the hell could’ve possibly motivated him? 

 

Cersei stood out as the likeliest suspect, of course, stupid murder plots were entirely within her character, though I couldn’t shake my reflexive disbelief. After all, she loved Jaime far too much (largely as an extension of herself, mind) to ever risk him directly – no, she’d use some bribed menial, or smitten cousin, someone whose death she wouldn’t lose a wink over. 

 

Varys, then, or Baelish, one of the slimier courtiers – they might’ve blackmailed him, or conveyed their orders as the Queen’s, or convinced him through some fanciful sophistry. But it just didn’t fit. They’d sense enough (Varys especially, since our earlier talk) to keep their heads down until the storm passed, and I doubt any of them had much of a pressing desire to kill me in the first place. 

 

Perhaps – God knows why – Jaime planned it himself, a fatal dose of initiative. Even beyond his apparent lack of motive, however, he surely must’ve recognized that it wouldn’t have ended well for him (and should’ve had the sense to go with Valyrian steel, at the very least, anything more substantial than that pissy little letter opener.)

 

Honestly, it felt like some massive Rube Goldberg was toiling behind the curtains, but all I could see was my toast arriving at the table. 

 

(Not that the truth behind this nonsense mattered that much to me, at the end of the day – the culprit was really, most sincerely dead, and I rather doubted that his co-conspirators, if they even existed at all, would’ve been much harder to handle.)

 

The long-suffering adult in the room, Arryn adopted as conciliatory a tone as he could, rubbing the few grey wisps of hair still clinging to his scalp.

 

“Yes, I … I see. Your claims are not … ” He winced. “ … entirely unbelievable, but they must, of course, be verified.”

 

“Must they?” Stannis muttered. “We all know they're true.”

 

I liked him more and more each time I saw him.

 

Cersei, meanwhile, looked a second from ripping his head off with her bare hands. “I will not, My Lord, suffer you to slander my brother.” She sucked through her teeth. “And certainly not at the behest of his murderer .”

 

Arryn interposed himself between them. “This is a delicate situation, Your Grace. We cannot rush to judgment.”

 

“Rush to – ? Listen to yourself! ” The queen threw up her arms. “She just admitted it!” 

 

“If Ser Jaime did, in fact, attack Queen Marika, then that may well be a … mitigating factor.”

 

“Look,” I butt in, before they started again, “are any of you honestly going to mourn him?” I counted my fingers. “Smarmy at the best of times, questionable loyalty, horrible taste in wome – ”

 

A blood-curdling scream – Cersei launched herself at me, intent to claw my eyes out.

 

The guards burst into the room, Lannister redcloaks seizing their Queen by the arms.

 

“Your Grace!”

 

She writhed and snarled, tears pouring down her cheeks, until her feral mania bled away, and all that remained was hatred. Wrenching her arms from their grips, she sneered some more, shot a few scowls, and then stormed out, her guards filing behind. 

 

The doors slammed shut.

 

A moment passed in silence.

 

I clapped my hands together.

 

“Well, I'm pooped.”

 

The councilmen stared, the stodgier ones faintly aghast. 

 

“Pick up again tomorrow, yeah?” 

 

Not bothering to wait for an answer, I steamrolled through their blinks and furrows, striding over to Robert. 

 

“Capital.”

 

The king blushed when, without warning, I scooped him into a bridal carry; and the others didn't dare to try and stop me when I hauled him from the small council chamber – through the halls, up the stairs, over the threshold into his bedroom.

 

My dress dissolved into motes of light.

 

I grinned.

 

Call it what you want – poor taste, poor timing, poor breeding – I wasn’t going to let a little justifiable homicide stop me from enjoying myself.

 

Robert, certainly, had no objections.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Later that night, nearly the next morning, Robert sprawled on a feather mattress, while I slowly ran my fingers up and down his bicep – hard, thick muscle, pronounced without being grotesque, softened by a thin layer of fat.

 

More than satisfactory.

 

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

 

Nothing official, not yet, but I'd a sense for these things: Westeros had gotten stale, and I'd done enough to make enough enemies.

 

Robert took a long, deep breath. 

 

“Aye, you’re probably right.” He folded his hands, resting them on his bare stomach. “Where to next, then?”

 

“East. Valyria.” 

 

The mere mention of the place furrowed his brow, and he rolled over onto his side to eye me with concern.

 

Sweet of him.

 

“Don’t worry,” I chuckled, pulling him closer. “I’ll be fine.”

 

With my tit rubbing against his cheek, the king blushed some more.

 

“You could always stay here.”

 

I raised a brow; he pressed on.

 

“They’ll bitch and moan, but bugger them.” He swallowed. “I’d be glad to have you.”

 

Softly smiling, I kissed him on the forehead.

 

“You’re a good man, Robert.” Bizarrely enough, I actually believed it. “Though I’m afraid I must decline. Adventure calls, and now that I’m free … I won’t chain myself to another throne.”

 

I slayed the dragon, escaped from New York, achieved the object to which I’d devoted everything. 

 

I don't regret it. How could I? The Lands Between were broken, fundamentally, one firm shove from oblivion. 

 

As their accidental Queen, it fell upon me to fix them.

 

Such was my duty.

 

M̶y̶ ̶p̶e̶n̶a̶n̶c̶e̶.̶

 

But once you've won, what's left?

 

Ennui, inertia, a massive gaping hole, begging to be filled with something, anything, the smallest crumb of purpose.

 

And I knew I wouldn’t find it here. 

 

Besides, my last two marriages fell through quite spectacularly, so I wasn’t holding out hope for a third.

 

We spent the next minute in companionable quietude – until impulse once more spurred me on.

 

“He isn't yours.” 

 

Robert shot me a questioning glance; raking my fingers through his hair, I held him tighter.

 

“Joffrey.”

 

The king stiffened – after a moment, “Who?” he croaked.

 

“Who do you think?”

 

On some level, he must’ve already suspected it – he wasn’t nearly as shocked as I thought he’d be. Just numb, deflated, filled with the ringing static of unwanted confirmation.

 

Twin or no, Jaime was always a bit too close to his sister.

 

“I suppose I should thank you,” he murmured.

 

I rested my chin on his scalp.

 

“Whyever for? The truth always outs, I just hastened the inevitable.”

 

For a time, he gazed vacantly at the ceiling.

 

“Is it strange I feel relieved? That I’m not his father?”

 

Absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulder, I scrounged for an answer.

 

Joffrey was a toddler, barely sapient, nowhere near the Caligula he'd have otherwise grown up to be – no, the kid wasn't the problem.

 

Rather, as I observed when we first met, you can either be a good politician or a good parent, and my bedmate found was stuck with the unenviable distinction of excelling at neither. 

 

Robert commanded remarkable charisma, and boasted superb generalship, but simply hadn’t a mind for the fine particularities of administration, and found the incessant scheming – the game of thrones, some might say – physically repellant. At his core, he was selfish, apathetic, in that harmless way you’d expect from a man constitutionally bereft of ambition – all he wanted was a horse and a spear, a forest to explore, and a nice girl to share it all with.

 

He never wanted to be king. 

 

In light of this, the marriage to Cersei Lannister, though undoubtedly political, was intended as a consolation of sorts: in theory, if Robert was to be stuck with a crown, then there’d at least be a wife (albeit not the one he wanted) to support him, and children – a legacy – to give it all meaning. 

 

The only trouble being, of course, that it was a marriage to Cersei Lannister.

 

At any other time, in any other place, he'd have probably been happy, enjoyed a simple life of simple pleasures.

 

Events instead conspired to shower him with greatness.

 

“I killed my firstborn.”

 

It took me a second to realize what I’d said – the confession just about muttered itself.

 

Reciprocity, I suppose.

 

Robert tilted his head back to meet me in the eyes; beneath the roiling storm of emotion, plainest was his horror at the great taboo.

 

But he didn't flinch away.

 

I clung to that.

 

I trusted him.

 

“Others, too. Most of them. But he's the one I've dreams about.”

 

I gave the lump in my throat a moment to deflate, my shuddering breath a moment to settle.

 

“I’d options. Alternatives. Even so, they’d have taken time, and I convinced myself I’d none to spare. Killing him was the expedient thing.”

 

A swallow.

 

“It was easy . Like picking a flower.”

 

‘ Oh, dear mother … ’

 

“I don’t … ”

 

‘ ... the flames, I feel them … ' 

 

“Well.” 

 

‘ … forgive me. ’

 

“It is what it is.”

 

Neither of us quite knew what to say.

 

His hand found mine; my thumb idly traced his palm.

 

Not love, but something.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

The battering ram crashed against the gate – splinters flying, hinges rattling, it nonetheless stood firm.

 

“Come on, you bastards!” a serjeant barked. “Put your backs into it!”

 

In keeping with its designer’s paranoia, Maegor’s Holdfast – the blocky castle-within-a-castle that towered above the rest of the Keep, smack dab in the middle of the hill – was divided internally into several different sections, each with their own defenses, bulwarks and guardposts and the like; in the event of a siege, or riot, or coup, the loss of one section wouldn’t spell certain doom for the rest, thus giving the defenders time to regroup, and the royal family time to escape.

 

Though impulsive, belligerent, and almost comically neurotic, Cersei at least had the sense to recognize just how precarious her position had become: I’d killed her brother, fucked her husband, and seemed perfectly willing to shout from the mountaintops the fact that her son was an inbred bastard – a fact that may well have seen her entire House obliterated.

 

Her options, therefore, were decidedly limited. 

 

Sticking around and feigning normalcy would’ve surely seen her dead by the end of the day, a week if lucky. 

 

Fleeing the capital for friendlier territory was a long shot at best – she refused the indignity of going it alone, and her sizeable retinue of footmen and handmaids would’ve been sitting ducks out in the open. 

 

A more military solution, meanwhile, was out of the picture entirely, her guard falling markedly short of the numbers needed to pose any sort of credible threat, much less stage a proper usurpation.

 

The only real option – the least bad choice – was to hunker in her chambers, buy her father time to mobilize, and hopefully make herself enough of an obstacle to force everyone to the table, and, most importantly, save herself from getting tossed straight inside a gibbet.

 

That was her thinking, anyways.

 

An ill-advised escalation, the way I personally saw it.

 

“Push! Push!”

 

“Where are those bloody climbing spikes?”

 

“You lot, with me! To the tunnels!”

 

Troopers from the King’s and Hand’s respective household guards scuttled about the foyer, their chainmail jingling, bootsteps thumping, officers shouting.

 

Robert, face flat, hands on his hips, gleaming in his full panoply, bobbed his head in acknowledgment when I approached him.

 

“Marika.”

 

“Robert.”

 

He offered me a handshake.

 

“Safe travels. It’s been good to see you.”

 

Brow raised, lips pursed, I briefly contemplated accepting it, spouting some equally polite inanity, and leaving things at that.

 

But boldness never served me wrong.

 

So, instead, I took a step closer, draped my arms across his shoulders, and pulled him into a kiss. 

 

Tongues and spit, it was, perhaps, a touch more enthusiastic than strictly necessary. 

 

I pulled away, smirking at his stupefied daze.

 

His eyes burned with gold – a parting gift.

 

Call me territorial.

 

The ram swung; the doors cracked open, slamming to the floor. Guardsmen poured into the breach, crashing against a thin line of Lannister redcloaks, bolts thwacking against their shields. 

 

“I trust you have things sorted.”

 

Robert blinked, newfound power thrumming beneath his skin, alien senses tickling his brain; a faraway nod.

 

“Good boy.”

 

Shaking his head to clear his wits, then shooting me one last grin, he thrust his warhammer over his head, belted out a deafening war cry, then barreled over to join the assault, wading right into the thick of it.

 

“Fury!” the men cheered.

 

I wished him the best of luck.

 

Nobody bothered my companions and me as we worked our way to the harbor – in fact, save for some scattered beggars and dogs, the streets were practically abandoned, a queer tension lingering in the air.

 

The harbor, too, lacked its usual bustle, only a small handful of ships remaining at their moorings, their crews nervously making to depart.

 

I went down the line, accosting the captains, demanding their destinations – Oldtown, White Harbor, Sunspear … 

 

“P-Pentos, My Lady,” the chubby, hairy, swarthy monger stuttered. 

 

I narrowed my eyes, visualizing a map.

 

“Can you take us any farther? Lys? Volantis?”

 

He shook his head, neck flapping like a wattle. 

 

Essos, at least – I considered it progress.

 

We boarded the galleon, tossing the monger some gold; and, soon enough, we were bobbing out to sea, King’s Landing slowly shrinking into the distance.

 

The humungous explosion came as a surprise.

 

It started at the Dragonpit – the earth swelled like a pimple, groaning and steaming, then violently erupted, gushing scorched masonry and emerald flame; next went Baelor’s Sept, then the Gates, and then the streets, homes and shops and all the rest; bells and screams, sky choked with smoke, what still remained standing soon ignited into an inferno, patches of fire burning on the water.

 

Boat rocking, nostrils aflame with the telltale odor of sulfur and blood, the crew watched on in horror.

 

Brynden just stared at me accusingly. 

 

In retrospect, I probably should’ve done something about the wildfire. 

 

"They’ll be fine," I declared.

 

Hopefully.

 

Spilt milk, though, really, either way.

Chapter 20: Chapter 19

Tactically, Marika's politics were quite subtle, at least insofar as anything of hers could be. 

 

This is not, mind you, to downplay her abuses, nor to paint her as some species of impotent figurehead – better to think it a relative statement, really. She still worked hand in glove with the Inquisition, after all, scanned their daily reports and guided their knives in the dark, and relished the opportunity, whenever it arose, to unleash upon a ‘deserving’ target the unconstrained depth of her brutality.

 

No, violence – the bluntest tool – more than had its place in the God-Queen's arsenal, if only to occupy her time.

 

But she liked to keep quiet about it. 

 

Godfrey's exile and Radagon's recall saw the end of those blissful early days of forthright conquest, and Marika's retreat from the public eye – from the speeches, the sermons, the overbearing edicts and backroom handshakes, all the games and shows and pretense.

 

So high above the rest, contempt ripening with age, she just couldn't bring herself to care anymore.

 

From her palatial seclusion, Marika thus embraced the well-timed nudge, the whisper into a pliant ear, the pebble flicked down the hillside in hopes of an eventual avalanche; queenship filtered through arcane kabbalahs and faceless intermediaries, her will, her word, became an esoteric thing, ephemeral yet inviolable, like a breeze carved into stone, and as unreachable as it was ubiquitous.

 

By the time of my imposition, she hadn't so much as waved from a balcony for the better part of a decade.

 

That's what the Elden Lord was for. 

 

“What of the land itself?” Radagon shuffled his papers, eyeing the councilors arrayed about the hall. “‘Tis mine understanding the taint yet lingers.”

 

His Parliament, he called it, an ever-rotating catalogue of some few hundred clergymen, philosophers, and magistrates, modeled after the debate societies he'd chaired at Raya Lucaria. Few had the stones to meaningfully gainsay the Elden Lord, of course, their counsel incorrigibly toothless, but the whole charade nonetheless gave his governance an air of reasoned objectivity, and the man himself an abiding satisfaction for having – as best he could under the present feudalism – empowered a central body of ‘experts.’ 

 

It was a far cry from Godfrey's Round Table, and the rollicking einherjar who shared his mead. 

 

“Seal it off, indefinitely,” answered a bishop – Fundamentalist, judging by his roughspun vestures. “Bar all that enters, destroy all that leaves.”

 

One of the frontbenchers, an older woman, draped in the mantle of a city aedile, cleared her throat. “By every indication, the initial purge was quite thorough. We may well be able to salvage something – with careful management, it might even be livable within the next century.”

 

“Might,” the bishop countered, crossing his arms. “Too much uncertainty for so much risk.”

 

“Hear, hear!” a fair few rumbled.

 

“We cannot leave it to fallow,” the aedile regrouped. “In time, who knows what horrors would bloom? Spare no effort, I say, excise the corruption.” 

 

“And restore the land to productivity,” appended a Carian preceptor.

 

“Lives are more valuable than acres. Combating such an infection only spreads it further.”

 

“You would let it flourish unopposed.”

 

“I would starve it!”

 

“Friends,” some aristocrat interposed, “we are all here blessed with the faculty of reason, why enslave yourselves so to blind impulse? Rushing headlong can only magnify our troubles.” Hands clasped, he turned to meet Radagon's eyes. “Defer your decision, My Lord, until we know if recovery is even possible.”

 

(See, that's the problem with the Scarlet Rot – of the myriad eldritch forces that sought to in some way supplant the Erdtree, it was far and away the hardest to subdue.

 

The Frenzied Flame – once that fatalistic ember within all men's hearts was stoked – needed precious time to grow into something truly malignant; it thrived on subterfuge, subversion, quietly kindling in those dark, forgotten places spurned by Order's grace. Once discovered, stamping it out was a relatively forthright affair (after eons, the Greater Will knew damn well how to fight it), though some spark would, invariably, slip through your fingers, and another blaze would at length begin to stir.

 

The Formless Mother, meanwhile, was a creature of desperation, a patron of the lonely and dispossessed, those wretches in the mud begging someone, anyone – anything – to wipe their tears. As such, while never exactly wanting for worship, it was the sort of deity to at most enjoy a persistent adherence at the fringes, constitutionally bereft of mass appeal. Smash one cult when it gets a little uppity, and the rest will fall over themselves to scurry back underground, the accursed blood handily mellowed with periodic letting.

 

But the Rot?

 

It was feral.

 

All the Outer Gods demanded vigilance – close your eyes, and they'd eat you alive – but the Rot just couldn't be planned around. There were no clever tricks, no magic bullets, only weathering the storm as best you could, while throwing everything you can right back at it – drowning it in rival divinity. 

 

Survival, then, say nothing of healing, depended as much on honest strength as sheer dumb luck: fight back hard enough, knock enough wood, and you just might convince it to take its toys and leave.

 

If that doesn't work …

 

There's a reason even the God-Queen couldn't cure Malenia.)

 

“I would point … ”

 

“It is written … ” 

 

“The Stars portend … ” 

 

Like a playground slap-fight, the rest of their sound and fury merits no dictation; all said and done, they hammered out a firm commitment to trust Radagon's judgment, and revisit the issue some undetermined time in the unspecified future.

 

As I said, toothless. 

 

Having reached the end of the day's agenda, and gotten about as much out of the lickspittles as he could reasonably expect, Radagon adjourned his Parliament with the customary recitations – feeling quite satisfied with themselves, the councilors filed from the hall, huddled together into their little gossipy cliques, bowing to their lord as they rambled past his Erdwood throne.

 

When the last of them doddered away, doors slamming shut behind him, the room fell silent.

 

The Elden Lord glared at a patch of shadow lurking beyond the benches, beneath a perimetric colonnade.

 

“And what guidance hast you to offer?”

 

My veil slipped, and I wordlessly stepped into the light.

 

Sneering cunt she was, Marika largely dismissed the ground-level stuff, taxes and laws and the like – her chief concerns were far more transcendental – though she still, for prudence’s sake, kept an eye on the latest developments, or at least the broadest of strokes in the most superficial of terms.

 

To that end, every once in a while, when the reports began to cloy, she'd descend from on high to eavesdrop on her own government, and covertly take as direct a look at the affairs of state she could without actually deigning to participate. 

 

Almost like a game, really.

 

She never did outgrow that childish sense of mischief.

 

“This marks the eighth such incursion in fivesome years,” he pressed, “and a grievous one, at that. Your intervention notwithstanding.”

 

Nearing my nominal husband, I glanced at the war spoils hanging from the gallery, the shelves of scrolls lining the walls, the statue of the God-Queen looming tall behind the throne.

 

Golden finery jingled with each step.

 

Radagon rose to his feet, eyes boring into mine.

 

“Omen births are up by half, Misbegotten by a third. The Deathroot now spreads as far as Liurnia. Godskin have been sighted in the Dragonbarrow.”

 

I knew all this already, of that he was doubtlessly well aware – the Inquisition was nothing if meticulous – but the demands of rhetoric evidently overshadowed any qualms about redundancy.

 

“Miquella ignores all summons. Ranni remains at large. Since you named him Prefect, Radahn's army hath tripled in size.” A ghost of a sneer cracked through his composure. “Say nothing of Rykard's debauchery.”

 

A mere five paces stood between us.

 

“And the absentee queen hath forsaken her crown.”

 

None of the smugness or triumph, like he'd gotten one over on me, that some might imagine could be gleaned from his tone – quite the contrary, it firmly maintained that characteristic sobriety.

 

He was simply stating the facts.

 

“What of it?” I sniffed; practiced King's smothered my instinctive Welsh.

 

“Something must be done.”

 

Something drastic, something decisive, something King Consort Radagon just hadn’t the authority – spiritual or otherwise – to do himself; it's no small feat to save a sinking ship.

 

“Well, your spaniels seem to have things well in hand.” My head tilted, lips curled, voice dripped with derision. “Mayhaps they could form a committee.”

 

His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, the rest of him still as a stone; for a time, he studied me. 

 

Finally, a shallow nod – “Had I not already known,” Radagon said, “I would never have seen the difference. Thou mak’st a very convincing Marika.”

 

Papers tucked under his arm, he then marched off to his next appointment.

 

The status quo, Order's present configuration – this Radagon championed, above any articulated principle or creed. In his mind, chained as it was to logical inquiry, the world was thus, and thus always should be, the particulars secondary to its being so.

 

The reactionary to his other half's revolutionary.

 

Neither of us much liked him – too rigid, too didactic – but he did have a point.

 

Something must be done.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

The Doom of Valyria fell on a holiday. 

 

Daevaria, it was called, the annual celebration of the Tyrannicides, whose legendary slaying of the autarch Haelys supposedly founded their oligarchic mess of a government.

 

Fourteen days of gifting and feasting, public games and riotous orgies, capped with the sacrifice of twenty virgin maids at the hilltop Temple of Arrax Best and Greatest; then, another week of gaiety.

 

(In earlier times, as I understand it, the festivities only lasted a couple of days – but as the Valyrians grew ever more assured in their dominance, so too did their appetites.)

