Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 4: The Secret City
"In between madness and apathy."
– Prince Artos Stark
N'ghai, according to legend, was once a vast kingdom spanning from the Plains of Jogos Nhai in the west to the forests of Mossovy to the east – but as time wasted away, so did the kingdom; now a shadow of its former self with only the city of Nefer resting along a river that fed the Shivering Sea. To the southeast was the Bleeding Sea and the Cannibal Sands, neither hospitable places; if the names weren't clue enough to their nature, ample horror stories existed to ward off the curious.
The Secret City of Nefer was cloaked to all outsiders, a place of dark magic and ill omens; to all but those that knew its secrets – or were unfortunate enough to be invited past the fogs.
"I don't like this, lad." The man spoke plainly, his dark brown eyes glaring at the fog before them.
"I don't either Lord Ryder," Prince Artos answered the lord's concern. "Regardless, we have a mission to accomplish – and men to rescue, should our fears be realized."
"Aye," Lord Ryder kept his stiff gaze. "Regardless…"
The fog parted for them eerily as they entered the modest docks.
"Is the legendary Reaper afraid?" Artos asked, smirking; noting the greying lords scowl as the fogs parted at their approach – welcoming their ship to dock as a nod to their invitation.
"It's a fool that doesn't fear black magics…"
There was no honour in dying that way, certainly.
Ragnar Ryder's scowl however turned sharp to a predatory grin. "We'll teach these foul nercos a thing or two Stark, don't you fret; I may be old, but my axe speaks for itself!"
Louder than Words, as House Ryder was fond of boasting.
"Father," came a rather hollow-toned voice. "Bolvar sent me to-"
"Your brother's incapable of speaking for himself now, is he lad?!"
Bjorn Ryder offered little but a scowl, ignoring the man and opting instead to address the prince; who hadn't so much as turned to greet him. "Admiral, we're closing in and await orders."
"Very good Bjorn," Artos answered, still eyeing the city as it came into view.
The docks of Nefer were modest, but ultimately a disappointing collection of rotting damp wooden houses; neglected by time – it was a wonder anyone truly lived here at all.
"Tell your brother his orders stand," Artos dismissed the Ryder brother.
Bjorn departed with a roll of his eyes, irked for having his time wasted.
"Bolvar's throwing his weight around, it seems…"
Lord Ragnar scoffed. "Bjorn's too easily pushed, doesn't stand up enough – his brothers have always seen and exploited that weakness; except for Qrow. He's too much like his damn mother…"
The youngest of four brothers, it was only a small wonder Qrow Ryder hadn't fled from his family yet like his brother Agnar had done years ago – stealing a ship and buggering off to gods know where. Bjorn meanwhile was twin to Bolvar and bitter in the heir's considerable shadow.
House Ryder were as strong as they were proud, if not equally unruly.
"He'll come into his own," Artos offered simply, disinterested; eyes cast out to the shore.
"Perhaps," Lord Ragnar sighed. "Can't do worse than bloody Agnar…"
Agnar the Angry, he'd been called; before his rather theatrical departure.
"What do you see lad?" Ragnar's voice echoed as cold winds blew past wings above. He could see for miles around, flying above with a view that was known only to a few, looking down upon the once clouded secret city. He wasn't the only one in the skies, soaring with a few dozen, leaving no part of city uncovered; ensuring every detail was noticed, every man, every woman and every weakness was seen and accounted for. He soared higher than any of the others, uninterested in watching – but eager to confirm his suspicions, vast and troubling as they were.
Prince Artos's eyes flickered open, sighing wearily as he turned to face the old lord.
"They're hiding," He decided quickly with a clear scowl. "It seems the reports weren't exaggerations. The true horrors of Nefer lay below the surface – there's a great building of black stone up against the chalk cliffs, no doubt of some importance to them. I cannot say for certain…"
"But this run-down ruin isn't the stuff of legend," Lord Ragnar huffed. "Obviously."
