Interlude: Of Darkness

Gregor wheezed from exertion as he painfully wheeled the latest of his Lord's monstrosities into the Great Hall of the Dun Fort. Under his fingers the metal was boiling; every second of contact between him and the 'firestick' felt like a blow from a scalding iron, or the steam his brother had run afoul of three moons past. Already they had blackened his hands beyond recognition, as the coal and smoke did the same for the rest of him. He looked nothing like the man he had been before, even his mother would not have recognised him if he stood before her, Seven bless her heart. His fellow servants all looked the same, as did most inhabitants of the town since the construction of the accursed 'factories'. The exception of course was Lord Jaremy Rykker, who was looking less like a demon and more like a shrivelled fruit. The smoke had gone into his and his brother's beards admittedly, but rather than looking dark their skin had grown pale – too pale.

Gregor knew that there was something off about them since the turn of the year and about that 'Ratholares' character as well. The bird on the Spymaster's shoulder gave him the creeps; it was definitely not some ordinary pigeon or raven. It's black eyes knew far too much for his liking and he would swear that it understood the discussions that happened under it's nose. He didn't speak up though; for he was frightened of suffering the same mysterious fate as the Dun Fort's septon. The man had according to his wife Marin, vanished shortly after a fierce argument with the brothers. His body had not been found, even by the search parties sent out with immense disinterest by Lord Rykker. Gregor doubted that there was a body to be found personally, for he had noticed the reverence that the brothers – along with much of the household worryingly enough – had taken to treating an open flame with. That went double for the one kept inside the forsaken Sept, which his wife said they visited every night without fail. Gregor wondered what was so special about that specific flame, but he did not ask for he was afraid of the consequences and even more afraid of what might be the answer.

But he was sure that it was all unnatural and he was sure they had turned away from the Light of the Seven. A braver man would have done something in response to that certainty; but Gregor was not a brave name and he was frightened of the dark.

Jon Connington glowered as he rode into the city of House Rykker, though the expression was not directed at his surroundings. The 'factories' as they were apparently called were hideous to behold – as were the smallfolk working inside them – but he could internally justify their presence as required for the war effort. Without the black powder the Rykkers had somehow discovered, the war would have been lost for House Targaryen. It shamed Jon to admit it, but despite the best attempts of many loyal houses – the only true nobility in this kingdom – the royalists had not been successful in this war. No his frown as always was dedicated to those traitors who had dared to rise up against their rightful king; the Baratheons, the Starks, the Arryns and especially the Lannisters. How dare Tywin rise up against the son of his friend? How dare he declare himself king? There are no kings but those of House Targaryen! To claim otherwise is nothing but treason!

Nothing could relieve his disgust at the state of Westeros. Even the destruction of House Tully brought him no joy, for they were the weakest of the rebels and any gain had been quickly reversed by the actions of Rickard Stark. House Darry had not even had the luck to take out one of his sons, let alone the man himself.

Still, that was why he was in Duskendale now, with an army at his back. King Rhaegar had ordered him to capture Larra Stark and kill the rest of them; that is what he would do, regardless of his confusion over the necessity of capturing a random girl. Rhaegar had proclaimed that she was key to bringing back the dragons, while Ratholares had whispered about 'secrets beyond imagination'. Jon didn't understand either of those promises (or even like the Master of Whispers), but Rhaegar had read it from his books of prophecy. And with everything else that his King had predicted successfully, why should he doubt his word? Besides which, even he had to admit the spymaster had some skill after his successful discovery of Qarlton Chelsted's planned treachery. He would trust him for now therefore, though he was suspicious that the man had failed to capture the Princess Daenerys before she was smuggled to Dorne.

It took too long for his liking to reach the Dun Fort, which resembled a squat and blackened hill against the backdrop of the Narrow Sea. Jon assumed the dirt had been inflicted by the city's factories, though in his opinion it looked as if a bunch of madman had taken pitch and mortar to the very walls of the castle. Two squat and ugly men, dressed in fine robes stood before him in the courtyard. Their beards were fierce and black and their skin was as pale as milk. When Jon dismounted, he was unnerved to realise they were barely two thirds of his height. Obviously House Rykker hadn't bred well in the last generation.

"My Lord Jaremy, I am Jon-" he began.

"Jon Connington, we know!" snapped one of the two men; "We're not interested in greetings and niceties – there's work to be done! Have you brought the money? And the 'manpower'?"

Jon glowered, but held his tongue in a moment of rare insight. It would not do to have the secret weapons of the Targaryens handed over to the rebels because of his actions. He'd protested against Rhaegar's will for once when he heard of the plans for men captured in the war, for some of the things proposed would treat native Westerosi as worse than the slaves of the savage east. His wise King – while angered by his tone – had reminded him that these men were traitors to Westeros, that they had rebelled against his divine authority and would have to pay the price. No matter what that cost was.

"They are little better than animals now, my friend. Why should they expect a kind word from the dragon?"

"I do" he said; "They can be escorted into your camps whenever you are ready. I trust you have kept your end of the King's request?"

"The weapons are ready for blood!" Lord Jaremy cackled; "They will serve their purpose well, believe us and our Father."

Jon was confused by the last remark. Hadn't their father been dead for four years?

In the midst of a small forest near the God's Eye, Ryman Frey's scouting party had settled down for a rest. This rest had in fact been going on for most of the day, but what Rickard Stark and Jon Arryn didn't know could hardly harm the men. Besides which, they were never going to find anything anyway, for the Targaryens had completely retreated after the Fall of the Darrys. All that was left to do was provide a token watch and visit all the brothels that had seen poor service under Targaryen operation.

What were a few bastards on top of the existing Frey family tree?

Ryman had remembered to pack some wine for his bad belly this time around, which he was immensely grateful for. The uncomfortable forest floor seemed like a carpet when he was sufficiently intoxicated, while the summer sun seemed like the light of the Seven themselves.

He didn't even notice the pellet that burst his throat open, or the three more that ruptured his heart and lungs.

He was rather concerned about the skeletal rat that appeared before him however.

SQUEEK.

It went all downhill from there.

The next full part should be coming fairly soon, though I want to get a few things done first for my other stories. :)