 

Across the breadth of the empire, from the ice floes of Lorath to the steaming jungles of Gogossos, the ruling elite – the governors and generals, plutocrats and priests – clearing their calendars and packing their bags, fobbing off their duties onto half-trained flunkies, made for the City to join in the fun.

 

And they took their dragons with them. 

 

Those dragons, you see, won the Valyrians that empire, and the mere threat of their flames was the glue that held it all together – the freeholders’ substitute for the conventional mores of statecraft. After all, when you’ve thousands of the world's biggest sticks, why lower yourself to compromise, or suffer the indignity of toleration?

 

For a while, at least, it worked quite well for them.

 

But when the Fourteen Flames roared, smoke blotting the skies and quakes rocking the earth, it didn't take long for word of the capital's devastation to spread, and for millennia of eminently well-earned resentment to surge all at once to the fore. As their slaves, baying for vengeance, started pulling at their chains, those masters who remained – for the first time in their lives – knew what it was to feel vulnerable.

 

The flames that engulfed Eternal Valyria thus ravaged all corners of the continent.

 

What choice had the Essosi, then, over the centuries that followed, but to squabble over its corpse?

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

As I pushed my way through the stinking, rambling, jostling crowd, hobnails clicking against the dusty cobblestones, a gap-toothed hawker thrust a bruised cantaloupe under my nose – “Three coppers,” he crowed. “Good deal!” 

 

That he hadn't burst into flames was a testament to my self-control.

 

‘The armpit of the world … ’

 

Look, I didn't much care for Pentos.

 

Harsh of me, perhaps. Insensitive. Impolitic. There were, I'll admit, far worse places to be, and I'm sure it boasted a proud history and vibrant culture, a rich tapestry of … whatever, etcetera, this, that, and the other thing. 

 

Indeed, as I understand it, when the city's mongrelized underclass cast off their silver-haired oppressors, and dove headfirst into the grueling endeavor of nation-building, they found themselves in need of an identity – and within the mystery meat beige that was their demographic stew, Andal blood ran thickest (a lingering consequence of geography), so it was there, the trappings of Hugor’s bygone kingdom, that they turned when inventing one. Atop the familiar Valyrian mercantilism, a staple of the so-called Free Cities, Pentos’ new rulers slathered a thin coat of nobility: nominal knights and puppet princes, courtly manner and martial glory, enough to look distinctive without materially crossing into the ‘primitive’ feudalism of their Westerosi ‘cousins.’ 

 

The self-styled inheritors of the grand Andal tradition, they set out to carve their place in the sun – all for the glory of the Seven, of course. 

 

But, in 209, after a dozen wars too many, Braavos neutered them, and the Pentoshi abandoned their perfectly respectable dreams of empire, settling instead for being the continent's breadbasket, the green hills of Andalos among those few locales still fertile enough to serve as such – the south, even as far up as Myr, steadily desertified in the years following the Doom, the north comprised mostly of humid marsh, while the formerly prosperous plains to the east had been utterly scoured by Dothraki. 

 

Vast plantations now filled the surrounding hinterlands, worked by thousands and thousands of indentured drudges, with millions of tons of produce a year shipped as far as Qarth.

 

All things considered, they did rather well for themselves.

 

“ – to see you! How's the – ”

 

“ – careful, boy, careful! Don't drop – ”

 

“ – hundred silver? That's too expensive – ” 

 

I just couldn't be arsed to care.

 

Really, if you've seen one city, you've seen them all.

 

A barefooted urchin swiped at the baubles dangling around my hips; a quick glare – black sclera, coruscating gold – and he apparently thought the better of it, skittering off into an alleyway.

 

At the end of the day, Pentos was just as much a toilet as the rest.

 

I made up my mind to leave the minute I got off the boat.

 

“Why in the Seven Hells are you so insistent on this?” Brynden groused, her voice dangerously close to a whine. “Can we not afford even a day of rest?”

 

A stray dog yelped as I kicked it out of the street.

 

“You can rest in Volantis.”

 

(Not that I was under any illusion Volantis would be much better, but at least there we'd be closer to Valyria.)

 

With her cheeks puffed up in childish indignation, I half expected Brynden to stomp her feet.

 

She blushed at my raised brow.

 

“You spent the last fifty years plugged into a tree. One would think you'd have a little more patience.”

 

“I – ” The girl pursed her lips, chagrined. Opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again – perhaps realizing that continuing to beat her head against the wall wouldn't reflect too well on her maturity – she returned to her vaguely nauseous contemplation (a constant since King's Landing) and fell back in line with the others

 

The old Valyrian city walls, once towering things of fused black stone (its true name long forgotten, this ‘dragonstone’ was the linchpin of Freeholder architecture – think Roman concrete), had fallen with the rest of the empire, smashed in the frenzy of revolution, then cannibalized for material. Their replacement, a brick-faced curtain of the Aurelian sort, built and rebuilt over centuries of strife, did well enough keeping the riff-raff out, but simply hadn’t the depth, nor the garrison, to be more than a speed bump against a proper army.

 

Bribery, then – tribute and trade , as they insisted on euphemizing it – had thus become key to Pentoshi strategy, even something of a national art. Gold and coin, steel and mail, livestock and real estate, they gave the warbands knocking at their walls a stake in the city's continued prosperity, incentive to keep their predations to an acceptable minimum, and to hold their fellow marauders back from dipping too hard or too often – it just wouldn't do to kill the cash cow, after all.

 

Accordingly, the Pentoshi countryside (to the extent that it could truly be called ‘theirs’) was about as safe as Essos could be, largely free from the banditry and conflict that marked those lands nearer the shattered peninsula, or beyond the mainstem Rhoyne. 

 

Safe enough, at any rate, for a veritable conveyor belt of overland caravans to – back and forth, day and night, unmolested, undefended – cart the forementioned produce into the city to feed that great export machine, then load themselves heavy with manufactured goods for resale back out in the sticks.

 

“No caravans at all?”

 

The depot master shook his head.

 

“Not that far south.”

 

Terminals and warehouses – like the one I'd just barged into, making a beeline for the official-looking fellow sat behind the nicest-looking desk – filled the district closest to the walls, sprawling out and butting up, where every bushel of grain that passed through the gates was logged and parceled and stamped for shipment (probably a logistical necessity, doubtlessly a bureaucratic hassle).

 

Arms crossed, pointer finger tapping against my elbow, I pursed my lips.

 

“Any roads, at least?”

 

A grunt. “Just the Valyrian. Or the overgrown rubble of it, anyhow.” Peering over his shoulder, the depot master barked an order at a passing clerk, then scribbled a note onto his slate, before returning his attention to me. “I wouldn't chance it, not without some years to spare and a phalanx of Unsullied.”

 

I bit back a sigh; I'd all the time in the world, and not the slightest inclination to spend any more of it tromping about the bush.

 

The Riverlands were bad enough.

 

“Look,” he placated – something must've shown on my face. “If it’s going to Volantis, it's going over water. You know, along the coast, around the Stepstones. Straight down the Rhoyne, maybe, if you're in a real hurry … ” He grimaced, as if struck by an unwelcome memory, and rested his stylus on the desk. “But that river has its own share of problems.”

 

Now there was an idea; I pressed him.

 

“The Rhoyne – it's faster than the open sea, then?”

 

I refused, categorically, to teleport there, to take the easy way, and slough off yet more of mortality's tedium – arbitrary as it might've been to die on this , of all hills, having flattened so many others.

 

Have to draw the line somewhere.

 

Searching for the words, he frowned at the ceiling. “It's shorter. Geographically.” A handwave. “More direct. Survive what it throws at you, and you'll probably get there in half the time.” He shrugged. “Hardly worth the risk, in my book. Let the mad Qohorik have it.”

 

As if I particularly cared for his opinion.

 

“How far is it from here?”

 

“A week's ride east, less if you push it. Just follow the Sphinx road until you hit the ruins – Goyin or somesuch, you'll know it when you see it.” Brow furrowed in concern, the depot master leaned forward with a nervous chuckle. “Again, though, I don't think – ” 

 

Mind already set, I strode away.

 

The Sunrise Gate, the easternmost of the city’s twelve, boasted a far grander name than it deserved; tarnished bronze and crumbling stone, some few meters shorter than the adjoining sections of wall, it was a holdover from the original construction, left unchanged first owing to necessity, then cost, then finally tradition.

 

We squeezed through the archway, too narrow by half for how much traffic it served, and crossed over into a sea of golden wheat, fuzzy purple hills budding in the distance. 

 

Here, just outside the walls, the road branched off in sundry different directions, the myriad forks as diverse as they were disorganized, from spindly gravel footpaths to the old imperial highways – these, the latter, were wide enough for sixteen riders to fit comfortably abreast, with glassy black statutes of abominable beasts plinthed at their respective medians; the forward stretch, an onyx ribbon running straight for the horizon, proudly bore a sphinx in repose, perky breasts jutting from a dragon's stocky barrel, and a young woman's delicate features frozen in orgasmic bliss.

 

Suppose the Valyrians thought milestones too pedestrian.

 

The blood magic, distasteful stuff, with which they'd molded and fused the dragonstone pavement hadn't survived the centuries; only a few tattered wisps of it still endured, fragmentary, illegible, shredded and left to rot. Although the stone itself remained more or less intact, it no longer enjoyed that preternatural invulnerability – riddled with cracks and divots, wheel ruts and potholes, patched with limestone or filled in with dirt, a road built to last ten thousand years thus barely limped to four hundred. 

 

It was a busy route, as you'd imagine, lumbering oxen and rattling wagons, traders and itinerants and the other expected usuals; and yet, even so, I hesitate to say that there was life to it. Stale, stifled, this was a practical place – an industrial park – sweeping latifundia latticed with irrigation canals, and studded with barracks and granaries. Our fellow travelers, tight schedules to keep, offered us only the briefest of dead-eyed glances, while the hunchbacked laborers shuffling through the exhausted fields, cringing from their overseer’s whips, kept heads down and hands full.

 

If one looked close enough, squinted through the dust clouds, they could almost see the mealworms feasting on the harvest.

 

A hundred miles of this, 2 days and some change of hard riding, before we cleared the flaxen wastes and ascended into the Velvet Hills. Named for the fuzz of lavender and fescue blanketing them from top to toe, they lay in a sweet spot, far enough from the city – and commanding uneven enough terrain – to be spared the worst ravages of agriculture, while still sitting well within the Pentoshi sphere of influence, and all the protections that entailed. 

 

Along the hillsides, within the valleys, flocks of sheep grazed beside ancient Andal megaliths, on smallholdings bounded by meadows and woods, the road gently rising through the landscape, and the sun shining bright through wispy cirrus skies.

 

A welcome reprieve from the horrors of civilization, it did nothing to lighten Brynden's mood.

 

She shared a horse with Ed, all but sitting in his lap; and every so often, with that stupid bloody blackbird of hers irritably circling above, she'd tap the boy on the thigh, spurring him to close the distance and ride right alongside me – she'd stare, face scrunched, weighing the cost of confrontation, before pouting and sighing and skulking away, then repeating the whole thing all over again. 

 

“Would you believe me if I said I forgot?”

 

Brynden cast me a side-eyed glance; I continued.

 

“The wildfire. I knew it was there, but … ” I clicked my tongue. “Got buried under the rest, I suppose. Just didn't register as all that important. People killing people, more of the same old song.”

 

A fragrant breeze, rustling grass and fluttering hair, hoofbeats clattering against the pavement.

 

“These things happen, you know – there's an awfully thin line between normalcy and catastrophe. Accept and move on, that's my advice.”

 

Keep moving forward.

 

What other choice was there?

 

Brynden's countenance called to mind a steel trap, or black hole – not a crumb of emotion manifest.

 

“It was my home,” she said.

 

“Some home,” I huffed – couldn't help myself. 

 

Pivoting in the saddle, she looked – really looked – at me, studying my face, eyes narrowed to slits.

 

“Have you have any principles at all?”

 

I let it pass unanswered.

 

“Entertainment … ” she muttered. “You laid it out forthright, but I didn't believe you. Not wholly. I thought it a mask, an exaggeration.”

 

The girl amusedly exhaled, her mouth absently curling into a sort of tremulous half-grin. 

 

“You're hardly even a person, are you? Just a … heap of naked cynicism. Not a care in the world.”

 

What was there to care for ? 

 

I'd won. 

 

The Outer Gods had been turned away, the Fingers smashed to pieces, the Empyreans denied their ascension.

 

The Lands Between had no more need of a God, a Ring, a Marika.

 

And I saw no more reason to impose.

 

“What,” Brynden chortled, “no clever little quips?”

 

Let the Erdtree wither, its searing light fade – retirement, I told myself, was more than enough.

 

It had to be.

 

“No point denying the obvious.”

Notes:

It lives.

Chapter 21: Interlude II – The Witness

The moon was bright.

 

The air was still.

 

An oar sliced through the stygian Rhoyne.

 

“No crickets,” Arano muttered, perched at the dinghy's bow. “Odd.”

 

Heaving, thrusting, rowing, Varoquo pricked his ears.

 

Nothing.

 

Fifty feet ahead of them, silent amidst the whispering reeds, a single-masted sloop sat dead in the water.

 

The Springtime Bride, by Varoquo's recollection, a regular on this route, one of those spartan passenger ferries – old repurposed freighters – that alleged itself the ‘premium option.’

 

Fewer termites than the competition, he supposed.

 

Its current captain, a bow-legged Braavosi, was all in all a straight shooter, in and out with minimal fuss. They'd an arrangement, you see, a regular toll: three hundred silver in exchange for safe passage, with another thirty more per passenger – or, on occasion, a passenger outright, for ransom or bondage or … leisure. 

 

Just the cost of doing business.

 

But tonight, no lanterns flickered in the dark, no signal flags fluttered from the mast, and no pilots stood lookout on the deck.

 

“Thinks he's clever,” Arano chuckled. “Blow out the candles and pretend no one's home, eh? Enough to fool a halfwit, maybe.”

 

Varoquo frowned – much as he tried, he couldn't shake his unease. In his experience, these riverboat crews usually knew better than to play games. 

 

“Someone got here before us.”

 

The Springtime Bride might've been theirs – there was, in theory, a system to these things – but he wasn’t so naive, not anymore, as to have any faith in a fellow thief’s honor. 

 

Arano shook his head. “Too tidy” – the average pirate wasn't exactly known for his restraint, after all. “Look,” he gestured, “it's practically fresh from the wharf.”

 

Varoquo huffed – heave, thrust, row. “Might be deliberate.” He spared a second to catch his breath. “A trophy, or something. Capture now, pick up later.”

 

Eyebrow raised, Arano absently brushed a hand over the hilt of his knife. “I guess we'll see.”

 

Lashing a rope around an overhanging spar, the pair hauled their dinghy right abeam the sloop, hulls knocking together as they both bobbed in place. Arano, after one last check of his kit, clambered over the bulwarks and onto the Springtime Bride; offering a hand, he then pulled his partner up with a full-throated grunt.

 

Ropes, buckets, canvas, everything on deck seemed just as it should've, nary a slashmark or bloodstain in sight.

 

Arano, a flash of merriment tugging at his lips, slapped the other man on the shoulder. “That's one point for me.”

 

“Just means they didn't fight back,” Varoquo countered, narrowed eyes scanning for movement.

 

Boots thumping against the boards, rigging groaning above, the pirates warily scratched about, kicking barrels and lifting hatches, slowly working their way towards the cabin.

 

“Don't like the feel of this.” Varoquo's instincts rarely served him wrong, and in that moment, they were screaming.

 

For all the bravado beating in his chest, Arano couldn't bring himself to disagree.

 

Squinting through the shadows, the pair approached the cabin door – hardened oak, iron-banded, latched and locked shut.

 

The faintest specks of light were peeking through the cracks.

 

A scrape.

 

A whine.

 

A thud.

 

Varoquo and Arano whipped around, blades flying from their sheathes – the Springtime Bride's captain scrambled up from the hold, trembling hands seizing Arano by the arms.

 

“What are you doing here?!” the Braavosi hissed.

 

They shoved him away, Arano squaring his shoulders as he backpedaled a step, Varoquo leveling his rapier at their assailant's throat.

 

“You must leave!” Bloodshot eyes, sweat-soaked shirt, he looked like he hadn't slept in days. “You must! It is not … the … you will wake her!”

 

The pirates exchanged glances.

 

“Look, mate,” Arano plowed through his building sense of alarm, “we ain't budging ‘til we get what we're owed.”

 

The captain lurched closer, undeterred by the blades pricking his skin. “Double, triple next time!” Fingers raking through matted hair, he was all but begging on his knees. “Please, just –” 

 

Quiet.

 

Knees locked, breath caught, hair stood on end.

 

Varoquo felt it carve into his bones – something was right behind him.

 

“Y-your Worship,” the captain blubbered, eyes wide, hands clasped, “I beg – ”

 

Need I repeat myself?

 

His throat seized, teeth clacked together, and he shrank and cringed away, gaze fixed down at the deck boards.

 

Air thickening, the presence shifted; its attention scraping his soul, Varoquo dared not face it.

 

A second's scrutiny lasted for eternity.

 

How droll.

 

The sliding of silk.

 

The heady reek of ozone.

 

A knife clattered to the ground; Arano started to scream.

 

Thrumming heat, a simmering mirage, the eldritch chime of reality cracking.

 

Then, silence.

 

Your payment.

 

Inspecting its handiwork, the being stalked out into the open, form silhouetted in the moonlight – too tall, too lithe, too fluid.

 

I trust this is enough? 

 

What followed passed in a blur, garbled mumbles into ringing ears, shapeless flashes into clouded eyes.

 

All Varoquo truly recalled was the throat-tearing agony frozen on Arano's face, sculpted from solid gold.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

“ … one of my best men! I refuse to see this insult go unanswered!”

 

“An insult for which you've been amply compensated.”

 

“How dare you!”

 

Piracy was a business.

 

It was barbarous, of course, parasitic, degenerate, the substantiated lust of the scum of the earth, suffused with a certain self-serving romanticism.

 

Nevertheless, fundamentally, a business. 

 

And like any other business, it had its own politics.

 

“How dare I? You poked someone you damn well shouldn't have, thank the good gods above you only lost a man!”

 

“Spare me the puffery! This is a witch we're facing, not a god!”

 

“Unnatural all the same!”

 

Profit being the fruit of strength, the lion's share of pirates – exempting only the outliers, the rawest and the saltiest, and the notoriously unreliable – confederated themselves into fleets, syndicates, rackets, strength enough to be found in numbers.

 

No less than five plagued Dagger Lake, each boasting dozens of crews.

 

These were markedly loose arrangements, understand, no formalized management or oversight, say nothing of codes or constitutions; held together by mutual self-interest, apelike posturing, and perhaps a charismatic figurehead or two, the fleets – for all their talk of fraternity – chiefly served as forums for grievances, cheaper venues for dispute resolution than battling it out on the water.

 

Honest cooperation (much to the benefit of most everybody else) was a rarity in this line of work.

 

“Such timidity! And here I thought you were a man!”

 

“What you call timidity, I call sense! Let the matter lie!”

 

“If we allow – !”

 

“It is not human.”

 

Cradling an untouched cup, numb gaze tracing the table’s woodgrain, Varoquo only realized that he'd spoken aloud when the rest of the room, mouths clapping shut, expectantly turned his way. 

 

He swallowed.

 

“Whatever it is, it is not human.”

 

The hush lingered, heavy with wordless disquietude.

 

Finally, a sneer – “Risk yours all you'd like, I refuse to risk mine.”

 

With that, the dissenting captains filed from the commons, returning to their own; and the self-styled admiral, swollen with pride, sailed forth in pursuit with a squadron of six.

 

Later that day, as sunset's crimson crept across the sky, hundreds of bodies washed upon the shore, waves lapping at carbonized flesh.

 

The pirates never bothered the Springtime Bride again.

Chapter 22: Chapter 20

The Rhoynar believed that the world, as they knew it, began amidst calamity.

 

When the Age of Gods came crashing down, a kindly Goddess, one of hundreds, fled the heavens above, seeking refuge on the earth below. The Darkness, however, was rapacious – hidden in a sanctified grove, the Goddess watched, and wept, as Night fell upon the land, and the prostrate masses cried for deliverance. 

 

Her powers paled to the hideous evil arrayed against the good, the just, the living. She was a minor deity, a celestial afterthought, no prayers or temples in her name, and weakened further still by the ongoing collapse.

 

Herself, or humanity, she'd only the strength to save one.

 

The Goddess trembled in fear, but her compassion burned the brighter. 

 

So she plunged a dagger deep into her breast, sawing from end to end; falling lifeless, her blood turned to water, veins to creek beds, skin and hair to soil and grass. Her sacrifice birthed a river, strong and smooth, clean and bright, a sanctuary free from the Darkness and its terrors.

 

As Night raged on, the scattered remnants of a hundred fallen nations sheltered along its banks – until, at last, the morning sun glimmered over the horizon.

 

That’s the story, anyways.

 

Whatever the case, it's hard to overstate just how central the river Rhoyne was to the Rhoynar way of life. Every facet, every angle, every verse – everything – in some way hinged on the ‘Mother.’

 

Hell, they named themselves after it.

 

Beyond the river proper, though (as if it wasn't enough), this reverence also extended to the wider landscape, taken in its totality, and the manifold species that dwelled there.

 

Most dramatic, doubtlessly, was their worship of the giant snapping turtles, poetically known as the ‘Old Men of the River.’ Savage things, barbed horns and crooked beaks, surviving scriptures extoll them as the erstwhile Goddess’ heavenly consorts (or fragments of a consort, singular – time has stripped away much of the finer nuance), reborn in earthly flesh. It follows, then, that the Rhoynar attended them scrupulously, obsessively, exhaustively, affording them the highest honors and utmost courtesy.

 

Put simply, these turtles were at once beloved pets, venerated elders, and adulated idols – just about as celebrated as anything could be.

 

And in 951 BC, the idiot son of a Valyrian nabob decided to go on a hunt.