Artos gave a nod in agreement. The necromancers were hiding, underground by all reports – they spoke of great halls of marble and obsidian; chambers that shun in glowing fires.
"This could be a trap lad," Lord Ragnar offered as their ship docked; while two others lowered anchor behind them – insurance in event of hostilities. "The missing envoy is likely dead."
"My father disagrees," Artos replied with eyes skyward.
"Your father is a great man," Lord Ryder agreed. "And he's my friend – you know this – but the envoy is dead; we've our answer. We should leave this cursed place lad."
Prince Artos smirked at that. He wasn't wrong, and yet…
"It's unlike you to flee with a fight, Ryder."
"Not saying we run boy," the old lord had some bite. "I'm saying we come back with more men!"
"How many more would you say is enough, Ryder?"
"An army or three," Ryder scoffed at his own notion. "Stark."
They could bring ten armies and still not have enough men to seize this place.
Artos's great eagle flew down above them. "What purpose would they have inviting us to parlay if it were merely a trap? What reason would they have? We've kept to our terms for generations…"
Their terms with the Kings of N'ghai weren't the strongest, and it earned Winterhold more than a few wary glances, but it had proven practical and held for generations.
"Who truly knows where the mind of a necromancer lays, Stark."
"Madness and Apathy, my Lord." Artos turned to walk away, muttering an old saying to himself as he stepped down from the helm of his ship. "Somewhere in between madness and apathy.
Two men and a woman in flowing black robes greeted them as Prince Artos stepped off the safety of his ship and onto the poor wooden dock, dressed in fine white-and-silver attire with plate and chainmail to guard; alongside a long and short sword. He and his men were ready for a fight.
"Prince Artos Stark of Winterhold!" A herald cried out atop his lungs as a company of some fifty Greycloaks flanked their prince; followed closely by Lord Ryder and some twenty of his own guard. "Admiral of the Stark Fleet. Anchor of Winter. Third born son of his grace King Brandon the Seventh of his Name; lord of Winterhold, King of Winter and descendant of The Shipwright!"
By the gods, he hated how long winded all those titles sounded.
"Prince Artos," The black robed woman stepped forward to address him, seeming unfazed by all his guardsmen. "We've been expecting you. If you'd come with us?"
He eyed the woman. Her silken black robes hugged her figure closely, revealing how beautiful she was; with eyes shrouded under a hood, flowing black hair and a large chest meant to distract him.
They'd sent this one of purpose, he knew.
"Where are our people?"
The woman kept her unfazed smile.
"Answer us witch!" Lord Ryder demanded, stepping dangerously forward.
The woman simply gazed at Artos like nothing Ryder did or said mattered. The guardsmen didn't matter. The steel, armour; even wargs, none of it. Something about her seemed inhuman.
"Answer me," Artos managed, realizing he'd gone silent. "My lady."
"Now that is proper manners, My Prince."
She seemed pleased with herself, eyes darting to Ryder mockingly.
"Your envoy was found guilty of crimes too grievous to be explained by my lips dear Prince." The woman turned as her two male companions remained still. "Come, the master wishes to speak."
The master? Now didn't that sound eerie at all…
"My two brothers will remain behind," She didn't turn back to them.
"If this is a trap…"
"You will kill them," She shrugged, uncaring. "We'd expect nothing less."
Prince Artos sighed, following the woman; his Greycloaks on edge as their party followed suit. Bolvar Ryder was left to guard their newest guests, much to his annoyance. It was a chore not to let his traitorous eyes wander over the strange woman as she walked away.
The words of his father echoed within the confines of Artos's mind.
"You'll find beauty often hides the greatest and ugliest of dangers."
They entered the large building of oily black stone, their white-and-silver armour with greys and Ryder reds a stark contrast to the darkness that engulfed them now – with the red stallion of House Ryder standing out bloody and defiant against the shadows. All men stood on edge.
