"Brynden Rivers will bring about the end of Gods of every name and creed. He must be stopped." The Eternal God of Fire, Rebirth and Life, Rh'llor makes this proclamation in the hall of the Gods', surrounded by all the Gods of the world. A mighty being made from shadows, Rh'llor has a fiery core with no distinguishable features, floating and flittering in one spot without moving. "We must empower a champion to fight against him, in every form possible. If Brynden Rivers has all the knowledge in this world, then our champion shall have all the knowledge in all the worlds. If Brynden Rivers has a thousand eyes and one, our champion shall need only his own eyes to see where he may. If Brynden Rivers has the allegiance of the Children and Giants, then our champion shall have the allegiance of men from every corner of this world, whether it be the First Men of Old Westeros, my beautiful Valyrian remnants, the Essosi followers of you, my fellow- "
The Black Goat of Qohor snorts, froth flying from his mouth. He is a tall anthropomorphic goat, dark as midnight and with curling ivory horns long as a Dothraki raiders forearms, and thicker than a tree trunk. "If you think for a single fucking second that my Qohoriks are going to swear allegiance to Jon Snow of all people, you're blinded, you simpleton. Just because you chose him to be your avatar thirty millennia ago does not mean I'm willing to throw my lot behind him. We've seen the future he is going to bring down on us all, and I'd rather not swear unto him, so either bring up a new champion or shut yer gob!"
Rh'llor growls, his inner core of flames pulsing out and heating up the space around him. "Listen, unfortunately for us all, we made an unanimous decision to make Houses Stark, Casterly, Durrandon, Gardener, Rogare and Mudd our only possible hosts in the lands of the mortals. Out of those houses, Casterly, Gardener and Durrandon are completely dead in the male line. We only have the descendants of Joffrey Lydden and Orys Baratheon from Casterly and Durrandon respectably, while House Mudd is dead all the way through. House Gardener has so many descendants that we'd be here for another millennia just listing them all. And no, House Rogare is not an option. They're slavers and infidels of the worst kind at this point, on top of which, they're bankers. BANKERS! My chosen house is a house of bankers.
A crackle of thunder rolls around the room. A crackling voice, filled with power speaks in a booming voice, "Aye, while all you say is true my fiery friend, that still doesn't qualify Jon Snow. Whether men know it or not, we know him to be a Targaryen, no matter whether he has Stark blood flowing in his veins or not. He's a Targaryen by birth and name, regardless of how The Stark has cloaked him as. I will not abide a Targaryen having any blessing from us, the Gods. So, I have spoken." The Storm Gods voice faded out, and by now Rh'llor knew he had lost any opportunity to put forth his champion. The god may be old, but The Storm God was more than powerful enough to put an end to him, with nary a sweat broken.
"I understand that many of you don't think Jon Snow should be our chosen Avatar, but what choice do we really have? It's either him, or no one." Rh'llor had to try one last time, one last go into the depths of his desires to see if he may be able to convince them. He knew there were other options, but this would benefit him the most, so it must be Jon Snow.
Leaves, followed by a thump and then a slightly high-pitched voice spoke up, "Well, the Starks' have two more eligible sons, don't they? There's Robb Stark and Rickon Stark, oooh and those Harstarks' too! They're descended from Artos Stark, aren't they? Then again, I guess they don't really qualify for this, since by the laws of men and Gods', they aren't Starks anymore! They're Harbour Starks now, so pfft. I think we should pick Rickon Stark! He's my avatar, he's young and cute and he'd be a lot of fun!"
Almost in unison, a million voices cried out "NO!" and so Lyfea, Goddess of Children, Youth and Mischief fell silent again, saying nary a word again till the final battle against the Other's occurred. The Gods moved, and rustled and hemmed and hummed, until another being stepped forward. A large, pale tree with blood red leaves stepped forward, its bark creaking and folding unto itself. "Why are we not considering Robb Stark? He is my direct descendant, is he not? He's of my dear Brandon's blood, so why not him? He's the heir to The North, has a good head on his shoulders and with how the worlds destiny is unfolding, he would put us in a position to create great change."
"Aye, while everything you say is true, his death is what will propel Arya Stark to seek out my followers, is it not? I cannot lose her as a candidate!" A being with a shifting face spoke. The very air around this being seemed to exude maliciousness, and danger
The Weirwood being would not budge, however. "Regardless of who we pick, our true powers will never manifest in them. They will at best be an above average duelist with a somewhat stronger body and wittier mind. With Jon Targaryen, we can draw out his Targaryen blood and make him a fire mage with power worthy of those from our yonder years. However, that would only be possible if he were a Stark. With the laws of Men and Us, he is not a Stark. His mother married Rhaegar and so, he is a Targaryen. We must pick either Robb or Rickon Stark. Rickon is out of the running due to his age and his patron Goddess, so that leaves Robb Stark as our only option. Do not try to break the laws we laid down so long ago, Rh'llor. You shall not like the results."
"ALL RIGHT, FINE! You've all made your point very clear. So, we pick Robb Stark! What abilities does he bring? Who is his Patron? What genetic gifts does he contain that our power can draw out of him? What can he do to better the lives of all mortals in this ramshackle whore's cunt of a world?!" Rh'llor shouted out, his flaming core blazing brightly and causing The Weirwood being to yelp in a moment of pain.
"He does not have a patron God. When we first cast our stones into the braids of time, he was not accounted for. He was to die, with his dire wolf's head sown onto his shoulders. His fate was to be a tragedy to move the world forward unto greatness, but Brynden Rivers has perverted it." The Mother spoke from her dais, floating in the air. "I do agree that we should pick him. He is a good son, a good brother and a good lord to his people. He also honors maids and women, and he does not order the slaughter of children. He is, regardless of what many might say, an innocent at the time of his death. Merely a boy."
The Maiden then spoke up and said something that truly shocked and surprised all the other Gods of the world, "I agree with Mother, and I would go one step further than just giving him a new destiny. I would impart my essence unto him, blessing him with the protection of all animals and instilling in him an urge to protect innocence and youth, so that those that come after him may will leave the world a better place for those that come after. I would give him a maiden supple as a willow, with eyes of the deepest blue so that his wife's beauty may charm his lord and make his journey to justice and victory somewhat easier. Plus, his eyes are the same shade of blue as Galladon, and I'm sure that isn't a conversation we need to have again, do we?"
The Gods all slowly nodded their heads, and started to mutter to each other, and eventually, after a small murmur of agreement went through the room, the smaller and minor Gods started to disappear into the Aether. Eventually there were seven Gods left standing. The Seven-Who-Are-One stood as one being, with Rh'llor floating off to their left. The Old God of Weirwoods', The Storm God, The Drowned God, The Titan of Braavos, and Mother Rhoyne all stood together, a crescent of power and might, all contained within one, single point. "So, we're really picking this loser, huh? The King Who'll Lose the North, eh?" Rh'llor attempted one last time to throw doubt at this whole situation.
"Aye, we have chosen him. I wonder how our powers shall clash within him, and what form they'll take? Mayhap it shall be something new! What an exciting time to look forward to, I say!" The Weirwood Being stepped forward, out of the crescent of Godly beings. "Aye, Robb Stark. You'll show us something new, won't you? I, Garth Greenhand, shall watch your career with great interest. Now, awaken!"
In the heir's chambers at Winterfell, Robb Stark snapped awake, with a loud gasp. In front of him floated the following words:
YOU HAVE SLEPT IN A BED! HP AND MP RESTORED, ENERGY METER REFILLED!