 

Later depictions invariably succumb to the temptation of animal metaphor – a black-scaled dragon, spittle and flame, crushing the turtle between its jaws, or gnawing the poor thing's throat out, or roasting it alive within its own shell, Valyrian brutality pit against Rhoynar sagacity. Period accounts, meanwhile, are decidedly (deliberately, mayhaps) sparse on the incident's details, with no specific references to most anything, really, other than the fact a turtle was killed. 

 

Personally, given the culprit’s standing – a provincial notable, a big fish in a small pond, a cousin of a cousin, branch of a branch, theoretically related to the third son of an actual dragonlord somewhere through the distaff side – I suspect he went about the deed in much the same way you'd try for an elephant: with a long spear, firm grip, and several dozen of your closest friends.

 

Regardless, had the idiot kept things quiet, perhaps the whole affair would've gone unnoticed, or at least unsolved, and he'd have enjoyed a long, fruitful life of genteel foppery.

 

But he just had to brag. 

 

Parading his kill through the streets of Volon Therys (a semi-independent colony of Volantis, itself a colony of Valyria), the idiot nailed the carcass to the rostrum, all but proclaiming himself conqueror of the Rhoyne, then divvied up its meat at a grand public feast, commemorative trinkets fashioned from its bones.

 

Incensed, Sar Mell, the nearest Rhoynar city-state, demanded the idiot's head, and answered the inevitable refusal with a declaration of war, armies soon clashing up and down the adjoining floodplains. By the third week's close, eager for a victory before the Freehold proper took notice, the Rhoynish hydromancers called upon their Mother – storm clouds swirling, the waters swelled, and half of Volon Therys was swept off into oblivion.

 

The river-worshipers won decisively, the idiot paid dearly for his transgression (accounts differ), and the colony was crippled for generations to come; but the First Turtle War, as it came to be called, ultimately spelled the doom of the Rhoynar civilization.

 

It gave the Valyrians a reason.

 

The War of Three Princes, the War on Dagger Lake, the Second and Third Turtle, Fisherman's, Salt, and Spice – each new decade brought with it another casus belli , another grand offensive, another terrible atrocity. And each time, the Valyrians pushed that much farther, inflicted that much more destruction, and emerged that much more victorious.

 

By the turn of the seventh century, only 5 of the classical 13 Rhoyne principalities remained. 

 

The Second Spice War began when the Triarchs of Volantis somehow convinced a trio of teenage dragonlords, youthful scions of the capital’s preeminent houses, to join them in the destruction of their longtime rival, Sarhoy: the last – and greatest – Rhoynar port on the Summer Sea, steep in decline, as vulnerable as it ever had been.

 

They weren't even bothering with pretense anymore.

 

One bright summer day, unexpected, undeclared, the Volantenes stormed the city, put the men to sword, had their way with the women, clapped the children in chains; dragons circling above, baggage flush with booty, they set the streets aflame, blasted the locks of the canals, then salted the smoking ruins so that, in the words of Maester Yandel, “Sarhoy might never rise again.”

 

While those around him lost themselves to hysteria, frantically preparing their exiles – “Sarhoy first,” they cried, “our homes next!” – Prince Garin of Chroyane dug in his heels, leveraging every favor and leaning on every connection, and per ancient custom called a summit; delegates from all cities, all towns, all distant colonies and far-flung outposts – all places where the Rhoynar nation still endured – soon amassed on the shores of a sacred lagoon.

 

Standing before the collective leadership of his race, normally so absorbed in their own petty squabbles, the Prince roused them to action – “Fight, he exhorted, “while we still have the strength to do so! Avenge our countrymen, dear comrades, wash away the stink of sulfur! Fight, fight, for freedom, for glory! Even a dragon may be brought low!”

 

(That speech – the words, that is to say – was invented whole cloth by later historians, but I like to think there's a certain gravitas to it.)

 

Amidst uproarious chanting and applause, Nymeria of Ny Sar shook her head, gathering her attendants as she withdrew to her barge. “This is a war we cannot hope to win,” she said, but her caution was drowned by the cheers.

 

The united Rhoynar scraped together a host a quarter-million strong, thrusting a spear into the hands of every man from 16 to 60, and any woman who happened to pass as such. Under Garin's leadership, this haphazard force charged down the Rhoyne, capturing Selhorys, then Valysar, and then Volon Therys, all in the space of a month. For this, they hailed their commander the ‘Great,’ before converging upon Volantis itself; where, on the plains just outside the walls, they enveloped and annihilated some hundred thousand of the city's finest, their hydromancers plucking that trio of dragonlords from the skies – one managed to hack his way to safety, but howling mobs of infantry dragged the other two from their saddles, then impaled their beaten bodies on the top of a nearby hill.

 

Now that it touched some of their own, the Freehold proper finally took notice.

 

Two nights later, victory celebrations still raging down below, more than three hundred dragons, the most to take the field since the days of old Ghis, blotted out the stars, and the might of Valyria's forty families set upon the Rhoynar encampment.

 

Come the dawn, of the sum of Garin's host, only several dozen remained – the standout prizes, the ‘choicest cuts,’ among them the shellshocked Prince himself.

 

With a token force of some thousand-odd Volantenes bringing up the rear, the dragons flew North, torching everything that crossed their path and torturing their captives every step of the way, a tribute to the memory of those ‘poor, murdered boys.’ Upon reaching Chroyane, they stuck Garin in a golden cage (a literary reference, apparently), and hung it from the top of the city’s tallest spire, the perfect perch from which to behold its downfall.

 

“A place of honor for His Highness!” they supposedly taunted. “Enjoy the welcome party!” 

 

With his people's cries piercing through the flames, Garin's thoughts turned to the Mother.

 

He drew the shiv that he'd hidden in his boot.

 

What actually happened next, the mechanics of Garin's Curse, as it came to be called, remains something of a mystery – no one survived to testify. Some posit that the river reared up like a cobra, and swallowed the marauding Valyrians whole. Others envision a noxious cloud, “full of evil humors,” inflicting greyscale on whoever it touched. Raging storms, vengeful dead, the theories run the gamut from mundane to absurd – magic on this scale, you can't rule anything out.

 

And if you put any stock in folklore, the dragonlords are still there, trapped beneath the water, grasping for warmth they'll never find, cold breath rising to fog.

 

Clicking his tongue, Ed scrutinized the time-worn dragon bones crumpled amidst the waterlogged rubble.

 

“They really were cunts, weren't they?”

 

Brynden took a second, eyes narrowed in befuddlement, then turned to face the Ironman.

 

 “Your lot's hardly better.”

 

For as much as Lord Bloodraven had styled himself a First Man, it was his Targaryen half with which he'd always, in his heart, truly identified – the blood of the dragon ran hot and thick.

 

Ed scoffed. “We've standards. Milk the beast, don’t butcher it.”

 

The girl raised a brow.  “You're parasites, then.”

 

Shaking his head, Ed gave her his full attention. “Predators.” A finger pointed for emphasis. “Predators. Just … selective, is all.”

 

“Vultures,” Brynden declared, “bludgeoning each other for a pair of shoes – calling that a culture, then inflicting it on the rest of us.”

 

Ed pursed his lips. “And what were the Valyrians, but the world's greatest reavers?” He gestured all around him. “What do you call this, eh?”

 

“Wasteful,” I answered.

 

Chroyane was once known as the ‘Festival City’ – a place of flowers and ivy, pink marble and gold leaf, tinkling fountains and teeming gardens, jubilant crowds dancing down the boulevard, air thick with music and perfume.

 

Now, the statues lie toppled, the columns smashed, domes crumbling; with damp grey moss enshrouding melted stone, broken spires and roofless towers thrust blindly through the pea-soup fog, as the half-collapsed skeletons of gilded palaces silently moldered in the gloom.

 

‘Babylon is fallen … ’

 

Filmy brine rippling across the bow, our boat crept between the ruined piers of a monumental viaduct, the erstwhile ‘Bridge of Dream,’ long since shattered and sunken. 

 

Bit too on the nose, if you ask me.

 

Beacon lamps had been strung along the remnants of its fluted arches (kept alight by an honor system, for as much as such a thing was possible in Essos), warning passing mariners of the chunks of debris skulking beneath the surface, and the ‘stone men’ – feral, deformed, late-stage victims of greyscale – who lurked amongst the wreckage; these stone-skinned apparitions in soiled linen shrouds watched lifeless, unmoving, unblinking, as we sailed through the fallen city.

 

Reduced to little more than animals, the afflicted were notorious for their rabid aggression; in fact, some scholars theorize that, to further spread itself, the malady induces a sort of bestial drive to violence, and perhaps that’s even true, on some biological level – but there was clearly more to it than that. Dragonscale is a magical disease, after all.

 

The magic here, the energy, the essence, scorched by Valyrian dragonfire, then drowned in Garin's enmity, no longer bore any structure, say nothing of animating will; it was shapeless, shattered, but still saturated the water, the wind, every brick and every stone, a phantom haunting Chroyane's corpse, even after a millennium.

 

It reminded me of the Weirwoods, really – a holdover, an anachronism, one last gasp of the Age of Heroes, of the world before the rot, of a like may never seen again. At Chroyane, along the Rhoyne, some flavor of magic – as uncorrupted as it could be – eked out a second chance, or at least a vestigial rump, but man's inhumanity to man had, as always, proved insatiable.

 

If those trees were an archive, then this city was a tomb.

 

An arm propped against my hip, the other leaning on a bulwark, I shot a prying glance at a much too ruminative Thoros. 

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve something to add?”

 

Blinking, the priest gave a tentative chuckle, fidgetly scratching his cheek.

 

“ … May the departed find peace.”

 

A snort.

 

“Call yourself a preacher?” I gesticulated. “C'mon, put some brimstone into it.”

 

Thoros wrung his hands, gaze flicking down at the deck boards. “That is all there is to say.”

 

Crossing my arms, I leaned my arse against the railing. “I've never known a man of god to be so indifferent.”

 

Watching the ruins roll by, he took a moment to gather his words. “What happened here was a tragedy, truly. But … ” A breath through pursed lips. “Man's quarrels are man's concern. Not the Lord's,” he finished lamely.

 

“Awfully callous.”

 

(As if I had room to talk.)

 

He swallowed. “The fight against the Other is the only one that matters.”

 

“And do you really believe that?”

 

If Thoros had an answer, he elected not to share it – elbows on his knees, bags under his eyes, he instead gave me a look, then slumped back into his navel-gazing.

 

R'hllor, the silent spectator, evidently cared not a whit.

 

We continued our journey downriver, and as the stone husks of the Sorrows shrank into the distance, fetid swamp gradually yielded to sunbaked desert – scraggly bunchgrass and desiccated treestumps, barren saltpans and leathery mudcracks, hellishly hot and unbearably stale, the land itself bled dry. 

 

The Lower Rhoyne, the “cyvasse board of empires,” wasn't urbanized per se (far too depopulated for that); but enough settlements had, at one time or another, occupied that stretch to call it well-developed, if since reclaimed by the wilds. Huddled on the riverside, the towns and hamlets that we passed along the way – Selhorys, Valysar, Volon Therys … – were pitiable things: tired, dilapidated, half-abandoned, browbeaten middlemen in the singular service of the region’s biggest stick, busier and busier the further we traveled south – the closer we neared their hegemon.

 

“Any advice, Lord Commander?”

 

“No.” Her frown deepened. “This is my first time.”

 

I hummed. “Not even through your birds?”

 

“Too much interference,” she distractedly muttered – then, a grimace. “Not worth visiting, anyways.”

 

There, in the distance, at the brackish confluence of the river and the sea, loomed the Freehold's First Daughter.

 

Volantis.

 

What a shithole. 

Chapter 23: Chapter 21

Upon reflection, Volantis wasn't much grungier than the other urbanities that I'd heretofore graced with my magnificence; barring the usual rubbish, of course (it was still a city , understand, full of people , some amount of squalor was a given), it in fact struck me as somewhat well-ordered, more so than I’d come to expect from this world: the streets were crowded, yes, but not alarmingly so, buildings passably intact for their obvious age, and the sewers only slightly overburdened.

 

In other words, as far as tidiness and such went, I'd rank Volantis – the place – solidly average, unremarkable even, deserving neither praise nor condemnation.

 

What left a bad taste was the society.

 

Whereas the other Free Cities, upon their becoming ‘Free,’ enthusiastically ousted what remained of Valyrian authority, or otherwise made great pains to publicly wash their hands of the previous administration, the Volantenes proudly trumpeted themselves as the Freehold’s rightful heirs, or natural successors, or legal continuation (they were quite inconsistent about it). 

 

Electing as triarchs their most incorrigible jingoists (‘Tigers,’ these hawks christened themselves, something about fierceness and strength), they mustered their citizen legions – at that time the finest force on the continent, unbloodied by unrest or revolution – and embarked on a grand crusade to restore ‘their’ empire. 

 

Pronged assaults from land and sea, Myr and Lys fell in rather short order – Tyrosh, however, when they finally got around to it some three decades after the Doom, proved a far tougher nut to crack. While its ragtag army had been soundly beaten in the field, the city itself seemed all but impregnable, steep dragonstone walls squatting atop a rocky islet, several miles offshore. Here, on the coast, the Volantene advance stalled; and when their blockade failed to starve the defenders out, they resorted to building a causeway, days dragging into weeks dragging into months.

 

The city's neighbors, faced with a common enemy – and the all-too-real possibility that they'd be next on the block – cast aside their budding rivalries, and lavished upon besieged Tyrosh every manner of aid and assistance. Braavosi galleys, laden with Pentoshi supplies, smashed through the Volantene cordon, fresh-faced volunteers reinforcing the dwindling garrison, expeditionary armies nipping at the invaders’ rear.

 

And as the battle devolved into a house-to-house quagmire, swallowing more and more troops from across the First Daughter's domain, the previous conquests – the boot on their necks that much lighter – rose together in rebellion.

 

The Volantenes, to their credit, quickly recognized just how untenable their position had become, and how intolerably high the cost of this adventure had accrued. So after five grueling years, they abandoned the siege, linking up with those few battered cohorts who'd escaped from Lys and Myr, mounting a successful fighting retreat all the way to Valysar; though bloodied and bruised, the core of their army, the irreplaceable cadres, made it home more or less intact.

 

Although this fiasco nearly ended them, politics has its own inertia, and the Tigers clung to their electoral majority just by the skin of their teeth. Doubling down, they rebuilt, rearmed, sacked the scapegoats and promoted the well-connected, opening recruitment to subjects and slaves – and after licking their wounds, Volantis once more took the offensive.

 

Having learned from the last go around, Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr, rather than turtling up, met their mutual enemy out on the wilting savanna; the war, for these next several decades, was one of complex maneuver, battles and feints and marches. 

 

For brevity's sake, I won't expound (I doubt most anyone cares that general so-and-so thrashed commander whatshisname at god-knows-where), but the Volantenes met far greater resistance than they might’ve hoped – victories pyrrhic, attrition ruinous, on the whole they'd a rather rough time of it.

 

Rougher still when the rest of the world smelt the blood in the water.

 

The Dothraki hordes, fresh off their annihilation of the Sarnori Kingdoms, started to probe at the unguarded eastern border.

 

Qohor and Norvos, ever the opportunists, burned the fleet at Dagger Lake, granting them control over the river trade.

 

Argilac the Arrogant, last Durrandon king of the Stormlands, showed up, unprompted, with thirty thousand levies, and after a year of campaigning, smashed a Volantene army outside the walls of Myr – his idea of a holiday, I suppose.

 

Finally, envoys from the ‘Triple Alliance,’ as they now called themselves, approached Aerion Targaryen, the Archon of Dragonstone island, last of the Valyrian dragonlords. Aerion hadn't the stomach for war, but his young son, Aegon, dripped with ambition – mounting dread Balerion, he flew across the sea, and for a month or so, until he got bored, wreaked upon the Volantenes that particular brand of havoc for which he'd later become so notorious.

 

Amidst such a deluge, the Tigers tried one last desperate gamble, commandeering every private ship, every spare sailor, then sending the resultant patchwork armada to ‘reclaim’ shattered Valyria – the whole lot promptly disappeared in the Smoking Sea, never to be seen again.

 

This folly, more than anything, coming as it did at the direct expense of so many prominent names, drove the final nail in the Tigers’ proverbial coffin. A rival party, the ‘Elephants’ – the ‘wise’ and ‘temperate,’ champions of the merchants and moneylenders whose bottom lines the war had so heartlessly ravaged – swept that year's elections, and set to work negotiating a peace on as favorable terms as they could.

 

So ended the Century of Blood.

 

Volantis still may have been among the richest, largest, and strongest of the Free Cities – maybe even the single most powerful, looking at the entire picture, not being quite so specialized as the others – but it certainly hadn’t come out unscathed, in many material ways a mere shadow of its former self. 

 

(Truthfully, that it remained such a dominant player at all probably had less to do with its actual merits as a civilization than how hard it is to squander such an advantageous start.)

 

Five slaves for every freeman, the conflict saw the death of a quarter of the city’s citizens, their numbers having never truly recovered, and those lineages that survived of noticeably lesser stock – nothing so dysgenic as a war. The economy was a brittle, volatile thing, permanently scarred by the postwar depression, ever more reliant on the mass importation of cheap, unskilled, expendable labor; the once-vaunted legions were now paper tigers, hollowed-out by quarreling cliques of mamluks and janissaries, chronically shiftless and hopelessly inept; the government was as bloated as it was impotent, as factionalized as it was sclerotic, a Byzantine tangle of intractable corruption and immovable bureaucracy.

 

Their day had passed, their sun had set, but the Volantenes simply hadn’t cared to realize it yet, snug in their redoubt as the world around them shriveled to dust.

 

After several weeks on the Rhoyne, our boat had landed at one of the city's riverside quays, disembarking with minimal fuss; the captain – never did get his name – scuttled away without looking back, and the customs inspectors, getting one good look at me, waived the customary bribes.

 

We’d been there two days, accomplishing much of nothing, when the restless fidgets started to get the better of me – you can only spend so much time sitting around on your arse. Clapping my hands on my knees, shuffling from our rented room – “Have fun,” I told my bemused coterie, “don’t burn anything” – I took myself on a tour of the city's west side.

 

See, the original colony had been founded on the river's eastern shore, and as the population grew, the settlement naturally spilled westward. Whereas the older districts maintained their veneer of respectability (a relative statement where Valyrians are concerned), the west bank, laden with the dregs, became a hive of smuggling, prostitution, and other such shadiness. Hard as the authorities tried to clean the place up, or clear it away entirely, the disrepute lingered, like a bad smell; and though the west eventually got its act together, transforming from a slum to a city in truth, the divide between the two halves nonetheless persisted.

 

Indeed, by law, only the ‘Old Blood,’ those of documented Valyrian descent, were allowed to reside in ‘Old Volantis,’ that section of the east bank enclosed within the ancient Black Walls (a longstanding convention, formally ratified during the panic that immediately followed the Doom); the freedmen and foreigners had thus claimed for themselves the west, the ‘diverse’ side of the river, where economic self-interest was the sole unifying commonality.

 

Wandering, meandering, I'd nothing better to do than watch the locals bustle about their business, shout and shove and skitter through the streets – from the boorish Trimalchios in goldcloth and silk, to the bleary-eyed tradesmen hunched behind their worksteads, and the downbeaten slaves who outnumbered them all. 

 

They balked at my approach, kept their distance, jerked their hands from the onrushing flame, but I still felt their stares rake across my spine – and as I passed them by, I could hear their whispers, their gossip, their rumors, of the oddity now in their midst, of strange and unnatural powers, of the Iron Islands, of King's Landing, of calamity and woe and the horror of Gold.

 

Seems I'd garnered a reputation.

 

Midday turned to afternoon, and I eventually circled back, working my way to the open fish market splayed out beside our inn. 

 

In the center of the square stood a timeworn equestrian of some long-dead triarch, garbed in Valyrian scale mail, his sword raised to the sky, and head severed from his neck (the Elephants’ petty revenge against the warmongers who'd all but bankrupted them). Colorful stalls crammed the space all around it, with cod and sailfish piled high on slabs, eels and groupers hanging from hooks, scallops and clams stuffing barrels full, fried filets and prawn pies and cast-iron pots of simmering stew – haggling and hawking, laughing and lying, the din of commerce and trade.

 

I leaned against a bollard, a queer knot churning in my gut (reluctance, I think, or mayhaps unfulfillment), and, for a time, played the silent observer; the surrounding rabble, in turn, stuck close to their routines, shooting what they hoped were surreptitious glances, seeking refuge in the polite fiction of urban anonymity.

 

It almost came as a relief, really – the bubble finally popped – when a pair of burly lictors truncheoned through the crowd, and an ornamented palanquin, borne by eight turbaned Summer Islanders, glided straight for my perch.

 

I leaned forward.

 

The porters, drawing near, wheeled about in a well-practiced motion, suspending their burden's plush cabin several paces in front of me – a lacquered screen slid open, and the bwana tucked inside, reclining on a cushion of paisley brocade, fought to mask his flagrant greed with softhearted geniality. 

 

“Good day,” he salaamed.

 

I kept my scoff to myself.

 

He was a fairly young fellow, early twenties if I had to put a number to it, draped in a billowy cotton robe, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He'd the telltale Valyrian hair, and a glint of violet in his otherwise umber eyes, though the rest of him was bog-standard Free Cities – vaguely Mediterranean mutt.

 

“You are Her Radiance Mariqua, yes?”

 

Weren't sending their best, were they?

 

“Marika,” I sniffed. “With a k.”

 

My accoster gave a sort of half-assed seated bow, his mien less contrite than satisfied. “A thousand pardons,” he simpered, “pray I've caused no offense. Alas, nothing so distorts the truth as distance.” He then gave what he must’ve thought a rakish grin. “You are, however, as beautiful as the rumors say.”

 

(Second time, now, I'd heard that from an Essosi – stock banality it might’ve been, it was downright effusive compared to what the Westerosi offered, catholic bloody schoolboys they were.)

 

“What do you want?”

 

Seduction wasn't his game, of that much I was sure – it takes a certain sort to overlook my brand of … otherness. Make no mistake, he wanted something from me, any dullard could tell that, but whatever it was, it was material, political, in service of some ‘grander’ ambition; not itself at my expense, but certainly not for my benefit. 