The building seemed smaller on the inside, the ceiling high; engraved in an ancient language unknown to Artos or his people. They entered the darkness, as the woman lead them.
"Welcome to Nefer," She declared happily. "The last and first bastion of N'ghai."
"Where are my father's envoys?"
"Patience," The woman held her smile.
There was an audible click before the floor seemed to shift, as many of Ryder's men drew steel expecting an attack and the Greycloaks surrounded their Prince.
"To arms!" Bhelen Greystark commanded his men as they drew steel.
The woman laughed when Lord Ryder grabbed her.
"What is this madness witch!"
"Below," She spoke; her voice choked by the lord's hands.
"Lord Ryder!" Artos snapped at the man. "Release her!"
He did, after a moment pause and a glare meant to kill.
"My savior," The woman chuckled, hands rubbing her neck.
The sound of grinding stone ceased, and in a flash, torches lit around the room; revealing a stairwell in the floor where none existed before – spiraling downwards and brightly lit.
"This way," The woman said sweetly as she stepped down the stairwell.
More and more this whole effort seemed like a poor idea. Ryder it seemed, agreed.
"This is folly boy," The old lord snarled. "We're walking into a bloody trap!"
"Have you ever read the reports we've gotten over the years, Ryder?" Artos eyed the man sharply, awaiting a response he knew the answer to. "No, you haven't – but I have. It's said that the true majesty of Nefer exists under the surface. Our envoys spoke of a stairway to the secret city."
"And you think this," The young Bjorn Ryder stared at the stair. "Is that?"
Artos would've laughed if he weren't so uncertain. Grown men, scared of some stairs.
"You needn't follow," He decided; knowing it would spur Ryder onward.
"I'll take men ahead my Prince," Bhelen offered. "It'll be safer if-"
"Fuck you pup," Ragnar scoffed. "Ryder's don't cover behind glorified guardsmen!"
House Ryder never ran from a challenge, even from the Cadet families.
"I'll take that to mean you're with me, Lord Ryder?"
The man pushed past his Prince, muttering curses, charging with his axe out down the stairs shouting "Louder than Words" to spur his more cautious men onward. Prince Artos watched with a smirk as the Ryder guardsmen followed their lord into the unknown secret shadows.
"Into the depths we go, my loyal wolves."
Bhelen Greystark and his Greycloaks followed without complaint.
The dark lit by undying fires burnt brightly, casting shadows against black oily halls of stone as they ventured down the stairs – where the shrouded woman waited for them patiently. She was still smiling. If she'd held any doubts they'd follow, she showed none of them here.
The sight before them was a vast endless stretch of hallways lit by fire.
"Take me to your King, my Lady."
She bowed gracefully at the Prince and walked.
Artos felt trapped as he walked, passing by other necromances that eyed them with uncaring glances; followed by slaves and servants that dared not look at anything besides the oily black floors. "Dark stone, dark robes; dark everything." He muttered, walking along ahead of his guards.
"Who built this place?" Bjorn Ryder asked aloud, growing curious.
"The Old Ones bid N'ghai build the halls," The woman replied happily, seeming eager to teach the Ryder man all about her gods. "They were locked away, you see; long ago. Nefer is the once and future bastion of their majesty! It was and will be the greatest of the-"
"The boy didn't ask for a lecture on your false gods, witch!"
She halted in her tracks to stare at Lord Ryder, head tilted in question.
"Lead on my lady," Artos insisted politely.
The glare she replied with could only be called chilling.
"You will see," She continued walking, now eerily silent.
All this talk of Old Ones and necromancer dark magic nonsense was putting everyone on edge, Artos could tell; his men all held to their pommels expecting demons to pounce out of every shadow.
It reminded him too closely of the old stories out of the Empire.
In hindsight, he'd have thought of something to say; but in the moment words seemed lacking no matter the choice. The massive doors swung open, and his stomach churned in worry.