 

If my brusqueness rattled him, then his face didn't show it – the fop in the palanquin was too amateur to notice, too cocky to care, or too determined to quit.

 

Entirely too smug, either way.

 

Another grin, this one punctuated with a light pat on the chest. “I am Yraemar Brenys, scion of the House of Brenys, of the line of Aeravor the Great.” Apparently, that meant something. “I invite you to my family home; it would be an honor, truly, if Your Radiance availed yourself of our hospitality.”

 

As if I hadn't availed myself of enough hospitality already.

 

I'll give the boy credit, though, he didn't squirm under my flat stare, nor avert his eyes when I crossed my arms.

 

“Took your time.”

 

Not that having been left alone actually bothered me, but it's the principle of the thing.

 

(That, and I'd bet good money that he and his laid out the hors d'oeuvres the minute I stepped off the boat – I wasn't exactly subtle about it.)

 

“Ah, but to disturb one’s rest … ” He flashed a grimace towards the inn, the first sign of real emotion to slip past his mask. “Dreadfully plebeian, no?” Then, a chuckle. “It is far more civilized, methinks, to approach than to intrude.”

 

Thumbs hooked in my belt, I weighed the pros and cons of reducing this slime to a greasy smear on the pavement – and then of accepting his oh-so gracious offer.

 

While the former would doubtlessly have been more satisfying, it'd have also invited no small number of complications. Normally no issue, but after so many straight weeks of travel, my comparatively mortal hangers-on needed some time to refresh (and I'll personally admit to some amount of fatigue).

 

In the end, laziness won out.

 

Besides, I figured, it'd at least be something to do – better than wallowing in the same damn room for the next week.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Splendid!” Yraemar clapped.

 

He gave a sharp whistle, and a nebbish varlet scampered over, leaning in close to hear his master's muttered command, then hastening back in the direction he came from.

 

“If it pleases Your Radiance,” his gaze returned to me, and voice regained its previous enthusiasm, “I have summoned a litter.”

 

Shaking my head, smoothing my dress, I rose from the bollard, craning my neck to chart the varlet's path. “Don't bother.”

 

A furrowed brow. “Pardon?”

 

“I'll walk.”

 

With that, I took off.

 

Never said I'd make it easy for him.

 

He stared in bemusement for a second, mouth clapping shut; then, with a hurried snap of his fingers, the porters heaved, hauling the palanquin right beside me, struggling to match my stride.

 

“Ah, but Your Radiance, this will not do!” His chuckle, now, was quite forced. “Weary yourself not with – ” One of the porters stumbled over a pothole, and Yraemar's head bumped against the ceiling – glaring, rubbing, he swore under his breath before deigning once more to speak, noticeably subdued: “Are you sure?”

 

If I wasn't before … 

 

“Absolutely.”

 

My host and I progressed along the waterfront, past rows of taverns and storehouses, until the street widened, traffic thickened, and we reached the city's chronic bottleneck, the sole artery between the two banks – the Long Bridge. 

 

Over at the far end of a teeming junction towered its sandstone gate (evidently a later addition), carved in relief with a textbook Valyrian grotesquerie, dragons and sphinxes and the like. The bridge itself – an arched slab of fused black stone, spanning two thousand yards from end to end – had been built to accommodate eight carts abreast, but with all the subsequent construction along its deck, you'd be lucky to squeeze in two; on either side of the roadway crammed hundreds of homes and shops, temples and parlors, inns and brothels, tidy brickwork and bright red rooftiles, some up to five stories tall. 

 

It took us half an hour to cross.

 

Old Volantis only encompassed about a third of the east, the remainder known to most as ‘Middle Volantis,’ and to snobs as ‘Lesser’ – few, though, denied that compared to the west, this whole side of the river was visibly richer, older, prouder.

 

The architecture was florid, infrastructure stately, and even the traffic boasted a certain grandiosity – troops of spearmen, tiger-skin cloaks and horsehair plumes, marching in the shade of trumpeting elephants, magistrates sneering from their high-rise howdahs, orators on every streetcorner, robed priests, veiled ladies, tattooed slaves.

 

And then, finally, the Black Walls.

 

Buttresses and belfries, the dragonstone bastion was styled in what I call Valyrian gothic; tall enough to blot out the sun, thick enough for six chariots to race side-to-side along its battlements.

 

We passed through a gate, the posted guards checking Yraemar's identity, and started through Old Volantis, a winding labyrinth of palaces, courtyards, and temples, cloisters, bridges, and cellars, minarets and obelisks, vaulted naves and onion domes.

 

The Old Blood, the self-styled patricians who infested the place, couldn't help themselves as I trundled by, chittering and chattering, pointing and waving and staring, eyeing me with curiosity, cupidity, contempt.

 

But more than anything, they seemed annoyed that Yraemar had gotten to me first.

Chapter 24: Chapter 22

Saint, they called her.

 

A miracle, a breakthrough, the culmination of centuries and centuries of exhaustive experimentation – a divinity of their own design.

 

The beachhead of their race's ascension.

 

They paid no heed to the hatred in her eye, trusting in the scars and grafts and brands that marked her as theirs , those indelible reminders of her victimhood, her vulnerability, of everything – everyone – she’d lost.

 

Of all they'd taken from her, and of all she'd sacrificed.

 

Hindsight tells us this was something of a blunder. 

 

For when she crossed the Gate, weaved her Order at the top of Enir-Ilim, the newborn God was only too keen to erase such unsightly blemishes, and with them all the rest of her imperfections – ‘baring her rightful majesty,’ she liked to think it. The end result was a harsh, ethereal beauty, lithe and tall and graceful, uncanny in its statuesque perfection, and about as far as one can get from the Willendorf Venuses so beloved by the hornsent.

 

An airbrushed tribute to that long-gone girl who once giggled barefoot through the wildflowers.

 

Marika, to put it briefly, took great pride in the body she’d sculpted for herself.

 

And I suppose I was proud of it too.

 

(Truthfully, I don't even remember what I used to look like – male, obviously, average on the whole, but beyond that, it's a blur. Strange, really, seeing someone else's face in the mirror, and with soul-deep certainty knowing that was you.)

 

This form wasn’t mine, not truly.

 

But …

 

Reclining on an elbow, a hand held to the candlelight, I idly curled my slender fingers.

 

After all this time, it may well have been.

 

Malekith prowled into the bedchamber.

 

Several of my household guard – the ‘Blacks,’ the ‘Companions,’ the ‘Immortals,’ hollowed-out husks singularly devoted to Her Majesty – stood interposed between us, spears held at the ready, while the pair who'd led him inside quietly braced to skewer him from behind.

 

The hound refused to bow. 

 

I met his eyes.

 

“Brother.”

 

“ … Sister.”

 

Theirs was a complex relationship, made no simpler by my imposition.

 

I won't say she trusted Malekith, and what love she had was reserved for her children, but she did put stock in his single-minded simplicity.

 

Offering him a plastic smile, I flicked a hand at the guards – they backed a few paces, taking positions beside my awful stone bed. 

 

The pair behind him blocked the doorway. 

 

“Why hast thou summoned me?”

 

Gravelly and curt, he never was one for niceties.

 

I decided, then, to cut straight to the heart of things.

 

“Your burden sings to be free. Relinquish the Rune of Death.”

 

His ears twitched, tail lashed, paws clenched.

 

“Thou demand'st much.”

 

“As is my right.”

 

Malekith studied me, black lips pressed tight, then flicked his gaze towards the guards – they couldn't kill him, but they'd certainly slow him down.

 

“Death is shackled,” came his riposte at last, “and shackled shall Death remain.”

 

It was an old commandment of Hers, enshrined in scripture, one of the Golden Order's foundational maxims –

 

“Not anymore,” I pronounced.

 

If I couldn't save the status quo, then I'd at least kill it cleanly.

 

His hackles stood on end. “Thine carelessness wouldst be our ruin.”

 

“What's left for there to ruin?” I rebuffed. “The Order's rotted through already, it'd only take a stiff breeze. Sealing Death… ” Breathing deep, leaning back a touch, I leveled my tone as best I could. “Leashing a beast only maddens it. Godwyn proved that well enough.”

 

At the reminder of his greatest failure, or perhaps the mere invocation of that name – they had been quite close – his last frayed thread of civility snapped; the Black Blade pounded a fist against the floor, smashing spiderwebs into the limestone.

 

The guards closed the gap.

 

“I will not violate Marika's decree at the order of a thief !”

 

“A successor.”

 

Another smash – the cracks widened. “An imposter!” Malekith barked, a guardsman's spearpoint pricking his neck. “Come to overthrow all she hath wrought!”

 

Eyes narrowed, I straightened up, seating myself at the edge of the bed.

 

“To correct her mistakes.”

 

He snarled. “As I still breathe, the likes of thee shall never – !”

 

I surged to my feet. “Then try and stop me!”

 

My challenge hung heavy between us; for a silent moment, we stared each other down.

 

The candlelight flickered.

 

“Very well.”

 

Rattling plate, claws scraping on stone, a bestial roar – Malekith lunged, greatsword wreathed in crimson flame, fangs bared to the gums.

 

One guardsman's chest was hewn in twain, another’s head was pulped beneath a paw, the rest's spear thrusts whiffing useless through the air.

 

I caught him by the neck.

 

Teeth grit, wheeling with his momentum, I slammed the hound against the bed, greatsword clattering to the floor, the stacks of stone tablets lining the walls – the original's compiled research – toppling over and smashing to dust.

 

Wheezing through a crushed esophagus, he desperately clawed at my face. 

 

My grace-clad fist bashed his skull in.

 

Thump.

 

Crack.

 

Squelch. 

 

His body fell limp.

 

Blood and brains plastered the walls.

 

Staring at the mush that was once Malekith's head, shadows dancing at the corners of my vision, I can't say I felt much of anything.

 

A shaking hand reached for the Rune.

 

It crawled up my arm, sank through my skin, gushed for the Ring at the center of my being – filling an emptiness I’d never known was there, Death’s flames sparked at my fingertips.

 

Power.

 

Completeness.

 

A shuddering breath.

 

“Right. Let's get moving.”

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

The polo ponies thundered down the green, shoulder-to-shoulder, neck-and-neck, riders flat in their saddles. A mallet swung, the ball flew, and the herd galloped in pursuit, frothing and braying and kicking up clods.

 

Stormclouds rumbled in the distance.

 

“The fire destroyed everything,” one of the nabobs beside me grumbled, “a total loss.”

 

“Pity, that,” his neighbor tsked. “Any idea how it started?”

 

Frowning, the first one shook his head. “The Watch suspects arson. Hooligans, they say.” A derisive snort. “Fewer bodies than expected, at least, so with luck we might recover some of the merchandise.”

 

“Here's hoping,” the second concurred, sipping his iced arak. “You’ve always a wonderful selection.”

 

On the other side, a bejeweled matron gently fanned herself. “Dreadful business, I tell you. Poor Henya hasn’t slept since the execution.”

 

Her fellow biddy tutted in a passable show of sympathy. “So kind of you to take the dear in – she could’ve turned out like that Celaeris girl.”

 

The matron leaned closer, piqued with barely disguised curiosity. “Oh?” 

 

“You haven't heard this from me, but she's already pawning the silverware.”

 

Then, from behind – “You'd really trust the Braavosi with your money?”

 

“I'd sooner trust them than the Lyseni.”

 

A scoff. “High praise, indeed. And if the Iron Bank doesn't work out, I assume you’ll give Oldtown a try?”

 

A chuckle. “Now there's a grim prospect. At that point, I'd be better off burying everything in the garden.”

 

All around me, at the top row of the stands, in the shade of a silken awning, the cream of Volantene society gossiped and hobnobbed and schmoozed. 

 

Cheek tattooed with a jug, a bare-breasted Naathi leaned down to offer me a refill – I waved her off.

 

The ball streaked through the goalposts.

 

Cheers and applause from the common benches below.

 

“If the red is not to your liking, I can get you something else.”

 

Naemys, Yraemar's mother, the family matriarch, eyed me with the shallow concern expected of a hostess; she was scraping her fifties, though looked barely forty, her skin but a touch too ruddy, nose just a hair too aquiline, to call her a model Valyrian beauty.

 

My finger drummed against the glass. “Not in the mood.”

 

She'd a parasitic coven of ‘friends,’ as her sort always does, each of them that much poorer and plainer in comparison, enough so to make herself look better while still sitting well within the realm of respectability – one of them giggled, “Well, I certainly am!” and motioned the Naathi to pour.

 

After waiting her turn, a second inhaled an aerated quaff, closed her eyes and swished it around, then hummed and hissed in pleasure. “Dare I ask what vintage this is? It's sublime, but I can't say I'm familiar.”

 

Naemys took a sip of her own. “The old Qohanyon estate, near Mantarys, 317 from the Doom.”

 

Swirling her glass, the second pursed her lips in approval. “Somebody's in a generous mood.”

 

The rest made equivalent noises.

 

“I just might be,” Naemys ‘subtly’ grinned – then, another sip, and a sigh. “Shame they never rebuilt it.”

 

A third, rouge starting to run in the humidity, lifted her glass with a chuckle. “Suppose that's your husband's first priority when he's reelected.”

 

Titters.

 

“Do you like his chances?” the second inquired. “Stiff competition this year.”

 

“No stiffer than the last,” Naemys sniffed.

 

“From what I've seen, the younger Dallarys is quite popular with the commons.”

 

The third scoffed. “He's a dunce. Five minutes on the rostrum, and he'll stutter straight into irrelevance.”

 

“Never underestimate the stupidity of the rabble.”

 

“The same rabble,” Naemys cut in, “that elected my husband.”

 

A pause – the second, abashed, returned to her wine, while the third allowed herself a flash of victorious satisfaction.

 

Having asserted her dominance, Naemys once more donned the mask of congenial hostess. “Your Eminence?”

 

I raised a brow.

 

“We are proud of our republic, and rightfully so, but there's always something to be learned from others. You are a Queen, yes, back in your homeland?”

 

The most indifferent of nods.

 

A smile. “I assume, then, that your leaders are chosen by inheritance?”

 

“Strength,” I grunted.

 

She furrowed her brow – I continued. 

 

“A crown is won through strength.”

 

Of arm, of word, of conviction.

 

It was a precept as old as the Lands Between themselves – the sole abiding constant of a realm so fundamentally mutable.

 

“I see.” Folding her hands in her lap, Naemys took a moment to regroup. “And … logistically, how does that work?”

 

“About the way you'd expect.”

 

For want of a better reaction, she frowned, defaulting to instinctive propriety. “That sounds somewhat … arbitrary, if you don't mind me saying so.”

 

‘ Brutish , chaotic , primitive .’ 

 

“Maybe,” My gaze wandered back towards the field. “More honest, I've found.”

 

A clanging bell signaled the chukka's close, gallops slowing to walks, umpires replanting flagposts, riders reforming their lines.

 

My hosts wanted a novelty, a shiny object with which to impress their peers, and what shinier object than a self-proclaimed goddess?

 

In that respect, at least, their intentions were plain.

 

They knew what I claimed to be, and had some notion of what I could do, but asked no more of me than any other conversation piece; so dedicated were they to their own little system that the thought of actually using my power never even crossed their minds – they just wanted the spectacle of its exoticism. 

 

For the Volantenes believed themselves a race under siege, the last true bastion of the last great civilization, and having failed so utterly at revanchism, poured all their energies into domestic affairs, politics an end in itself. 

 

To abstain was a risible cowardice, to break the rules a ruinous heresy, to pop the bubble an unthinkable treason.

 

And thus the Old Blood played their games, like lotus-eaters drowsing on the sand, closing their eyes to the world’s decay, rotting under the weight of their own grandiosity.

 

They disgusted me.

 

Blowing a whistle, an umpire tossed the ball high into the air; it bounced against the green, the riders snapped their reins, and the match recommenced with the pounding of hooves.

 

“So she did join the Red Faith, then.”

 

“Hmm,” the third nodded. “Never understood it myself, the Fourteen are perfectly serviceable.”

 

The first tilted her head. “Well, you have to admit, those reds have a certain mystique about them. Robes, flames, prophecies,” she gesticulated, “it’s all very exciting.”

 

“If you sleep in the gutter, mayhaps.” The third crossed her arms. “Slaves and foreigners, that's his flock. Not one of mine.”

 

“Give her time,” Naemys counseled with a dismissive flick of the hand, “she'll grow out of it. We've all had our own teenage idiocies.” 

 

“Speaking of … ” the second grinned. “Have you heard about Vaesanne's youngest?”

 

“Yes,” the third grimaced. “I suppose it could always be worse.”

 

A fourth, mid-sip, hummed and nodded and swallowed, pointing a finger and resting her glass on the table. “Isn't that the one who … ?”

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

“What happened?” asked the first, brow furrowed. 

 

Leaning closer, the second's grin sharpened. “So the girl falls in with a traveling Yunkai'i – the son of one of their potentates, with the retinue to prove it. Bad enough, of course, but then it turns out he's half Ibbenese .”

 

The first sucked through her teeth. 

 

“Slave mother,” the third helpfully clarified. “Apparently the father has … singular tastes.”

 

“Unfortunate combination … ”

 

“Before she knows it,” the second resumed, “she's pregnant, and the minute he hears the news, our charming little mongrel's on the first ship home. A fine showing of that famed Ghiscari valor.” A pause, and a shrug – “Half-Ghiscari.” – then, a sip. “Now her parents want an abortion, her head of house sees a bargaining chip, and the girl herself can't tell left from right.”

 

“Goodness me,” the first gasped.

 

“And keep in mind, it's only been a couple of years since their son ran off with a Qarthreen.”

 

The fourth's frown deepened. “Disgraceful.”

 

“Clearly,” opined the third, “the parents are half the problem.” 

 

Up above, while they nattered away, the murky stormclouds crept across the sky, inchmeal choking the sunlight behind a leaden shroud.

 

Palm fronds, before long, swayed in the wind, gusting and swirling and roaring, as thunderbolts cracked through the vapor, atmosphere thick with the pungent smell of ozone, and the slightest whiff of decay.

 

“ – beautiful woodwork. I've been looking for more pieces – ” 

 

Raindrops pattered against the canopy.

 

“ – by the same artist, but no matter … ” the first trailed off, head tilting upward. “Ah, there it is.”

 

The second began to stir. “Thought we'd more time,” she observed, one hand taking hold of her glass, the other smoothing the folds of her stola. “Wet month we’re having, isn’t it?”

 

“Hmm,” Naemys concurred – then, “Oh well,” the hostess rose from her seat, and followed the crowd as they filed inside. “I wonder what’s for lunch?”

 

“Last time they'd wonderful oysters.”

 

“Did they? I don't recall.”

 

“Fried, I think, with cumin and honey. Quite rich.”

 

“I'll be on the lookout, then.”

 

“In the mood for something lighter, myself.”

 

By law, Volantis proper only extended as far as the Black Walls, everything outside of them merely Volantene ‘territory’ – a conscious emulation of Eternal Valyria and its ‘sacred bounds.’

 

Nowadays, of course, practically speaking, this pomerium arrangement was in the main an archaic holdover, one of those quaint cultural relics sustained by inertia alone, only meaningfully applied as a convenient legal framework for the Old Blood's segregation; but it had once – at least during the early days of settlement and colonization, back when the morality laws actually meant something – played an active role in the city's development, which even today was reflected in its layout.

 

Owing to long-dead attitudes on public entertainment and its supposed vulgarity, theaters, arenas, and other such venues were traditionally relegated to the outskirts – the hippodrome where I'd wasted the last few hours being no exception. A venerable landmark, it stood two or three miles from the Walls, Middle Volantis having grown up around it, close enough for the Old Blood to visit with some regularity, and far enough for such visits to still be an event.

 

The original owner, a general of some renown, died several years before its completion, and his last remaining heir died intestate decades later; from there, the stadium, a horrible money-sink, passed through innumerable hands, until settling on its present quasi-public, semi-private, elaborate joint-ownership – as a matter of societal expectation, most every one of the city's leading families held at least a share (it was just one of those things that any self-respecting nob kept in their portfolio), as did the government's ostensibly eminent bodies: the ecclesia, the boule, the triarchy.

 

They hosted nigh-daily games there, hunts and races and, of course, polo – the ubiquitous panem et circenses . And over time, the spacious upper grandstand, reserved solely for those who met the high standards of wealth and breeding, with all its superfluous amenities, established itself as one of the patriciate's favorite meeting grounds.

 

Like a country club, or members’ lodge, if one condescends to analogy.

 

Centuries ago, to accommodate some bygone festivity, the interior concourse had been converted into a makeshift dining hall, and kept that way ever since – an on-the-spot improvisation that somehow solidified into a cherished institution. It did the job well enough, I'll admit, high ceilings and open spaces, well-cleaned and finely-polished, boasting lavish adornments and a commanding view. A half-dozen rows of low-footed tables staggered down its length, reclining couches arrayed around them, the spaces in between peppered with buffet platters, and servers weaving through the chattering diners. 

 

“Gaelon wants to name him after his grandfather, but I hate how it sounds. I mean really, ‘Tahaelarr’?”

 

“They're savages, you know that. I'm only surprised this didn't happen sooner.”

 

“Mold got into the frame, so we'll have to knock it down and start over.”

 

On golden trays, in silver basins, engraved with scenes from myth and history, were presented all manner of sybaritic delicacies – tongues and testicles, snouts and sweetbreads, swimming in simmering fat; thin-sliced pufferfish, urchin raw in the shell, lamprey mince and squid masala, dipped in mustard and garum; goose livers, cock's combs, flamingo brains, garnished with the unplucked wings of parrots and pheasants and peacocks; suckling pigs, stuffed with veal sausage, crusted with saffron and thyme, on beds of rocket and endive.

 

“Quite lusty, those Summer Islanders. I always geld mine.”

 

“No, he's still going on about his land reform bill.”

 

“Ahahaha! Can't say I've heard that one!”

 

Libations, too, they furnished in abundance, long-necked pitchers of rosewine and mulsum, spiced with cloves, or mastich, or pennyroyal, fragranced with cinnamon or pulverized pine cone. 

 

“Balance in all, as the philosophers say.”