"My brothers and sister!" The woman cried out as they entered a hall greater than the others, vast; held up by black oily pillars that stretched up impossibly high to the rock above. The woman quickened her pace towards a throne and knelt with haste. "I bring the wolves, Listener."
"I see," The figure known as Listener muttered from his throne of blackened skulls.
"Have I done well?" The woman pleaded her question, eyes wide; her hood lowered.
"Very well young one," The Listener smiled, revealing his rotten teeth.
Artos took a step forward to the stranger. "You are not King of Nefer…"
The Listener smiled, as something in the shadows behind his throne growled menacingly.
"I am called Listener," The Not-King of Nefer smiled his ugly smile. "I'm afraid the supposed King you treated with in the past proved a blasphemer; and is no longer polluting these sacred halls."
That was news. A usurper then, and a religious zealot perhaps?
"No matter," Artos dismissed; truly uncaring. "Return our people and-"
"The punishment for heresy is death."
The Listener said that as if it were a simple thing.
"Our people are not Nefer's to judge, Your Grace." They'd always turned a blind eye to the distasteful actions of Nefer in past dealings and in turn; they'd never dared involve themselves in the Islands beliefs. "Return what belong to us and we can continue to-"
"That is quite impossible, wolf prince."
Artos scowled, his patience running thin.
"Return our people!" Lord Ryder stepped forward.
"Your envoys sided with the blasphemer," Listener explained, leading forward on his black throne of oily stone. "They have been cleaned. Rejoice, they serve the masters now."
"Dead?" Artos narrowed his eyes, hand on the pommel of his sword.
"The punishment for-"
"YOU DARE!" Lord Ryder growled, drawing his steel.
His men followed in a heartbeat, as Bhelen's stepped into line behind them.
Artos held his hand up, halting the violence as whatever lurked behind the Listeners throne bellowed a low growl – more beast than dog. "We're leaving, and you can answer to my father!"
"You were invited for a purpose, Artos Stark."
He stopped as he turned, anger growing as his blood began to boil. "You have broken guest rights once; so, you intend to again Listener – whoever you are?!"
The Listener held his ugly toothy smile. "Your false gods rights are meaningless; in time you will see this Prince. This is the reason you were summoned here, to serve."
"You're completely mad…"
"It's a great honour," The Listener's smile ceased.
"We have held true to our pact with your people for a generation!" Artos yelled, white knuckles wrapped around his swords handle. "And this is how you repay us?!"
"We should leave Art," Bhelen whispered, eyes warily on the shadows.
The Listener laughed, a hollow gurgling thing.
"Yes!" He decreed madly. "Yes! Artos Stark, you are to be the Messenger; such it is your reward!"
Artos drew his swords, echoed by the sound of every Greycloak following their prince. Fear gripped the lot of them, but that was no matter – they would die for their charge, if need be.
"I am no puppet!" Artos growled, staring down the man on the throne.
The grows grew louder from behind the Listener. "You will serve Messenger, and you will see; as I have heard – your path is already destined. You cannot fight fate."
Artos Stark swung one blade, feeling the balance. "Watch me!"
The fires that lit the great hall all died in a heartbeat, cloaking the world in darkness as black fog choked the air. Artos could see nothing beyond his own hands; eyes darting for threats.
"You cannot fight."
Knives in the dark cut at men's throats.
"The masters see you, Stark."
Men swung blindly, striking friend or foe.
"You cannot fight destiny…"
Artos felt his blade cut deep into one roped figure, then another.
"Louder than Words!" The below came, as Ragnar Ryder screamed towards the Listeners taunting voice, his two-handed valyrian axe swinging through the darkness; seeming to cut away the fog.
"There!" Artos caught a glimpse of the Listener, smirking at them through the fog.
"Arghhhh!" Lord Ryder screamed, cutting his way up to the throne.
The growled answered his approach, low and hellish; as red eyes darted out of the fog and crashed into the old warrior; ripping and gnawing at his arm; sending his axe to the black stone floor.