 

“I've been having trouble sleeping.”

 

“Did you see her new drapes?”

 

The clinking of silverware, the dripping of grease, chuckles and murmurs and gasps; the assembled epicureans guzzled and gorged, flapping their lips and licking their fingers, heaping new plates atop the used, stumbling to the vomitorium between courses.

 

“ – damn dogs keep – ”

 

“ – but she told me – ”

 

“ – a good choice– ”

 

“ – was that the– ”

 

“ – should just – ”

 

“ – his cousin – ”

 

“ – over by – ”

 

“ – dowry – ”

 

“ – whip – ”

 

“ – fad – ”

 

“ – us – ”

 

“ – a – ” 

 

I surged to my feet, chair legs scraping against the floor tiles.

 

Naemys and her clique fell silent, the nearby tables pricked their ears.

 

Ignoring their stares, hands tucked into the folds of my dress, I drifted towards the windows, and watched the storm shower the empty streets below. 

 

Fresh outwardly, but to my senses the rainwater was black – filmy, fetid, foul. It sizzled against stone, congealed into sludge, reeked of centuries of unchecked corruption; spiritual taint physically manifest, poison fumes carried by the wind, suffused until dripping from the sky.

 

“Your Eminence?”

 

And I could feel its source, like a bonfire, seething just beyond the horizon.

 

“Your … Your Eminence?”

 

That gaping wound.

 

“A-are you quite alright?”

 

Shattered Valyria.

 

…

 

Why the hell was I humoring these people?

 

“Perha – ” 

 

The luster of flaring grace, the gunshot crack of displaced air, the unbodied lurch of astral displacement.

 

Teleportation – as dramatic an exit as any.

 

That I landed in a sewer, though, rather spoiled the effect.

 

Leaned against a rusted pipe, effluent splashing to their knees, Brynden and Ed gave the obligatory startles when I suddenly flashed into being – instinct can only be so repressed – but their brains quickly caught up with their nerves, and recognition smothered their shock; as the motes of light faded away, the boy offered a haggard sigh, fingers running through his matted hair, while the girl forced several steadying breaths, a hand pressed against her beating heart. 

 

Finding the pair was easy (all the grace I'd pumped into them, I may well have sought my own fingers), but knowing where they were, beyond a vague ‘over that way,’ took a conscious choice – one that, in light of this whole sewer development, I couldn't but feel should've been made sooner.

 

Huddled up, bruised and scratched and blackened with soot, they'd no doubt been shoved through the proverbial ringer.

 

“Do I even want to know?”

 

Ed grimaced.

 

Brynden's gaze met my eyes, then flicked down towards her shoeless feet – “Slavers,” she mumbled, crossing her arms.

 

…

 

“Really?”

 

A blush. “We were sleeping.”

 

… Yes, suppose that would do it.

 

I'd only modest expectations of the two, grown as they were in such tainted soil, but apparently even that was too much.

 

Pinned beneath my stare, she started to fidget. “They didn't hold us long.”

 

Curdled stool dripped from the ceiling. 

 

“And where's the priest?”

 

Brynden's mouth outpaced her mind, a stillborn answer dying on her tongue – pursed lips, furrowed brow, she buried her head between her legs

 

Ed only offered a shrug.

 

Far, far too much.

 

“Bloody childre – ” I pinched the bridge of my nose – then, a sigh. “Alright, get up.”

 

They just sat there.

 

“Come on.”

 

It took them a second, a fair few huffs and groans, hissing as they brushed against their contusions, wiping the worst of the sewage from what might generously be called their clothes; Ed stumbled to his feet, prosthesis whining as the knee joint locked and buckled, and Brynden, only a hair or two removed from ‘shivering fawn,’ clung to a shortsword that she’d apparently liberated from a city watchman.

 

“He just, what, wandered off?”

 

Smacking the joint with the flat of his hand, Ed distractedly nodded.

 

“And this was before … ?”

 

“Hmm.

 

“Then whe – ” A click of the tongue “Ah.”

 

The faith of Red R'hllor was young – younger than it had any right to be. 

 

Scarcely two centuries ago, dozens of mystics across the Free Cities were struck with a vision of flame, and the church emerged, as if whole cloth, from their consequent preaching and prophecy.

 

Even so, to call it a church, singular, would imply some measures of unity; in truth, each temple was its own denomination, as many heresies as there were believers, their shared origins – and a sloppy web of entente and rivalry – imposing but the barest edifice of common convention.

 

It had, in other words, no singular leadership, yet a few select parishes nevertheless enjoyed a distinct sense of seniority: Lys was founded the earliest, Braavos produced the finest theology, Qohor had the longest list of martyrs. And of them all, Volantis stood tall as the largest, the richest, the greatest, the one with the loudest voice and biggest stick – the closest thing this shambolic faith had to a Vatican.

 

All this is to say that – given where, exactly, we were – the priest's probable whereabouts weren't exactly a mystery (or at least I'd an obvious lead).

 

My grace enveloped the tattered twosome, clamping around their waists like a vise, and I fired off another teleport, aiming for the city's gaudiest landmark.

 

The Grand Cathedral of the Lord of Light commanded the northeastern quarter, a colossal stack of buttresses and pillars, bridges and towers, domes and spires, burnished red and yellow and gold, melding and twisting like tongues of flame, a sacred pyre blazing at the monstrosity's apex. 

 

“We are all slaves of R'hllor,” went the priesthood's guiding refrain, so the ruling Old Blood, reserving for themselves the Valyrian Fourteen, bequeathed upon the Red Faith the singular privilege of official toleration, and a fair bit of under-the-table backing besides. Such a submissive creed, the masters felt, would go a long way to promoting lumpen docility – it never occurred to them, the simpletons, that universal humility before the divine inherently implies a certain terrestrial equality.

 

The Faith had thenceforth become a bloc in itself, a rallying banner for the urban poor, and a symbol of populist discontent. Indeed, per the previous year's census, nearly a third of the city's freeborn now in some way worshipped the Lord of Light, and his following among the slaves doubtlessly numbered many times more, the total growing higher by the day. 

 

Controlled opposition, cynics might scoff, but a leading player nonetheless.

 

At any rate, we reappeared in a crowded plaza, bestrewn with torches and braziers, fires burning strong despite the downpour, a vicar sermonizing from atop a red granite pillar.

 

They didn't handle it well, my soft little fleshies, the Ironborn crashing to the rain-slick pavement, the girl hunching over and heaving her guts out.

 

(Comfort or convenience, you can't have both.)

 

The congregated lowlies shrunk and shrieked away from our sudden materialization, while the vicar clapped his mouth shut, eyes widening with something halfway between shock and recognition.

 

Brushing off their goggles and stares, raindrops evaporating an inch from my skin, I strode up the stairs into the temple, doors slamming open with a wave of my hand, my entourage dragged along behind me. 

 

“Is that … ?”

 

“Lord above!”

 

“Alert the – !”

 

An acolyte intercepted my march down the nave, scraping against the pews as he scrambled to keep up.

 

“E-excuse me, but – ”

 

“Thoros of Myr,” I interposed, not bothering to look his way.

 

The acolyte stumbled.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“I d-don't – ”

 

A surge of grace crushed a nearby reliquary.

 

R'hllor – whose presence unsurprisingly choked the place – almost seemed amused.

 

“Such … ” the acolyte swallowed, beads of sweat rolling down his brow. “Such matters are beyond my ken, Honored One.”

 

I shot him a look.

 

“ … The Conclave has assembled in the G-grand Refectory.”

 

“And where is that?”

 

A tremulous finger pointed towards the transept, and the wrought-iron door barricaded by a troop of the Temple's slave soldiery, the evocatively-christened ‘Fiery Hand.’

 

I set a course and ploughed ahead.

 

“Halt!” a thick-limbed officer barked, ornate splint mail over mandarin robes, one hand gripping a flame-bladed spear, the other a switch of vine, rattled subordinates following his lead.

 

The order fell on deaf ears.

 

“I said ha – !”

 

Smacked against a wall, the officer crumpled into a groaning heap, and the troopers – taking the hint – scuttled out of my way.

 

The door flew from its hinges. 

 

Marble and mosaic, icons inlaid in gold, chandeliers dangling from a rounded ceiling – an elaborate refectory, I'll confess, but ‘Grand’ seemed a bit of a stretch. 

 

The cardinals and prelates and bishops arrayed in tribunal, entrenched behind benches and pulpits, fell silent as the grave when I stomped through the doorway.

 

Standing alone on the floor, heretofore pinned like an entomological specimen, Thoros almost looked grateful.

 

“We're leaving.”

 

He straightened, studying my face, before raking an eye over the synod. 

 

Whatever he saw only strengthened his resolve.

 

“ … As you wish.”

 

One of the clergymen – the quickest to recover, draped in the flashiest mantle of them all – cleared his throat.

 

“Honored One, must you leave so soon?”

 

I aborted a step, and forced a glance in his general direction.

 

Wisps of flame tattooed across the whole of his clean-shaven head, he offered a shallow bow.

 

“We are blessed, truly, with the chance to gaze upon your hallowed luminosity.” The apparent pontiff clasped his hands together, ruby rings glimmering in the firelight. “And in the name of our Lord, I pray you allow this inquest – ”

 

A bolt of grace blew his head off. 

 

His smoking corpse toppled to the floor.

 

The assembled priesthood held their collective breath.

 

And then –

 

“A sign!”

 

“Somebody seize them!”

 

“Order, order!”

 

Screaming, shouting, fists slamming, footsteps scurrying away, priests jumping up as their arguments intensified, temple guards rushing over to investigate.

 

“Your Grace?” Thoros pressed.

 

I reached inward. 

 

Brynden, eyes wide, tugged at my skirt.

 

“No, please, don't – ”

 

Crack, flash, you get the idea.

 

A port, this time – seaward, deep water, waves crashing over the jetty, dockhands tying down piles of cargo before hurriedly retreating inside.

 

“Augh!” Brynden retched, hands pressed against her eyes. “Buggering – ”

 

I approached the nearest ship.

 

Its captain had his back to me, rain running down his poncho, otherwise occupied directing his crew as they furled the sails and battened the hatches.

 

“What?” he grumbled at me, signaling the bosun to hurry things along.

 

“I'm going to Valyria.”

 

The captain furrowed his brow, arms falling to his sides, then pivoted and turned and got a good look at me.

 

He blanched.

 

A pile of gold bars – clunk – materialized at his feet. 

 

"Treble that on arrival.”

 

An ‘ or else ’ just would’ve been gilding the lily. 

 

Thunder pealed, and the captain swallowed, peering back and forth between the gold and my eyes, limbs locking as he fought for composure, his crew watching on with bafflement and fear.

 

“ … weather,” he croaked.

 

“Won't be a problem.”

 

I'd make sure of it.

 

“Yes,” he shuddered, “of course … ” 

 

And as the captain turned back towards his crew, shakily bellowing to “Hoist!” and “Weigh!” and “Prepare to set sail!” – taking refuge in the surety of command – I deigned one final look at the First Daughter’s skyline, veiled as it was behind the gloom.

 

Shithole indeed.

Chapter 25: Chapter 23

Cradling a mug of watered-down sherry – his sips were slow, inattentive, intermittent – the captain answered Brynden with a stare.

 

“The old charts, from before the Doom? They're worthless.”

 

Tracing the woodgrain of the cabin ceiling, he took a second to gather his thoughts, then leaned forward in his seat, elbows rested on the table.

 

“You must understand, the very earth was … shattered. Shredded. Entire cities swallowed whole.” A nervous lick of the lips. “Sea where was mountains, mountains where was sea – that coastline doesn't exist anymore. Just … chaos, for hundreds of leagues. Completely unnavigable.”

 

With a deep, drawn-out breath, low over the groaning of timber, the captain peered into the depths of his cup.

 

“Every now and then, some jackass running to Mereen gets it in his head to take a shortcut. ‘Surely it's safe by now!’ he'd bluster, and never be seen again. None of them are.”

 

His gaze twitched back and forth between Brynden and I, eyes sparked with something like desperation; then, running a hand over his thinning scalp, he gave a shuddering half-chuckle.

 

“They say that the water's turned to acid. That the air itself boils, and blood-red clouds rain dragonglass. Fire, and ash, and ruin … a vision of hell itself.”

 

He met my eyes, almost imploringly.

 

“Evil things dwell there, that much I know. Dragons the least of them.”

 

…

 

From Volantis to the orient, the standard practice was the long way around: to sail southwest into the open ocean, then east along the Basilisk Isles, all the while steering fastidiously clear of the Valyrian peninsula's smoldering remains.

 

It was an understandable arrangement, if a touch excessive in its caution, born as much from base superstition as the region's well-recognized inhospitability. What blights, what horrors, what miseries truly existed in that place were anybody's guess (hardly as if they were cataloged), but few liked their chances of surviving them, never mind passing through unscathed. Better, then, the thinking was, to bother with several more weeks of travel than to never get there at all – a not unreasonable proposition, I'll say, given the totality of circumstance.

 

Of course, in our particular case, one could hardly avoid their destination.

 

Back in its heyday, before the Doom, the city of Valyria sat some fifty miles inland from the peninsula's southern tip. Being the epicenter, all the excitement had doubtlessly scrambled things about, but odds were the general layout wasn't affected too drastically – the City, or at least the remainder of it, probably still occupied roughly the same spot; all that had really changed was the surrounding geography.

 

I can go on, though to make the long, tedious story of an equally long and tedious journey short, this relative accessibility gave us options. 

 

(That, and while hugging the coast all the way there might’ve, on paper, been the most straightforward route, I didn't much trust this crew's ability to navigate for long such famously treacherous waters, while the crew themselves were quite understandably keen to minimize their exposure – such an experiment, in other words, would've been a miserable headache, too big a hassle to justify its worth, if not by virtue of the inherent danger (an admitted triviality for one such as I), then certainly the inevitable bitching.)

 

So for as long as practicable, the sailors stuck with the familiar, tacking southeast – keeping their distance – until Naath's leafy canopy peeked over the horizon; whereupon they steered dead north, into the fuming desolation, straight for the City's presumptive resting place.

 

I still don't know why they went along with it.

 

Fear, perhaps – of me, or the imagined stain of cowardice.

 

Greed, too, could’ve played a hand, the niggling allure of the Freehold’s lost treasures, and all the accolades to be won by finding them.

 

Even, dare I say, a certain sense of adventure, or at a least morbid curiosity, buried deep beneath the foreboding.

 

Not that it mattered in the end.

 

Sail, I told them, and sail they did.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

Blindly feeling through churning smog, the ship rattled and bumped across the rocky shallows.

 

“You don’t have to come, you know.”

 

Thoros, standing beside me, a hand resting on the gunwale, raised a questioning brow.

 

Declining to meet his gaze, I watched the bowsprit lance through the smoke. The screen of grace that swaddled our vessel, filtering the vapors and dampening the shocks – a necessity by that point – tinged the world beyond the deck a shimmering gold.

 

“The rest aren’t. No need to prove your manhood.”

 

“It is the Lord’s will.”

 

No doubt, no dread, no hesitation – I'd say he just parroted the line, though it sprung from him entirely sincere.

 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” My exhale bordered on a sigh. “A fine slave you make.”

 

At that, the priest grinned – a subtle thing, genuine – and proudly lifted his chin. “He has chosen me, for all my faults.” A playful shrug. “Who am I to deny him?”

 

Arms crossed, fingers drumming against an elbow, I frowned at him over my shoulder – whatever happened to the party tricks?

 

Time lost its meaning in that place, the innermost reaches of the Smoking Sea; a perpetual haze of volcanic fumes blackened the sky, smothered the sun, ashes and embers writhing in the wind, jagged outcrops thrusting from the brine. 

 

Before the Doom, Valyria's southern shore had been a balmy, vibrant place, Amalfi-esque, coral reefs and colorful fish. Now the sands lay buried beneath a crust of hardened magma, rough and ragged and ridged. Red-plumed tubeworms thronged around sulfur-stained vents, and pale-shelled limpets crusted the surrounding rocks, spindle-legged crabs and wide-mouthed eels slithering through the brine – as if the eruption had transplanted wholesale some distant abyssal plain. And the deeper we penetrated – the closer we inched to the noxious breast of calamity – the bleaker the environs, as amply evinced by the scores of shipwrecks wasting away on the rocks – planks scorched, sails bleached, splinters and skeletons strewn about the pumice.

 

It was slow going, this final leg of it, this tiptoe through the shoals – beyond the crew's unsurprising trepidation, navigation was an exercise in hairsbreadth exactitude, complicated tenfold by the horrid visibility.

 

Until, finally – I can’t say for sure how long it was after my little exchange with the priest; five minutes, ten, an hour, a handful – we crossed one shelf too many. A hunk of submerged rubble scraped along the keel, and the carrack lurched to a halt, bow shoving up against a bulge, rudder jamming inside a divot. 

 

Jostling, stumbling, toppling over – like a punted beehive, the crew burst into action, scrambling to their stations, tugging ropes and spinning wheels. “Buckets, buckets!” snarled the bosun, clambering down from his perch amidst the rigging. “You! Go below, check for leaks!”

 

While the cook doused the hearth and the helmsman trussed the wheel, the captain scuttled about the deck, directing his men with points and shouts and waves; clapping eyes on me across the ruckus, he then squared his shoulders, forced a breath, and pushed his way towards Thoros and I, plastered neutrality aspiring to mask his nerves. 

 

“We're stuck.”

 

Yes, I've noticed. 

 

This sort of thing was bound to happen, sooner or later, but that didn't save my brow from an irritated furrow, nor lips from an irritated purse.

 

“How long?”

 

My voice couldn't have been flatter.

 

The captain hesitated, mouth half-open in deliberation, before clenching his fists and steeling his gaze. 

 

“Long enough.” 

 

Then, after another moment's pause, he took a tentative step closer. 

 

“Go,” he pressed, “finish your business. The ship'll wait here.” His words kicked up speed, butting up against each other as they hurriedly tumbled outward. “But that's it. We won't take you any further.” A shivering breath. “I refuse.”

 

My frown darkened.

 

The captain stood as firm as he could.

 

And all around, the bustling crewmen thumped and stomped and bellowed.

 

“Fine.”

 

I flicked my chin, and Thoros nodded, his hands hitherto occupied with one last check – hike the belt, tug the scabbard, palm the hilt – of that longsword he'd nicked from Brynden. With a stretch, the priest set about the finishing touches, tightened his laces and buckled his straps, a ringmail shirt clinking underneath his vestments. Then, after giving me a look, he started down a rope ladder to the rocky shoals below.

 

“Assurances,” the captain blurted, just as I made to follow; swiveling around, I pierced him with a glare.

 

He swallowed.

 

“I want assurances.”

 

“Of what?” I snapped.

 

“Payment,” he croaked.

 

I bent closer, stared him straight in the eye, watched with blank-faced severity as he fought to keep a stiff upper lip.

 

Say what you will about the force of his demands, I couldn't but respect their audacity.

 

“Eddin?”

 

Almost resignedly, my Ironman approached from wherever he'd been brooding. 

 

Straightening back up, I softened my glare.

 

“If he tries to leave, skin him.”

 

Ed nodded; the captain blanched.

 

And with that, I leapt over the side. 

 

Splash.

 

What struck me, more than anything, was the heat – nigh on scalding, the water bubbled and steamed, just a crumb from an outright boil. Brackish, bitter, it sloshed around my ankles as my hobnails scuffed for purchase; and the pumice below crackled apart with each footstep, clouds of dust staining the sea a turbid black.

 

Thoros had been waiting for me near the foot of the ladder, submerged up to his waist, brow slick with sweat – and poached like an egg, I'd imagine, if not for the attention of his god.

 

I tromped onward – no need for words, my course was plain – and the priest, ever obedient, kept up as best he could, huffing and puffing as he clumsily waded through the soup.

 

Behind us, step by step, the ship's blurry silhouette vanished into the smoke.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

“Oh, that lair of discord, that den of licentiousness, that vortex of luxury and harbor of harlotry – where men act as boys, boys as girls, and women as common property!”

 

The Bay of Gaelae had something of a reputation. 

 

While the earliest records of the place name it as the seat of the famous Hōzaean Sibyl, and later political developments saw it expanded into a key military port, for nearly two millennia leading up to the Doom, the spa town that lay along its shores – an eternally fashionable resort among the Freehold’s dragonriding elite – was recognized chiefly for its pervasive … merriment. 

 

Philosophers bemoaned its opulence, its excess, its “sapping” of their race's vitality. Lawyers invoked it as a scathing condemnation, any length of residence there de facto proof of unrestrained debauchery. Historians delighted in regaling its most notorious episodes, from Archon Namor's matricide to the rape of the Vestal Jelaella. Poets even adopted it as a common motif, a byword of sorts for tragic infidelity – “Dearest Nesaehra, how my heart bleeds; may libertine Gaelae be swallowed into the sea!"

 

Quite the accomplishment, really, to stand out for vice in a civilization so singularly dissolute.

 

A simple rubble breakwater, still reasonably intact, stretched across the mouth of the bay; the singular throughway was clogged with debris, charcoalized wood and tarnished gilding, the amalgamated hulks of dozens of warships and pleasure barges – in their utter desperation to escape, they'd apparently jammed themselves into a crush.

 

The two of us scaled the breakwater (a fairly straightforward trek, on my end; for his part, Thoros crawled up on his hands and knees, then shakily scooted down on his arse), and set across the ravaged lagoon.

 

With an anemic inch of sickly yellow sea lapping meekly at our soles, we traversed the wreckage of the harbor's dragonstone promenade, climbed over the broken statues and columns that had once adorned the jetties, and weaved between the derelict hulls of the squadrons of triremes that had capsized at their moorings. 

 

It wasn’t too far – a half mile, if that – before we reached the waterfront.

 

Markedly – strikingly – dense, the town proper was squashed along the floor of a shallow valley, temples and baths and grand palazzos spilling out onto the sand; the charred shells of these lavish structures still haunted the seaside, plaster crumbling, windows shattered, murals faded to ghostly pastels.