"FATHER!" It was Bjorn to the old lord's rescue, picking up his father's axe and driving it down into the red-eyed creature, causing it to go limp and release Lord Ryders mangled arm.
The creature's death stirred more growls from the darkness, as the fog seemed to lessen.
"Ryder!" Artos shouted at the young man, knelt over his father muttering curses.
In a flash, Bjorn Ryder was flung across the floor; two or three of the demonic shades ripping apart his body with no effort at all. "Enough!" Artos decreed, wide-eyed. "LISTENER! STOP THIS!"
The Listener chuckled as the fog faded as if by command.
"I-" Artos looked around, seeing half his men dead and the others with knives to their throats. There were pools of blood everywhere; but the princes eyes lingered on the beasts feasting on Bjorn's flesh. "W- What in the name of the gods is this madness?!"
"You like them?" Listener smiled at the beasts that looked akin to hounds out of the dark – only large and hellish, with rows of razor teeth and blood red eyes; and maws coated in blood.
Artos rushed to Lord Ryders side, ignoring the demon hounds.
"Ragnar?" He ripped away at his blood-stained cloak, wrapping it around the mangled bloody remains of the old lord's arm. "Hold in there, old man! Do you hear me!?"
"Accept your path," The Listener sat back on his throne, quite pleased.
Artos looked up and growled at the man. "My people go free?"
The Listener smiled, nodding again and again in answer. "Sister," He called for the woman that had guided them all to this foul place. "Give the Messenger his charge, will you?"
The woman from before stepped to Artos, her black robes red and bloody.
"You bitch," Artos snarled at her, getting up to his feet.
"How rude," She pouted innocently. "I thought we were friends."
Artos had half a mind to pick up Ryder's axe and cut down as many of them as he could before he fell and gladly would have, if not for the lives of his people being the price.
"Tell me what you'd have me do, witch…"
She smiled before she kissed him, a wholly wicked thing, as vapour invaded his throat; tasting of ash and coal – the world grew dark as he pushed her away, stumbling backwards.
In the darkness he heard many voices, reaching out to him.
"To have waited so long... for this..."
He saw the hounds of void drooling blood, stalking at the edge of his vision. "F- Face me cowards!" Artos stumbled, a dark vapour choking his lungs; the taste of ash on his tongue.
"Give in to your fear," The voices whispered. "Hope is an illusion."
He drew steel, swinging and waving it against the dark; only for the blade to fade.
"Sk'shgn eqnizz hoq," The whispers spoke a tongue he'd never heard. "Sk'uuyat guulphg hoq!"
Artos felt himself forced to his knees, feeling hands on cold sand; looking out at a sea red with blood and sails along the horizon bright with flames as men and women screamed.
"Sk'yahf agth huqth K'Dath's qornaus!"
The voices screamed at him, unrelenting. He saw a dark room half flooded and filled with bones, as dead men rose up from the water to clutch and claw at a lone black wolf.
"Ull vera skine!"
He saw himself seating Winterhold's throne, with a wolfs skull resting under his hand; and a floor covered in the skulls of men – as lords and ladies knelt before him in terror and dread.
"Never," He growled in pain, shaking the illusion. "That is not my place!"
"Mg'uulwi, eth'razzqi wades zand oodies!"
The words twisted in his mind, seeming less foreign; however broken. The sands turned scolding hot as mighty white walls cracked and crumbled before him, and tides of men riding basilisks crashed into a glowing city of light; bringing death and darkness to its people.
Artos closed his eyes and screamed, his mind threatening to burst.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?"
"Ga'aze into the heartov K'Dath!"
He saw a vast city of oily black spires and spiked towers rising out of the sand, seeming to swallow the very sun as winged creatures flew out from its confines and vast endless hordes of black mass seeped out into the sands to consume everything it touched. Corrupting everything.
The whispers seemed excited. In place of their harsh tone, now came silk and honey.
"I will await you," It promised sweetly. "In the dark."