 

The chattel, the scutworkers, the lower enlisted, those too slow or poor or foreign to nab a spot on one of the ships, had evidently sought refuge here at the shoreline, as far as they could get from the eruption – not that it did them much good. Crowded within concrete boatsheds, scattered about the beach, their bones were stained red by their vaporized blood, and splintered by the searing pyroclastic flow, brains having boiled and burst from their skulls, or vitrified to glassy obsidian. 

 

The total count lay somewhere in the hundreds.

 

Continuing inland, we worked our way through the narrow streets, past empty shops and deserted parlors, boots tapping against the pavement, trampling odds and ends long abandoned by their long-dead owners.

 

As he traipsed past the remains of a silk-lined brothel – nothing remarkable, in and of itself, just another blasted wreck among hundreds – Thoros visibly stiffened, his pace interrupted by a momentary stumble. Gathering himself, setting his jaw, he scuttled up beside me, eyes darting about the ruined frontage.

 

“Do you see them?” he whispered.

 

I gave an affirmative grunt.

 

Unblinking eyes, shining in the shadows, a hint too sharp, too human, for unrefined animal simplicity – from the depths of ash-smothered alleyways, the undersides of flame-blackened horsecarts, the corners of half-collapsed bedrooms, through shutters and stormdrains, keyholes and crevices, cracks and splits and tatters. A glimpse of matted fur, a hint of ingrown scales, crouched in the dark, twisted forms coiled tight, claws and fangs gleaming with each thunderbolt that lanced through the ebon skies.

 

The priest's hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. “Should we run?”

 

“No need,” I rejoined, gaze fixed straight ahead.

 

Brow furrowed, he leaned closer, casting a furtive glance behind his back.

 

“But what if – ?”

 

“They won't.”

 

It is said that the Valyrians played with flesh like putty – that within great charnel pits, on an almost industrial scale, cackling sorcerers birthed obscenities of every unspeakable design; that these chimeric things eventually became a keystone of their society, used for labor, for sport, as shock troops and draft beasts, live experiments and augural offerings, and the headline hunts at the amphitheater; and that whatever leash tamed them, whatever force held them in check, burned away with the rest of their creators’ civilization.

 

I dare say there was some truth to it.

 

One cannot escape their nature, though they can waylay it for a time, at least with sufficient motivation. As plainly repulsive our audience was – their minds as malformed as their bodies, as human as beast, as aware as uninhibited – it seems they still knew to leave well enough alone.

 

The streets gradually widened, buildings slowly dispersed, the ruins of luxurious comforts giving way to those of functional utilities, formerly sumptuous ornamentation to traces of understated trim, to gutted workshops and barracks and offices – the sorts of humdrum infrastructures that the resident noblesse had preferred tucked away in the back; through these suburbs, then the outskirts (what little of them a town like this could boast), until we’d cleared the town entirely.

 

Between Gaelae and the City had previously ranged a belt of hilly countryside, a carefully manicured pastiche of Valyria's pastoral infancy, flecked with geysers and fumaroles, bisected by a spur of the Aemmian Way, and parceled into vineyards and olive groves.

 

Naturally, the Doom utterly mangled it all: yawning fissures, towering crags, the land was smashed into a sulfurous hellscape, wide-open craters seething with magma, sizzling flurries of embers and ash. Scraggly thorns wreathed carbonized treestumps, and black-bottomed chasms spouted jets of flame, soot piled up to my ankles. Across the jagged rocks, amidst the blinding smoke, skittered and writhed hideosities unceasing – the “worms with faces” and “snakes with hands” that Yandel recounted with such horror.

 

I even caught a glimpse of what might’ve been a dragon, an evanescent flash of a monstrous bulk flapping through far-off clouds. 

 

The road, what was left of it, barely peeked through the pockmarked scoria.

 

Finally, Thoros reached his limit. We’d been at it for nearly two days, and mortal flesh, however bolstered, can only endure so much – by that point, my companion could barely manage a languid shuffle, robes soaked through with sweat, arms all but dragging along the ground. 

 

We bivouacked, then, in the burnt-out husk of a large country villa, the most intact structure I could find; with its ground floor buried in pumice, we pitched camp in the comparatively untouched attic. 

 

(I may have left the tent on the boat.)

 

It wasn’t much, by any stretch, a nominal buffer against the worst of the heat, a faint musty whiff atop the omnipresent rotten-egg sulfur. Most of the roof had been burned away, remaining beams eaten through by insects, and the ramshackle floor was encrusted with ashes and slag, burnt traces of household miscellany. Still, it was something, and a quick scouring even made it livable (well, tolerable, more like), at least for the next few hours.

 

We didn’t bother with a fire.

 

Thoros slumped into a corner, head lolling against the wall, and slipped into a semiconscious daze. In the corner opposite, I conjured myself a chair; legs crossed, foot tapping, I plucked a loose nail from a pile of coals, listlessly rolled it between my fingers, and held it up for closer inspection.

 

Unburnt, unbroken, unblemished, its surface danced with smoky ripples in the glow of distant flames.

 

Bloody thing was made of Valyrian steel.

 

The alloy's exact recipe had been a jealously guarded secret, most all of the refining process was famously lost to time, but with a chunk of the stuff thrumming in my hand, the key ingredient stood out like a spotlight – human souls, infinitesimal shards of them, fragmentary scraps long since robbed of even a flicker of conscious thought, folded into the metal itself, infused down to the atoms, as if the unwitting ‘donors’ had been tossed headfirst into the crucible. 

 

I grimaced.

 

Their steel, their dragonstone, their civilization – the whole damn lot – seemed designed to be as fiendish as possible. Corpses were commodities, torture was a respectable trade, millwheels driven by rivers of blood, incalculable multitudes dashed against the rocks for reasons almost comically mundane.

 

A single sacrifice, well-chosen, well-executed, can fuel an empire for a thousand years, and the dragonlords would happily butcher an entire town’s worth to join two bits of wood together.

 

“They brought it on themselves.”

 

If not morally, then mechanically – so much energy, of such breathtaking magnitude, expelled so unceasingly over so many centuries, and left to accumulate so bafflingly carelessly …

 

Nothing short of a miracle that the Doom only took Valyria.

 

Bloodshot eyes blinking in confusion, Thoros paid me what I hesitate to call attention – the threadbare appearance of it, perhaps, or whatever smatterings he'd blearily scraped together.

 

“ … yes,” he rasped.

 

(Frankly, odds are he hadn't even heard me, but that god-fearing part of him had a well-developed sense of deference.)

 

Drumming the nail against my thigh, I watched the priest fight to keep his eyes open.

 

“Sleep,” I brusqued.

 

Thoros eased up with a boneless nod, offered some incoherent mumbling, then curled into a ball and gave himself to corpse-still slumber.

 

Outside our tumbledown shelter, the flames and thunder crashed and roared.

 

There was no rot here – no abiding rot, that is, nothing chronic; the endemic desolation quite handily smothered those few raggedy wisps that pierced through the storm wall. 

 

Hideously scarred by mortal duncery, yes, but compared to the rest of the world, the peninsula was pure.

 

Something else, something old, something powerful – something I recognized – had already claimed it for itself.

 

“Leave me in suspense, why don't you?”

 

R'hllor offered nought but silence.

 

I don't know why I expected anything different.

Chapter 26: Chapter 24

I reject, on principle, the authority of so-called ‘historical consensus.’

 

Look, I'll concede it makes a sort of intuitive sense – if most people agree that something happened a particular way, then it's hardly a stretch to say as much – but I maintain my well-tried skepticism. Outsourcing truth to the mob, after all, rarely yields anything but fallacy; fashionable sentiments have a way of being seen as uncontroverted truths, and suspect foundations of engendering equally spurious assumptions. 

 

Doubly so where the supernatural’s involved. 

 

Point is, though, from what I’ve pieced together, the Doom wasn’t just a singular outburst, but rather a cascading sequence of them – a big explosion that then led to more.

 

Most historians naturally blame the Fourteen Flames, that belt of cone-topped volcanoes running down the length of the peninsula. They pose, not unreasonably, that one of the constituent hills erupted (with or without human instigation, depending on the author's personal agenda), and the rest shortly followed from there. 

 

A logical conclusion, I’ll give them that, but fundamentally flawed, epistemologically incomplete – too clean, too simple, too mundane. While the Fourteen Flames doubtlessly contributed, the universe, you see, has a certain flair for the dramatic. 

 

No, the City was the epicenter.

 

The narrative demanded nothing less.

 

…

 

Eternal Valyria hadn't so much been demolished as utterly erased.

 

They'd built it on a swamp, muggy and wet, straddling the banks of the Hoskar River, amid a cluster of gently-sloped foothills. It is said, after continuous millennia, not an inch of ground remained unspoilt, a sardine-packed jungle of towers and halls and pyramids, stone-scaled dragons and gold-plated sphinxes, at least forty square miles and two millions lives.

 

All gone. 

 

Where had stood the world's once-capital now sprawled a barren sheet of fused trinitite, its cloudy black surface gnarled and scorched, studded with nought but scattered chips of rubble and flash-melted scraps of golden finery.

 

And yet, at its center, the point from which the waste all radiated, high above the otherwise flattened horizon, hunched one striking exception, a solitary heap of ashes and slag – a ziggurat, or at least the blasted skeleton of one, bricks spalled, pillars snapped, the colossus at its apex welded into an amorphous lump.

 

The Temple of Arrax Best and Greatest.

 

(Really, what else could it be?)

 

While I can’t possibly speak to the precise details, it was clear as day, from even a cursory glance, that the temple had played a leading role in the catastrophe – it was there, probably at some garish altar, amidst chants and candles and censers, that someone did something that they just plumb shouldn't have. And whether ignorance or negligence or sabotage, the rest of their civilization (not unjustifiably) paid the price.

 

I can only chalk the building's survival to providence – wasn't natural, whatever the case.

 

Thoros had recovered from his torpor quite well, having leapt from his corner with conspicuous alacrity, then trotted onward with hardly a stumble, faster and faster the further we marched, and the closer we verged on ground zero; a second wind, you might say, then a third, until, almost as if possessed – mouth agape, fingers twitching, eyes glazed in rapture – he'd overtaken me entirely.

 

“ … in my chest. Listen,” he quavered, gaze fixed upon the ruin, having regressed to his native Myrish (not so much its own language, mind, as a regional bastard Valyrian) some several hours before – he'd been at it while. “You hear it, don't you? The singing?”

 

Glass crunching beneath my feet, I tossed him a lukewarm grunt.

 

“If that's what you call it.”

 

He prattled on.

 

“His voice, it's … exultant. Yes, exultant. Utterly sublime. Truly, the Lord … ”

 

Through a background haze of rage and loss and pain – the default mood here, I suspect – turbulent eddies of thought and feeling, raw, unpolished, unrefined, followed our approach with palpable anticipation. It all came from the temple, because of course it did, R’hllor's familiar presence (or at least the greater whole of which he was an extremity), clinging to the place like a liferaft – he welcomed us, waved us inside, the spiritual equivalent of a giggling schoolgirl inviting her friends to a sleepover.

 

Would've been almost cruel, really, to turn him down at that point.

 

(Of course, even so, even if the resident god hadn't rolled out the red carpet, we'd have certainly gone there anyway; as the only landmark for miles, an all but literal neon sign, it practically demanded our attention.) 

 

Ramblings slowly petering out – yielding to a sort of transfixed awe – the priest tranced up a flight of blackened stone stairs, through a sagging gateway, bronze doors melted to the floor, and into the structure's tenebrous depths.

 

I plodded along behind.

 

A gutted vestibule gave way to the cavernous inner chamber.

 

I was, in that moment, reminded of the Hebrews – their Holy of Holies, hidden behind a veil, where God himself was said to dwell in the darkness.

 

Traces of incense, echoes of worship, the charred remnants of benches and braziers clumped against the battered walls.

 

Dead ahead, a flickering sprite of flame – mystic essence, concentrated, animated, shaped into the barest proximation of human form – bathed the room in a sanguine glow, the floor beneath it spiderwebbed with cracks, air shimmering in mirage; this scalded wreck of a divinity, a pitiable thing, taped together with scabs and spite, greeted me with all but a smile.

 

(Some gods have bodies, some are more ephemeral, their preference largely informed by their origins – all the usual caveats aside, those who ascended from some lower state find grounding in a semblance of their erstwhile mortality, while those ‘born’ into it swear by the omniscience supposedly granted by an ethereal incorporeality.

 

R'hllor struck me as the latter, though even if he wanted a body, I rather doubted, at that point, he was physically capable of sustaining one.)

 

The priest, fallen to his knees, beheld his Lord with transcendent adulation.

 

I cleared my throat.

 

“Well?”

 

R’hllor just stared, still relishing in my mere existence.

 

I clicked my tongue.

 

“I've come all this way, surely you want something.” A flick of the chin. “Wouldn't have sent your gimp, otherwise.”

 

Thoros, by then, had lowered himself to a full-on kowtow, forehead scraping against the flagstones. Deep in communion, tongues of flame lapped his skin, and wisps of power seeped through his pores.

 

If our host caught on to my irritation, he evidently didn't much care – the sprite rippled.

 

Foreigner.

 

Not a voice – nothing so structured – but an impression, an intent, piercing, reverberating, stamped into reality itself.

 

Untouched. Unbound. Free variable.

 

Arms crossing, I raised a brow.

 

“Your point?”

 

(Gods don't prevaricate, not amongst ourselves.

 

We might delay, or ramble, or talk past each other, but rarely, if ever, deliberately misdirect. Such word games, after all, are better reserved for those who'd fall for them, the blind mortal masses who couldn't, or shouldn't, become party to the more eldritch truths.

 

This mutual understanding – a professional courtesy, so to speak – wasn't ordained in any celestial code; like simply recognized like, and however violently our domains may clash, whatever ruin we've inflicted upon each other, some small part of us always treasures our shared divinity.

 

We all play the same game.)

 

The sprite inched closer.

 

Corruption. Sickness. Blight.

 

His eyes – metaphorical – bore into mine.

 

Solution. 

 

“I'm touched you think so highly of me.” It wasn't even a lie – not wholly. There's something to be said for the recognition of your peers. “But I think you overestimate my enthusiasm.”

 

A pause. 

 

Query.

 

“You said it yourself, I'm a foreigner.”

 

Anathema. Antithesis. Order. Life. 

 

“Mayhaps. And it won't touch anything that's mine.”

 

To cleanse the rot, to scrub it all away, bit by bit, until this world's been restored to some modicum of proper functionality, would've taken me decades, if not centuries; the Elden Ring, a brand-new Erdtree, the full imposition of my Order – outright colonization.

 

And while I sympathized (to an extent), the locals’ plight was hardly enough to inspire any sense of White man's burden.

 

I'd my fill of thrones.

 

Capable.

 

“Unwilling.”

 

A minute of silence; the sprite churned, as if frowning in thought.

 

Alternative.

 

“Oh?”

 

Source. Excise. Obstruct.

 

My eyes narrowed.

 

“A source, singular?”

 

Confirmation.

 

“Where?”

 

East. Empire. Stygai.

 

The plot thickens.

 

Not really a shock, in hindsight.

 

My foot tapped, lips pursed, gaze momentarily strayed to the side.

 

If the rot, in fact, had an active source, still propagating after all this time – well, hard to heal when you're still being stabbed. Some parts of the world may be beyond saving, but the greater whole, given enough breathing room … cutting it off may not itself fix things, but could set the stage for a long, uncomfortable recovery.

 

In theory, that is.

 

Certain areas, I knew, were unsalvagably tainted, and the rest almost seemed a coin toss.

 

“I'll need a bit more than that.”

 

Clarify.

 

I almost scowled. Was he being intentionally obtuse?

 

“What happened?”

 

What killed your world?

 

The god hesitated. 

 

Then, as if physically pained – 

 

Apostasy.

 

… 

 

Suppose that's the most I could hope for. 

 

“And why should I bother, eh? To fix your mess?”

 

Flames crackled, dustmotes fluttered, Thoros prayed under his breath.

 

Entertainment.

 

I blinked; and with a faint grin tugging at my lips, set loose a halting half-chuckle.

 

“It's an accord, then.”

Chapter 27: Interlude III – The Demon

Loath as Robert was to give credit, Kevan Lannister had chosen his ground quite well. 

 

It was a valley floor, narrow and steep, where the Goldroad cut through the Westerland's eastern alps, several days past Deep Den, and a good month's march from Lannisport. Arrayed atop an incline, crimson lion banners blazing in the midday sun, his wings were anchored by patches of scraggly wood, rear screened by a winding river, and center bolstered by low drystone walls. The mile between their respective lines had been churned into a muddy quagmire, liberally strewn with caltrops and stakes, well-prepared days in advance of the Black-Stag King’s expected arrival.

 

Yes, Kevan had the field.

 

But Robert had the numbers.

 

“We punch through.”

 

Slamming shut his Myrish lens, the king ran his tongue over his teeth.

 

“Our full weight. Every man. Tromp there on foot, and break them over our knee.”

 

Estermont swallowed, Tarly pursed his lips, but none of the surrounding lords could bring themselves to argue. Better a messy victory now, they'd concede, than a decisive one next year – that Greyjoy nonsense had devoured enough of their coffers already.

 

“Mooton.”

 

The riverman straightened.

 

He might’ve fought for Rhaegar, but Robert trusted his subsequent vows of fealty, or at least his hatred for the present foe. His firstborn, after all, had been serving as a page at the Red Keep; now, of the boy, there weren't even ashes left to bury.

 

Just one more casualty of Lannister madness.

 

“You’ve the reserve.” Several hundred horse – he wouldn't need more. “Keep them fresh. Watch the flanks. When the lions break, pursue.”

 

Robert dismounted, armor creaking as he shouldered his hammer, a narrow-eyed glare fixed on the rebel lines.

 

“I want them off that hill.”

 

Spearmen assembling in ranks, squires and messengers darting to and fro, shuffling and squabbling, chinstraps and bootlaces, roaring chants and last minute prayers, the royalists marshalled for battle.

 

The Lannisters watched, and waited.

 

A natural bottleneck, the valley's geography precluded complex maneuver; to dislodge the defenders, then, the only real option was a forthright hammerblow, clumping together into one solid mass and hitting them as hard as could.

 

To the sides, left and right, of this uniform block were positioned the masses of footslogging levies (plucked mostly from the Reach and Riverlands) – fairly solid by Westerosi standards, many of them already bloodied by the last decade's troubles, but all in all unexceptional. The proper soldiers, the elite – the knights, the household guardsmen, the veteran cadres of burly stormlanders – were concentrated in the center. 

 

While the sides held them down, the center would beat them to death.

 

Robert shoved through the soldiery, until he'd cleared the line altogether, and stood alone, out in front, a deep breath filling his lungs.

 

He'd no need of his retinue – and they knew better than to get in his way.

 

A step across the field, then another, then a third, and with a wave of the king's hand, a brusque shout of “On!”, his army erupted into motion; horncalls and battlecries, stamping footfalls, the deafening clamor of plate and steel.

 

They trudged up the hill, mud squelching up to their knees and splattering across their surcoats, thick enough to hinder, but not enough to stop, the unrelenting weight of their advance.

 

At four hundred yards, the Lannister archers loosed.

 

Arrows whistled through the air, splatting into the dirt, grazing against mail, piercing through helmets, pinning shields to forearms; a broadhead in their gut, or neck, or thigh, no small number toppled over screaming, only to be trampled by their comrades.

 

Ranks tightened, blades bared, the royalist march picked up speed.

 

Three hundred yards.

 

Two hundred.

 

One hundred.

 

Fifty.

 

The whites of their eyes.

 

Robert swung. 

 

She’d done something to him, the Goddess (as if the gold flickering in his eyes hadn’t made that more than plain). Faster, stronger, more than human, his hammer ripped through bodies like butter, and spearpoints glanced off his skin like steel – a scythe, slashing through the wheat, as immovable as unstoppable. 

 

His men poured into the widening breach.

 

As the only ones who could afford it, House Lannister had always maintained the largest standing army on the continent, something like 5,000 regulars, readily expanded when warranted by circumstance. While perhaps not as fierce, or daring, or crafty as the other kingdoms’ offerings, these redcloaks nonetheless made for an effective force, well-drilled and lavishly equipped, professionals amid a sea of amateurs.

 

But these weren’t redcloaks.

 

They were peach-fuzzed farmboys, gammy-legged greybeards, a desperate scrape of the bottom of the barrel, swept from the fields with a whip and a shout and little more training than a “stick ‘em with the pointy end.” 

 

Tywin had poured everything into the occupation of the Iron Islands – what redcloaks hadn't been devoured by the worsening anarchy were trapped there by the Royal Fleet. His lords quietly huddling in their castles, or having jumped ship entirely – at this point, their greatest concern was who’d take the soon-to-be vacant paramountcy – all he had left was a dwindling supply of second-rate reservists, and whatever the press gangs could scrape from the bottom of their boots. 

 

No wonder, really, that they wavered so quickly. Faced with so hopeless a melee, what little resolve they had fizzled away to apathy, and natural hesitance turned to outright refusal – fearing the foe more than their serjeants, pikes clattering to the ground, despondency spread like an infection, until it all devolved into an incurable rout.

 

And as his army disintegrated around him, Kevan drew his sword.

 

One could say it was a tactical decision – a striking display to inspire the troops, and in some small way stem the tide – though such storybook theatrics just weren't in Kevan's character: he was cool, measured, sober, as all main-line Lannisters liked to think themselves, and Robert hadn't the slightest doubt that, unfortunate loyalties aside, his opponent could recognize a lost cause when he saw one.

 

He surely knew his family was finished, that all said and done, he'd be lucky to receive his own gibbet, never mind what Tywin would've done to him if he scurried back home empty-handed. 

 

At least this way, he'd die on his own terms.

 

Plumes and pennants, the general charged, accompanied only by his closest aides, ten against forty thousand.

 

The brave fool.

 

It wasn’t long – some swings, some stabs, enough to say he'd taken some with him – before they dragged him from the saddle, poked him full of holes, and stripped his corpse of its gaudy panoply.

 

The ruby-studded spurs alone were worth more than most make in a lifetime.

 

With that, the rebels broke completely.

 

Mooton committed the reserve, and the rest pursued on foot – a rabbit hunt, wild, frenzied, surrendering conscripts cut down where they stood, scattered handfuls escaping into the hills, blood soaking the valley floor, crows circling in the cloudless sky.

 

It was just about as total a victory could be.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

“And where's Marbrand? Still at Sarsfield?”

 

“Last I heard.”

 

“He needs to get moving.”

 

“It was a hard siege, and word is Clegane's been raiding his supply.”

 

“Clegane is a rabid dog. Just set some bait!”

 

“I think you underestimate him.”

 

“He's the Mountain that Rides, not the – ”

 

Tables, chairs, velvet canopies, maps and pitchers and hog on the spit; though the camp, as all, had its shortcomings (the latrines, chiefly, stench trapped by the valley walls), it had comforts enough to serve its purpose, and satisfy those whose opinions actually mattered.

 

So the lords talked strategy, made themselves feel useful as they bummed about on their arses – and distracted themselves from what was to come, the ‘spectacle’ their king had arranged.

 

Slouched in a silk-cushioned settee, Robert quietly nursed his drink.

 

“A treasure ship?”

 

“Mm. A contingency, bound for Braavos.”

 

“Quite the prize.”

 

“Farman has declared for us, then?”

 

“So long as he gets his share.”

 

“Rewarding a turncoat … I don't like it. Sets a bad precedent.”

 

“We're rewarding his loyalty to the king.”

 

An officer of Storm's End's garrison – greying hair, crooked nose, a politically reliable veteran of the Trident – approached said king with a bow.

 

“They're ready, Your Grace.”

 

The lords stilled; Robert grunted.

 

“Get on with it.”

 

Trooping back toward his men, the officer waved and shouted, while the lords pursed their lips and twiddled their thumbs, the latent disquietude that filled the air viscerally thickening.

 

Dondarrion, the interim Hand – Ned had yet to respond to his missives – leaned closer with a knit brow.

 

“Robert, is this really necessary?”

 

The king didn't deign to reply.

 

Before them, at the center of the camp, the ground had been cleared into a sort of makeshift arena, enclosed by wagons and barrels; into it were herded the highborn prisoners, knights and nobility, unhelmeted, unarmed, choice bits of finery nicked by their captors, dried blood crusting their armor. They shuffled and stumbled, as if in a daze, warily eyeing the surrounding guards, the murmuring spectators, commanders and troopers and hangers-on.

 

Robert swirled his cup, finger tapping against the armrest, sheltering in those last few moments before he irreversibly committed – pushing to his feet, he then loudly cleared his throat, and addressed the prisoners with a terse-toned bark, only partially forced.

 

“The Wall’s full, I'm afraid.”

 

A beat.

 

“Too many Ironborn – trouble enough digesting them, last thing it needs now is you lot.”

 

He'd no need to spell it out from there. 

 

That trite duality, the Black or the Block, had been beaten into their heads from the moment they could walk. Those of worth, if things went truly pear-shaped, could always rely on the bittersweet assurance they'd a guaranteed spot in the Watch – that had been the rule from time immemorial, held nearly as sacred as guest right, exceptions as rare as they were infamous.

 

To be denied this refuge … 

 

It struck them like a thunderbolt.

 

First came the gapes, the blanches, the shock, then the tears and shouts, the quaking and jolting, a patina of aristocratic indignancy over the depths of animal fear. It all came to a head when one of them, a Serrett, tried jumping the makeshift fence; a halberdier cleaved his skull open. 

 

Flinches, gasps, swears – 

 

Wide-eyed gawp twitching between the corpse and the king, a Lannisport Lannister shakily rallied his pride.

 

“W-what is the meaning of this!?”

 

Robert pressed on, as if he hadn't heard him at all.

 

“Of course, I can't have you all killed – it wouldn't be fair to the headsman. Hard work, you know, that axe is heavy.”

 

By the looks on their faces, they didn't much appreciate his levity.

 

With all that had happened, with what he had become, with all he had done, what need had he, though, for formality?

 

Why bother feigning respect?

 

“So I've decided, in my beneficence, to indulge in the power of pardon. I, Robert Baratheon, King of this pisspot, will graciously permit one of your number to keep his head. His lands will be untouched, and titles retained in full, until the fruits of his loins inevitably pull some stupidity of their own.”

 

Another pause – a deep sip of his claret.

 

“Just one,” he punctuated, smacking his lips. “Can't be too generous. The rest of you … well, that's life, I suppose.”

 

Then, in case his intentions weren't clear: 

 

“Don't yet know who the lucky winner will be, but I trust you can sort it out amongst yourselves.”

 

Topping off the speech with a smile, Robert flumped back into his seat. 

 

The prisoners stood there, spilling not a word, stiff with realization, then with horror. ‘We're honorable men’ they thought to themselves, ‘we won't turn on each other like rats!’ but the reality of their situation wore at their already shallow composure, and doubt slowly clawed up their spines; they tensed, and twitched, reaching for swords that weren't there, silently begging that none of their neighbors would cross that abominable line.

 

Finally, a scream.

 

A podgy scruff of a knight squeezed his paws around a young squire's neck, tackled him to the ground, the boy's legs flailing as his face turned blue.

 

Some froze, some jerked away, some even tried to pull the two apart, but the floodgates burst open all the same.

 

Biting, kicking, wailing fists, rocks bashed against temples, and steel gauntlets tenderized flesh, puddles of blood and piles of teeth – the cream of the Westerlands, stripped of all pretense, tripping over bodies as they ripped each other to pieces.

 

Robert watched, and drank, a ghost of a smile slowly worming across his lips.

 

Yes, what need had he for formality?

Chapter 28: Chapter 25

Godwyn and Ranni were never particularly close – differing ages, conflicting politics, the simple misalignment of their respective interests – though they did share something of a mutual respect.

 

He recognized the witch as a generational talent, if a touch reclusive for his taste, and admired her total dedication to her principles, however destructive those principles may be; and while she might’ve hated the regime he served, she'd never deny that he did so with a flair, a fine velvet glove for the Golden Order’s mailed fist.

 

No one, least of all Marika herself, would ever have envisioned that she'd kill him.

 

Of course the queen knew of her stepdaughter's plotting – how couldn't she? On some level, she even approved it, welcoming yet another log on the pyre, and a sign that the otherwise taciturn girl had a healthy will to power. There were hundreds, thousands in Leyndell alone who boasted some dilute drop of godly blood, all worthy sacrifices for an Empyrean's ambition, and Marika wouldn't miss a one.

 

Hers, in this instance, was a failure of imagination.

 

She never conceived that Ranni would have the gall, that her spite ran so deep, that she'd make so grand a gesture – and that Godwyn, when the Black Knives smashed through his bedchamber door, would accept his death with such martyrlike passivity.

 

In hindsight, it was almost tragically foreseeable.

 

And of all the losses she suffered, of everything over all the centuries, it was Godwyn that finally broke her. 

 

He was interred in a public crypt, one of the so-called “Hero's Graves,” deep below the capital – a tremendous honor for most, downright humble for the beloved Golden Heir.

 

A grand mausoleum just wasn’t in his character.

 

Marika couldn't bear to attend the funeral, and never, not once, descended into the musty catacombs to pay her respects in person. The thought alone was enough to turn her stomach. 

 

For though his soul had been utterly burned away, beyond even the Elden Ring's power to restore, his flesh still lived, and breathed, and grew, branded with that loathsome half-wheel centipede – Death incomplete.

 

The fragmentary rune that Ranni stole, that her patsies carved into his breast, simply wasn't meant to inhabit a living body, the both of them anathema to each other's fundamental natures; forced so unnaturally together, they warped and blended and suffused, until one was indistinguishable from the other, and catalyzed into a malign taint, a cardinal perversion of Marika's Order.

 

She could feel this taint – this Deathroot – gradually infesting the Erdtree's titanic roots, twisting and sprouting across the Lands Between, giving rise to pestilence, and rot, and detestable creatures neither dead nor living. 

 

It was an affront to everything she stood for, but Marika refused, categorically, to cut it off at the source, and destroy what remained of her son – to confront what had become of him. Indeed, when she closed her eyes, ignored the festering sourness, she could almost, if just for a moment, fool herself into believing that he'd never left her at all. 

 

The task, then, fell to me.

 

I left my guards at the mouth of the cavern; they weren't needed, not for this.

 

His original body, the nucleus, the core, had burrowed from its tomb, down through the earth, and planted itself deep below – within a stagnant pond, overlooking the flooded ruins of the now-nameless Eternal City, amid the bottomless, fathomless, ageless depths where coiled and began the great roots of the primordial Erdtree.

 

Every bit reeked of decay.

 

Of all his companions, only Leal Fortissax still remained at his side, raging futilely against the blight to grant his master some measure of peace. His stone scales had crumbled and cracked, exposing the underlying gold, wings torn, claws blunted, Death-tainted down to the bones.

 

The dragon bowed his head at my approach; not so much for respect of me – whatever cause they've since pledged themselves to, his kind, as a rule, still pined for the days of Placidusax – as for what I'd come here to do.

 

Each footstep heavy as lead, I slowly verged on Godwyn's mutilated form, that monument to blind, cancerous growth, grey-drained eyes bulging from a clamlike head, a slimy mop of tarnished gold locks draping over fish-scaled legs, buzzing flies and writhing maggots, a halo of gnarled black thorns.

 

He wasn't truly mine to mourn, I told myself, repeated like a desperate mantra, though it never quite managed to stick.

 

Jaw clenched tight, my hand pressed against his scabrous chest, feeling the thump of his still-beating heart, thumb tracing the oily cursemark. 

 

A deep breath. 

 

I pushed.

 

Destined Death surged forth; the body burst into black-red flames. 

 

Skin crackled, muscles seized, water fizzled to steam. Noxious equilibrium overturned, the half-wheel closed, a complete ouroboros, and death – true death – finally took him.

 

Unable, or unwilling, to tear my eyes away, I stayed, and watched, until naught remained but smoldering ash.

 

As Fortiasax crooned a formless dirge, I was struck with borrowed memories of a son I'd never even met – his smile, his laugh, his indomitable warmth, earnest and bright, too kind and honest and just for so rotten an age as this.

 

Tears rolled down my cheeks; I wiped them away.

 

A good mother, or a good queen.

 

I'd chosen the latter. 

 

And there was yet more work to be done.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

A brief stopover in New Ghis.

 

Five thousand years ago, at the close of their fifth and final war, the triumphant Valyrians razed the Ghiscari capital, then set to work divvying the spoils. Lands, riches, slaves, all greedily plundered and redistributed, a tremendous bounty for the public treasury, and even more so for the generals.

 

In those early days, however, the Freeholders still held to a sense of soldierly honor; and so, in light of their fallen foe’s well-proven valor, the region now known as Slaver's Bay was designated a protectorate – a ghetto, or bantustan, the cynical among us might scoff – where the surviving Ghiscari could retain some vestigial approximation of their ancient ways. 

 

Accordingly, at least for most of its existence, this enclave enjoyed a remarkable degree of autonomy, day-to-day matters largely overseen by local Sanhedrins, their minders content with taxation and graft. Life there, at least for a time, continued more or less unchanged – the same leading families, the same endless squabbles, the same rituals and festivals and customs. 

 

The Valyrians just found it endearing.

 

Indeed, deeply impoverished by the various externalities of commerce, strictly prohibited from raising or maintaining anything more substantial than a token company of honor guards, these remnant Ghiscari were hardly capable of policing their own territory, never mind posing an actual threat. And over time, the further removed they were from the old empire, the quainter were their surviving traditions. Wealthy dragonlords, thousands a year, would visit for a taste of exotic anachronism, to watch their ancient enemy perform like zoo animals, the tattered scraps of their once-proud heritage sold like pies at the market stalls.

 

Migration, diffusion, assimilation, by the last few centuries before the Doom, their culture had degenerated into a hollow caricature, their language replaced with a low bastard Valyrian, the race itself mongrelized to a swarthy, nappy sludge.

 

But they still thought themselves Ghiscari – and when their hegemon went up in smoke, the ‘Sons of the Harpy’ seized what they could, replacing Valyria as the center of the world slave trade, and a valuable stopover for general trade besides.

 

From third-world to comfortably second. 

 

Nowadays, officially, the region had no singular government, comprising a handful of ostensibly independent city-states, all incestuously bound by proximity, economics, and no small amount of racial kinship, their respective ruling classes deeply intermarried, their lifestyles fundamentally the same. 

 

You had, of course, the classical triad, the old provincial cities of Mereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, untouched by war, ravaged by Pax Valyria, their walls and streets crumbling to clouds of choking dust.

 

More pertinently, though, were the the postbellum developments; according to their histories, the dispossessed refugees who'd fled to the enclave in droves – junior officers, middling merchants, distant relations of the vanquished royal family – bitterly chafed under their newly reduced circumstances, the local elite understandably wary of being dispossessed in kind. A number of them, after the obligate politicking, therefore agreed to pack up what little they had, pile onto whatever ships would take them, and found a city of their own, the bulk eventually settling on a small, arid island some hundred miles south of the ruined Ghiscar peninsula – thus New Ghis came to be, named in the (decidedly optimistic) hope that it'd one day surpass the Old.

 

It was a small city, twenty thousand proper citizens and several times that in slaves. Built along a natural harbor, laid in a well-ordered grid, there were all the usual Ghiscari touches, big bronze harpies and glazed-brick pyramids, though little of the grime that marked its mainland sisters, fairly clean streets and acceptably fresh air; a disparity, in fact, that hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

 

While the islanders credited their “superior breeding,” most outside observers chalked it to their particular role in the slave economy. The merchandise, so to speak, was broken and trained on the mainland – as servants, or soldiers, or sextoys, each of the triad having a speciality – then shipped through New Ghis to its final destination. The island, in other words, was a middleman, a distributor, a mere logistical waypoint. There they didn't have camps or pits, the wheel or the lash, that well-cultivated savagery critical for breaking men's souls – mere transportation, after all, is a comparative neutral, far more amenable to aloof banality.

 

(Every civilization has its slaves, metaphorical or otherwise – one could even argue they're a prerequisite, a core component of the ‘megamachine’ and whatnot. Beyond cheap labor, the institution serves as an indispensable mechanism of social control, wringing value from the worthless, efficiently persecuting disfavored demographics, and bridling those who'd otherwise cause problems.

 

From a utilitarian perspective, their suffering is more than justified by the benefits to society as a whole.

 

Besides, it's only proper that those who could dominate would.

 

Past a certain point, though – you know it when you see it – it just becomes … vulgar, for want of a word. Born less of practicality than decadence, or sadism, an ravenous end in itself.

 

And at that point, you're better off wiping the slate entirely.)

 

If only that were enough to render the locals palatable, or to save them from being entirely distasteful in their own right – remember, they were Ghiscari, a race almost designed to disgust, pompous and slimy, coppery hair twisted into devil horns, growling at each other as they feasted on boiled puppies. Their worst qualities, already apparent, simply weren't magnified by the necessities of their trade.

 

We left after three days of rest and refit – three days too many, if you ask me.

 

They say it takes all sorts, but some sorts we'd be better off without.

 

…

 

No single trade route on the planet was, they say, quite so well-traveled as that between New Ghis and Qarth – hazards all mapped, optimal tacks comprehensively charted, a good dozen other ships spotted a day.

 

A milkrun, in other words, as pedestrian as sea travel can get.

 

Qarth itself a middleman – the gate between the occident and orient, the Summer and Jade Seas – this sea lane was the main artery, an irreplaceable channel, for an unimaginable diversity of goods: raw foodstuffs, distilled liquors, all manner of manufactured miscellany, artworks, artifacts, objets d'art, trinkets and textiles, silks and spices, and, of course, slaves of every build and breed.

 

I believe we ourselves were carrying olive oil, the hull stacked high with amphorae.

 

Valyria’s smoking ruins – the ‘fun bit’ – farther and farther behind by the day, the captain and crew breathed a sigh of relief, happily embracing their return to a comfortable, predictable routine. They could handle the occasional spot of weather, horrible sickness was a familiar face, and after everything, the cut-throat corsairs of the Basilisk Isles just didn’t seem so bad. 

 

It was a quiet day, a little under a week into our voyage, with a stark midday sun in the pale cloudless sky.

 

No wind, no waves, just … stillness.

 

Until, out of the blue, a disturbance.

 

Faint, fleeting, just beyond the tips of my fingers, like a distant note piercing the quietude, then vanishing into the aether.

 

My brow furrowed.

 

Creaking from my chair, setting my drink to the side, I slowly padded out onto the deck.

 

The crew had taken well, too well, to the apparent lull, stricken with a shameless torpor. Between the occasional adjustment of the sails, a half-assed repair or two, they idled, and dozed, played cards and dice, hummed under their breath, sneaking extra tots when they thought nobody was looking.

 

Having strung his hammock from the mast, the captain raised his head at me, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment, though when he finally registered the puzzled look on my face, one could almost see his heart stop.

 

He clambered to his feet, scrambled up beside me, wringing his hands and chewing his lips.

 

“What is it?” he murmured, Adam's apple bobbing. 

 

No reply.

 

The captain, though, was persistent. “What do you – ?”

 

I silenced him with a raised hand. 

 

Another blip – closer now, somewhere off the starboard side. 

 

Holding their collective breath, the crew cleared away as I leaned against the gunwale, and peered into the water below.

 

Another, another, another, soon melding into static, thrumming and thickening as its source drew ever nearer.

 

Behind me, the crew, hairs standing on end – so close now, even they could feel it – braced for something.

 

Ripples.

 

Bubbles.

 

A blur.

 

That telltale rotting-fish miasma.

 

"You've got to be fucking kiddi – " 

 

A gargantuan kraken's tree-trunk tentacles burst from the brine – a saw-toothed beak, hateful eyes the size of horses, rubbery skin flayed white with decay.

 

Say what you will, part of me almost respected the Drowned God's persistence.

 

Squeezing and stabbing and crushing, the ship's frame buckled with a crack and a groan, mast snapped like a twig, and several crewmen were swept into the sea, the rest scrambling in a blind panic.

 

Hammer in hand, I responded in kind.

 

Smashing blows, gouging swipes, arcs and jets and bolts of grace, furor matching that of the beast; an awkward battle, with no clear schwerpunkt, flesh wounds to the extremities regrown with almost trivial ease.

 

It just wasn't enough.

 

A snarl – whether mine or the kraken's, I cannot quite recall.

 

So as a sucker scraped across the captain's face, tearing his cheek to ribbons, I infused my voice with divinity, the only way to guarantee it'd be heard through the commotion.

 

“Down, now!”

 

In my free hand seethed an orb of tight-packed light, roiling gold flecked with red-black, building, growing, surging.

 

Most obeyed, diving to the floor – the ones who didn't were no great loss. 

 

I hurled the orb into the water, anchoring my feet to the deck, and throwing up a shield – as much a buffer as a splint – around what still remained of the hull.

 

A second of travel.

 

A flick of the finger.

 

A deafening BOOM. 

 

The ship lurched high into the air, buffeted by a fountain of boiling spray, before crashing back down to the foam, skidding and rattling before petering to a stop some fifty yards away.

 

Floating chunks of meat and gristle, intermittent patches of flame, the kraken's blood stained the churning water a putrid, gangrenous black; its burst mantle, the biggest surviving chunk, gurgled as it slipped beneath the waves.

 

“Pain in my arse … ”

 

Ship rocking and creaking, I marched towards the captain, splayed on his back, insensate with shock, and prodded him with a sharp kick to the side.

 

“Up.”

 

He blinked his remaining eye – lights on, nobody home.

 

I gave it a moment, then kicked him again.

 

Nothing.

 

With a frustrated huff, my grace engulfed his head – skin patching, bone melding, he writhed and screamed, elbows bashing the deckplanks as he jerkily curled in on himself.

 

(As I understand, it's quite painful to have flesh reknitted like this, as unnatural as tearing it apart. Normally, I'd blunt the senses, though it seems my mood wasn’t feeling all that charitable.)

 

Grace dissipating, he let out a gasp, panted and wheezed and groaned, fists curling as he shakily mashed them against his head.

 

An adequate job, I'd rate it, the overall shape mostly preserved, the surface not too lumpy or mottled – fresh skin was cemented over his empty eye socket, and most of his teeth were even there.

 

“C'mon, up.”

 

Finally, when I cocked for a third kick, he flopped over onto his side, and gruelingly pushed himself to his feet.

 

“M-majesty,” he slurred, a stiff breeze from toppling over, “I – ”

 

“You know where we are?”

 

His teeth clacked shut; the captain paused in thought, or perhaps just general discomposure. 

 

“ … yes.”

 

Good enough.

 

I'd lost track, myself.

 

“Then I suggest you get moving – make landfall, and soon. In case you haven't noticed, you're running out of ship.”

 

My grace would hold it together, for now, but my patience only went so far. I’d wiped this crew’s arse quite enough already – honestly, what was I paying them for?

 

(The money was no object – literally, conjured from thin air – but it was the principle of the thing.)

 

Rubbing his missing eye, the captain furrowed his brow, then recoiled with a visible blanch. 

 

“But – ”

 

I'd already turned my back, though, and tramped back into the cabin.

 

… 

 

Come the next morning – having apparently spent the night limping along the coast – the ship had run aground in a shallow delta, a field of algae-scummed rubble, pyramids glimpsing through the overgrown jungle, humid and sticky and hot. 

 

Zamettar, it was, one of the famous ruins of Sothoryos, a ghostly place of dread reputation, forsaken by every empire that had ever tried to settle there, now moldering in the canopy's gloom.

 

Still better than New Ghis.

 

We’d end up spending a month there.

Chapter 29: Chapter 26

The Ghiscari were the first to attempt to settle Sothoryos, and by far the most successful.

 

They'd always known of it, at least by reputation, from folk legends and mariner's tales. A juice just not worth the squeeze, they felt it, that jungly hell across the southern sea, so they happily excluded the continent from their ever-growing list of territories, sparing not a thought to the prospect of staking a claim.

 

That is, until the exigencies of empire demanded as much.

 

It started with Gorosh, at the tip of the spindly northeastern peninsula – a penal colony, originally intended for the losing side of a rather nasty civil war, far enough away to nullify the risk of escape, so inhospitable that survival itself served as punishment.

 

While hardly a model most would wish to emulate, the colony's continued survival – a year, then ten, then more – proved that some measure of settlement was, at the very least, feasible; the proverbial cherry popped, so followed a steady stream of mines and farms and logging camps, all manner of extractive industries. 

 

Such ventures, it must be said, were small-scale, sporadic, products not of grand strategy, but private enterprise, abandoned as readily as established. Overhead pared to the bone, slaves were hauled south and worked to death, the return ships laden with exotic commodities, on and on until the minute it turned unprofitable – an immensely lucrative scheme, all in all, notwithstanding the high starting capital, and nigh intolerable risk.

 

Only deep into the latter half of their epoch, having absorbed as much of Essos as their capabilities allowed, did the Ghiscari formally, officially, as a matter of state policy, turn their full attention southward.

 

After all, an empire that stalls is an empire that dies – without an outlet, the beast invariably turns on itself.

 

This grand civilizing mission, such as it was characterized, met with fair initial success, a respectable crop of trading posts and coastal forts, and even a pair of cities: the first, Gorgai, on the Isle of Tears, the largest of the Basilisks, rugged hills and windswept rocks, a center of maritime logistics; the second, Zamettar, on the shores of the continent proper, at the mouth of Zamoyos River, a base camp for their surveys further inland.

 

Enthusiasm, though, can only take you so far, and they soon ran into a wall – namely, Sothoryos itself.

 

The deeper they ventured into the jungle, the  more they realized just how true the stories were.

 

Diseases, horrific ones, as if maliciously designed, picked men off by the thousands; jaundice and seizures, blackened veins and weeping sores, gallons of sweat and rivers of pus, blood pouring from eyes and noses and rears, skin sloughing off at the slightest touch. Fit one moment, an invalid the next, the lucky ones passing in their sleep, or freed from their misery with a swift blow to the head, though most were simply left behind, sallow and delirious on their fluid-stained bedrolls as the column resignedly marched onward.

 

The wildlife, meanwhile, hungrily stalked them through the underbrush, unrelenting, unforgiving, whole cohorts’ worth ripped screaming from their tents in the night. Ripple-furred jaguars, quill-spined basilisks, as many kinds of snake as stars in the sky, the ceaseless buzzing of mosquitos and flies, the blood-curdling screeches of wyverns, and bone-scraping beats of their great leathery wings. And farther south, the advance scouts swore, lurked chalk-white bats the size of hounds, fit to drain a horse in a minute or less, leering with beady red eyes; upright lizards with terrible scythed claws, bright-striped scales and rattling frills, almost uncanny in their birdlike jittering, hunting in well-ordered packs; ghastly things, unearthly things, things that defied description.

 

And then there were the aborigines – “Brindled Men,” the race come to be called, for their mottled, hoglike hides. Sloped brows and square teeth, thick bony limbs and wiry black hair, their simian features well-suited their savage primitivity; reed huts, stone spears, small scattered tribes of fifty or so, endlessly warring over women and game and the nearest mango grove. Indeed, such conflicts – or mayhaps just killing itself – evidently carried in their ‘culture’ a certain ritual significance; shrunken heads hanging from their loincloths, captives impaled on stakes, crude fetishes ringed with butcher-marked bones, and elaborate sacrificial ceremonies – those who bore witness to these rites, the few who managed to escape, recounted grand monuments of unknown design, caterwauling chants and pounding drums, entrails and viscera, stone slick with blood, shadows at the corners of their eyes, something malignant thrumming in the air.

 

A tangible darkness, clinging to the whole damn continent, and seeping down into their souls.

 

To venture inland, the Ghiscari naturally concluded, was hardly more than an adventurous suicide – to kick a stone better left unturned – so they huddled instead in their enclaves along the coast, grand plans for conquest entirely scuppered.

 

By the time of the Valyrian Wars, Gorosh had vanished into the bush, Zamettar was abandoned outright, and the rest limped along, besieged by the land itself, vital support from the motherland dwindling by the day.

 

When dragons – true dragons – appeared on the horizon, the colonists almost felt relieved.

 

Having heard the secondhand reports, the Freeholders had little desire to repeat the Ghiscari's mistakes, quite reasonably dismissing full-on settlement as folly.

 

No, their interest in Sothoryos was academic.

 

In brief – to spare you the full ethnography – the Valyrian's greatest strength was their sorcery, their mastery over fire and flesh, the dragons being but a single fruit thereof (albeit by far the most impactful, at least in the cultural consciousness). And when they looked south, carved up Ghis’s remains, they saw, more than anything, an opportunity to further their art – a continent’s worth of unnatural horrors to gawk at, and pick apart, and maybe even weaponize.

 

Writing off the rest as unfit for habitation, several prominent mages guilds (and their aristocratic backers) thus joined hands and repurposed Gorgai into a sort of research post, an isolated laboratory where affiliated fleshcrafters could freely tinker on some of the more temperamental varieties; ‘Gogossos,’ they rechristened it, to better suit their tastes. In time, with its substantial stock of available subjects (seems the Ghiscari were good for something), the city soon became a byword for quality, producing nearly a third of Freehold’s chimeric chattel at its peak.

 

The mainland, by contrast, became an object of widespread fascination, the danger itself the allure, its wilderness a playground for those highborn adventurers with the money and drive to make it such. Doubtlessly, the most famous example of such was the dragonback expedition of Jaenara Belaerys – her lone, three-year, ultimately fruitless search for the source of the Zamoyos, which in the end catapulted her eventual election to Archon (and inspired just about the most shameless memoir I've ever read).

 

By design, the absence of anything resembling proper governance (even in Gogossos, directly managed by the guilds themselves, each of them with their own respective – and often clashing – agendas) engendered about it a certain sense of freedom; so over time, as an unintended consequence, the dregs of the world, the defeated and deprived and dispossessed, fled there in numbers to carve out their own little hideaways, all but officially sanctioned by authorities back in Eternal Valyria.

 

The way the dragonlords saw it, anyone who could survive there deserved to.

 

Case in point, Princess Nymeria, late of Ny Sar, and her ten thousand ships of women and children. 

 

(A marked exaggeration, many now pose, contending that the fleet really numbered a mere fraction of that, the bulk of them poleboats and pleasure barges, the few actual ships questionably seaworthy.)

 

After the Fall of Chroyane, having fled down the Rhoyne, then across the Summer Sea, through typhoons and slavers and the general horror of their circumstances – the opening act of their exodus, so to speak, the daring, hairsbreadth escape – the Rhoynar stopped for a time at the Basilisk Isles, taking the much-needed chance to repair and reprovision, and tally their not-insubstantial losses. 

 

Even in those days, it must be said, the islands were a hive of scum and villainy, and the strongest of the local pirate kings soon approached the convalescing fleet with an offer: in return for all their ships, and an annual tithe of thirty virgin girls, the refugees could settle the muggy, stinking swamp known as the Isle of Toads.

 

For obvious reasons, Nymeria declined.

 

Instead, she limped further south, and took up residence on the mainland, in the overgrown ruins of Zamettar – the first of the ‘new homelands’ she'd inflict upon her people.

 

Nothing if not ambitious, once the erstwhile city center was adequately fortified, the princess sent much of her surplus population west to colonize Basilisk Point, and a good chunk of her remaining soldiers south to plant outposts farther down the river – suffice it to say, though, this did not go smoothly. For a year, they stood their ground, assailed by weather and disease, parasites in the water, predators in the trees, constant raids and plunder and carnage, the pirates as vicious as the natives, thousands clapped in chains or simply put to the sword, one setback after the other.

 

Until, finally, it all came to a head.

 

Of the southern outposts, five in all, largest was the log fort hunkered on the outskirts of Yeen – the Ghiscari name for the place, a cyclopean wreck of oily black stone, predating even the earliest records, its origins one of those long-enduring mysteries. 

 

A flat-bottomed skiff on a routine supply run arrived one morning to a vacant dock; mooring the boat themselves, disquietude prickling the back of their necks, a well-armed shore party found the fort entirely deserted. No warnings, no explanations, no signs of struggle, just empty streets and unmanned palisades, smoldering coals in burnt-out fire pits, half-eaten meals still laid out on the mess tables.

 

As if the garrison had simply dissolved into the aether.

 

Enough was enough, Nymeria conceded at last, and trundling back onto their ships, the Rhoynar departed for greener pastures – they would spend the next twenty years wandering the seas, harried and spurned, until finally washing up on the sandy shores of Dorne, and joining into union with the Andal House of Martell.

 

Gogossos didn't long survive the Doom, limping on for several decades before being annihilated by a particularly virulent plague, the few survivors fleeing to Volantis.

 

Nowadays, the only glimmers of so-called ‘civilization’ were the miserable little trade towns squatted along the northern coastline, and the corsairs who infested the surrounding islands.

 

They let us be – if they even noticed us in the first place.

 

As said before, we'd run ourselves aground at Zamettar, the flooded harbor district as serviceable a workshop the remaining crew could find. While half of them toiled away on repairs, chopping and hammering and joining the utterly ravaged ship back into shape, the other half, armed with torches and clubs, warily patrolled the bounds of our makeshift camp, a jerry-rigged barricade of logs and stakes and rubble.

 

Regarding the city itself, time and humidity had rotted away most everything, little still standing but the hollowed-out shells of the old Ghiscari architecture, since mercilessly reclaimed by the jungle – tree trunks spearing through the roof tiles, ferns jabbing through the masonry, long grass poking through the flagstones. 

 

We weren't welcome – the ‘aura’ of the place made that more than clear – but neither were we bodily ejected, the work proceeding more or less unmolested, the natives and wildlife content to study from a distance.

 

It was all dreadfully boring. 

 

“Weeks, at least,” the captain sighed when pressed for an estimate. Wiping his brow, re-rolling his shirt sleeves, he then gave a sort of grimace. “If nothing else goes wrong.”

 

So rather than sitting around with my thumb up my arse (as if I hadn't quite enough of that already), I decided to make my own fun – commandeering the ship's dinghy and dull-faced lump of a mate, my companions and I took a sightseeing tour down the Zamoyos.

 

Might as well get my money's worth.

 

On either bank, a boundless stretch of canopy, trees and shrubs and vines, tenebrous and green, hooting monkeys, warbling birds, the reek of rot, and an air of barely-constrained hostility; of everything, Yeen, the farthest we got, doubtlessly stood out the most, if only for breaking the monotony. The jungle seemed almost physically repelled by it, a lifeless strip of bare-faced rock, littered with the wreckage of what may have once been a city.

 

I poked around a bit, occupying the hours, and making the most of the opportunity to closer examine that oily black stone … 

 

So saturated with corruption, it was practically radioactive. 

 

No one truly knows where the material came from, though the few accounts – myths, really – into which it may conceivably be shoehorned point to a certain otherworldliness. 

 

Supposedly, in the opening days of the Benighted Bloodstone's reign, the closing years of the Great Empire of the Dawn – what some call the first true civilization – a “dark rock” fell from the sky, crashing to the earth in a grand conflagration. As the surrounding towns succumbed to “sickness and calamity,” the Usurper, utterly fascinated, elected to investigate in person. What he saw in its ebon heart, what he parsed from the sussuring whispers, the true depths of his revelation, remains one of history's closer-held secrets; all we can say with any reasonable certainty is that he proclaimed it a “Herald of Heavenly Truth,” an object of malign worship, and the centerpiece of his new state religion, the “Church of Starry Wisdom.”

 

(That Church, as it happened, still survived to this day, cagey little chapterhouses – some more illicit than others – dotted across the whole of Essos. Beyond the public's rampant speculation, as such secret societies are always want to attract, little concrete was actually known of it, even after all these centuries, its doctrines and rites strictly forbidden to all but the fully initiated – who themselves were quite selectively screened.)

 

With only so much of the real thing to go around, I imagine that Bloodstone, in his evident enthusiasm, had need of a man-made substitute, if only for aesthetics’ sake – and so may have come to be the oily black stuff, a candle to the original, though unnatural all the same. This is pure speculation on my part, I'll admit, but it rather neatly explains the suffering and sacrifice, the decidedly human effort, that patently went into the material's creation – far messier bows in which to tie it all up, at any rate.

 

Of course, for all we know, its origins may be rather more mundane. Perhaps it was merely their equivalent of the Valyrian's dragonstone, prized chiefly for its practical utility, an already distasteful thing further corrupted by the Empire's catastrophic fall, then, for good measure, caked in solidified rot over the subsequent millennia. That'd certainly explain why it was so widespread – not to belittle Bloodstone's capabilities (by all accounts quite prodigious, and unfortunately matched by his utter depravity), but he only sat the throne for so long.

 

All I can say for sure, with any amount of certainty, is that the stuff well-deserved its ominous reputation.

 

On this point, at least, R'hllor and I firmly agreed; Thoros sneering on his god's behalf, the two made their shared disgust more than plain. “It is foul,” the priest spat, eyes aglow like coals, “abhorrent, obscene” – then, snarling as one, “An utter p-p-perversion.”

 

I hummed, absently rolling a chunk in my palm – almost slimy to the touch. “Rest of the world’s hardly doing much better.”

 

A grit-teeth frown. “I – ” With a groan, the priest doubled over, eyes shut tight, then blinking unfocusedly. “... I, I suppose not.” Both hands kneaded his brow amid gasping breaths. “P-pardon me, Your Gra – ”

 

I waved him off.

 

Divinity's hard on the body, and harder still on the mind – mortals just aren't built for it. The infusion of godly essence into earthly flesh has severe, even dire consequences, no matter how willing the recipient, or prepared they believe themselves to be.

 

Deformation, dissociation, warping and melding and hollowing, the subsumption of the lesser into the greater … 

 

I wonder if Thoros still even had the wherewithal to notice.

 

Meanwhile, over by the boat, Brynden and Ed all but begged to leave, the former twitchily glancing over her shoulders, the latter, while wary, somewhat more desensitized, or at least more subtle about it.

 

Couldn't fault them, really. I've destroyed nicer places for less.

 

It all begged the question, though: what died, or broke, or unraveled?

 

Why was Sothoryos such a miserable dump?

 

Fundamentally, although sickeningly dense, the rot here wasn't much fouler than that I'd felt anywhere else. It all came from the same source, was all a product of the same catastrophe, the caustic fallout of nothing less than an apocalypse, the present world squatting in the ashes. What stood out to me, then, were the regional differences, the little idiosyncrasies as to how the same phenomenon sprouted in different soils.

 

In the Iron Islands, harnessed by that odious Drowned God, it seemed to fancy itself a predator, focused to a spearpoint by the Ironborn’s worship. 

 

Up North, beyond the Wall, it had laid in wait, gathering strength, among the forgotten weapons of wars long-past, a deluge of hoarfrost and hatred.

 

Essos, on the other hand, bled out like a stuck pig, pierced by the unsparing blade of antiquity, and helped none by the Doom of Valyria, the combined effect of it all visibly draining the land's vitality, and afflicting its residents with a civilizational torpor.

 

And finally, in Sothoryos, the rot was reactive, defensive, almost protective – bitterly hostile to those who’d intrude on the dark continent's self-contained stagnancy, but otherwise content to just passively molder away. 

 

I'm sure there was a story behind this state of affairs, just as I'm sure it was a reasonable arrangement – or at least an excusable one – in light of the land's pre-Ghiscari history.

 

If only I'd more than blind supposition as to what that history was. 

 

Had the locals any pertinent knowledge (an admittedly slim possibility), they were much too skittish to share it, if they'd even the ability to do so – far as I can tell, the Brindled Men barely grasped neanderthal grunts, never mind the written word – and the ruins dotted about the jungle were so uniformly degraded that, at the end of the day, they served as evidence of hardly more than their own collective existence.

 

No one, accordingly, had the slightest idea what happened here before the first colonists planted their flag; no writings were passed to posterity, the old legends lost to time, any studies reading more like warnings, the “why” paling in significance to the “what,” the cause to the effect.

 

Put simply, they didn't care, no need for the past with such a dreadful present.

 

And sure, fair enough – I could understand that.

 

There was nothing of value, nothing vital, nothing irreplaceable in Sothoryos; nothing worth remembering, nothing worth the risk.

 

Nothing that so caught my eye as to justify a full investigation.

 

Just more of the same. 

 

As putrid as the rest.

 

No more, no less, worthy of scorn.

 

That night, we encamped on a sandy bank several miles back downriver, far enough away that Yeen's particular stench mostly faded into the ambient rot. 

 

Ed and the mate, apparently infected by some queer seaman's kinship, together lit a small, smoky fire – one chopping wood, the other digging the pit – a clumpy stew of hardtack and saltpork soon bubbling in a cast-iron pot.

 

Having conjured an armchair, I drained the last few wine bottles that I'd plundered from Pyke; Brynden sat beside me on a crumbling stump, casting jealous glances my way, sullenly sipping at her apple juice.

 

God (i.e. R'hllor) only knew what Thoros was doing.

 

“Bellum omnium contra omnes.”

 

Aborting her next sip, Brynden furrowed her brow, and rested her forearms against her thighs.

 

“What?”

 

“War of all against all,” I clarified, “the natural state of man. Survival of the selfish.” Legs crossed, I leaned back, flicking bits of cork into the campfire. “No law to constrain him, the strongest does as he pleases.”

 

“I see.” After a moment, she resumed her swig, glowering into the cup, then shooting me a look I could only describe as jaded. “And what brought this on?”

 

“That's why we've civilization,” I bulldozed through her query. “To harness that drive, focus it, put it to higher use – something greater than loincloths and berrypicking.”

 

Slowly exhaling a sigh through her nose, the dull-eyed girl resigned herself to a lecture. 

 

This jungle had me in a philosophic mood. 

 

“Some might call it a denial of nature, even of life itself; good argument to be made, really, society's shackling of the will and so on.” I pointed a finger at her. “But to that, my friend, I say any ape can gut another for a bite of fruit. It takes a superior sort to kill for a cause. A faith, a principle, a creed.”

 

Shaking my bottle, nothing left but sediment, I dropped it to the ground and moved on to the next one.

 

“Make no mistake, civilization’s just as violent as nature, only then it's for the sake of the collective – us, not me, our people, our beliefs, against the foreign, strange, and weak. City against city, nation against nation, empire against empire … nothing's changed, fundamentally.” A snort. “The body politic, life writ large.”

 

The fire crackled, embers popped, damp logs hissing as they blackened to coals.

 

“Trouble is, of course, that life ends. What's young becomes old, decadent, corrupt – and at that point, it deserves to be destroyed.”

 

Brynden shifted in her seat.

 

I continued.

 

“If you’re lucky, a younger society comes along and … takes the reins, as it were. A clean sweep, minimal fuss. Hell, they might even welcome it.”

 

By that point, the sun had dipped below the horizon, a gibbous moon rising in its place, stars pinpricked in the blood-orange sky. 

 

“Other times,” my voice sobered, “it's messier. The whole thing's ripped to pieces – by others, or itself – and the survivors kludge together what they can.” A click of the tongue, bottle tapping against the armrest. “If they're even in a state to do so.”

 

“I take it you're speaking from experience?”

 

Looking Brynden in the eye, I couldn't help but chuckle, and raised a sort of toast in acknowledgement.

 

“As much as anyone can.” 

 

I then took a swig of the bottle, finger tapping against my stomach, voice further lowering – just enough for rhetorical effect – as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

 

“Between you and me, it's always uglier when a God sits the throne. We've the nastiest habit of trying to make our reigns as eternal as ourselves.” A grimace. “Never ends well. Greater heights, sure,” I shrugged, “but the inevitable collapse is that much more spectacular.”

 

A pause, then a flick of the chin towards the treeline, punctuated by a derisive scoff.

 

“Can't say I've ever buggered things this badly, though.”

 

Close – a damn near thing – but not quite.

 

That, at least, I could be proud of.

 

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

 

All said and done, the repairs took a month and some change.

 

Though the deck squeaked with each footstep, and it sat in the water with a marked starboard list, flimsy and lopsided and on the whole amateurish – the ship's carpenter had been killed in the attack, his apprentice struck with fever a few days after landfall – the ship didn't sink, and that was enough, at least until we reached a proper drydock.

 

We'd take her north, so went the plan, hugging the west coast of the two Moraqs, then east across the narrows – the ‘Jade Gates’ – to Qarth. 

 

Two or so weeks of straightforward sailing – that is, of course, assuming no further excitement, or distractions, or diversions.

 

I liked our chances, but you can never be too sure.

 

(Expect the worst, as they say, and you'll only be pleasantly surprised.)

 

Sandbars and reeds, the tide gently lapped against the hullboards as we slipped back out to sea.

 

“Yes?”

 

The captain, wringing his hands, had shuffled up beside me a good minute before, hemming and hawing with an apparent lump in his throat; flinching, he forced a breath, and finally mustered his nerve.

 

“Your E-excellency,” he gulped – that's a new one. “I … ”

 

His words caught, gaze cringed down towards his feet, before regrouping with a sharp inhale.

 

“It's been my pleasure to, um … have you. However … ” 

 

He licked his lips.

 

“However, when we get there, Qarth, I'm afraid we must part ways.” His eyes widened. “It's not you,” he hurriedly clarified, “I've simply … outstanding commitments.”

 

He scratched the side of his neck, the other hand clenched tight.

 

“Yes. Very busy. You know how it is, contracts and such. If, though,” he gesticulated, “you've business … further on, I'm prepared to give recommendations.”

 

He then topped it off with a pained curl of the lip, what the charitable – or blind – might call a smile.

 

…

 

Have you ever seen The Addams Family?

 

The old black and white, I mean, from the 60's.

 

Well, as part of the day's wacky hijinks, they'd always invite to their dilapidated manor some unwitting member of the general public; after Lurch, the family butler – You rang? – dragged them inside, the poor, bemused soul would behold the kooky oddities strewn about the place (my favorite was the taxidermized swordfish, mid-swallow of a whole human leg), invariably react with a sort of bug-eyed horror, then, shakily conjuring some pretense, run for the proverbial hills.

 

Every episode, the same bit, over and over and over again.

 

I couldn't but laugh.