The waking world burnt his eyes like red-hot steel as sweet silence washed over him, blissfully welcome after the whispers. Men surrounded him, panicked and exhausted.
"Artos?" Bhelen knelt at his side with clear concerned, pulling his Prince up from the floor.
"W- What happened?" Artos looked around, the dark hall was empty; void of the Listener and his creatures. The blood and any sign of battle had vanished. "Where are…"
"Gone," Came the strained voice of Lord Ryder, his eyes burning with fury.
"Old man?" Artos asked, his confusion clean.
Lord Ryder gave a nod, flexing his mangled arm with a grunt of sharp pain.
"Bjorn?" Artos glanced around for the remains of the young Ryder, as doubtless the man was dead – soon to be covered in a cloak. He couldn't see the body, but perhaps they'd moved it already…
"We need to leave," The old lord muttered, his tone empty.
"I'm sorry," Artos offered, frowning; mentally kicking himself for ever leading them into this hell. "He was a brave man. We'll carry his body and see him properly-"
"HIS BODY IS FUCKING GONE!" Lord Ryder screamed, his voice echoing off the empty hall.
Gone? What possible reason would the necro's have for… good gods…
"How many…"
"Over half dead," Lord Ryder growled low. "Nearly all my own men, none wounded; they only left the live one's – the godless bastards! This is YOUR fault, Stark! You led us into this forsaken place!"
What remained of his Greycloak's all drew steel, as Lord Ryder yelled and cursed.
"Not godless," He didn't mean to mutter that aloud…
"Are you fucking listening to me boy!?"
He wasn't. This had been a disaster. He shouldn't have been so careless…
"ANSWER ME YOU SON OF A WHORE!"
Artos swung his steel up to Ryder's throat in a heartbeat.
"If I didn't blame myself as much as those shits for this," He growled more akin to wolf than man. "Then I would separate your head from your damn shoulders for that My Lord."
"Do it boy!" Ragnar spat out in his anger.
Some part of him wanted to, but what would that achieve? The man was struck by grief…
"Prince Artos," Bhelen offered warily from the side. "We need to leave..."
"Aye," He withdrew his blade. "We have lost enough good men…"
Lord Ryder scowled, then stormed off with what little men he had left.
"Greystark?" Artos asked the man, who boasted some fresh scars and held firm to a blank mournful expression. "What are our losses? Where is the enemy?"
Bhelen did a once over glace to his men. "Over half My Prince; as the Lord Ryder suggested before his… outburst… the bastards took many of us by surprise in the dark."
"And the enemy? Can we fight our way out of here?"
"No need, my Prince." Bhelen seemed concerned, as if he weren't sure his information was correct – no doubt leaning on the side of paranoia. "We woke before you – the halls are empty..."
Empty? That was madness. Then again, what wasn't of late?
"This is a city, Bhelen; not a ghost town…"
"It's empty, My Prince, on my honour."
Somehow, he knew the Listener wanted it this way.
"I accept full responsibility for this and-"
"No," Artos dismissed the notion. "The fault lays with me and the necromancers…"
Bhelen accepted that with a nod, not arguing; for in truth he didn't disagree. Artos blamed himself for not foreseeing the outcome, however unpredictable the outcome was.
"We're going home," He announced quietly. "Let's leave this gods forsaken place…"
Leaving was a simple thing as nobody stood between them, the stairs to the secret city sealing up behind them once they'd left – the fogs rolling in behind them as they fled to the ships. The necromancer guests left behind as hostages had vanished. Lord Ryder had already departed ahead of them on his own ship.
Prince Artos retired to his cabin, praying for peaceful dreams. The gods didn't answer.
Nightmares plagued him every time he closed his eyes.
My Notes: I wasn't planning this chapter originally, so you weren't actually going to get a PoV from Prince Artos for the events in Nefer but I got carried away rambling about lovecrafty vibes and K'Dath thus was born The Secret City, Necromancers, Hellhounds and The Old Ones. I also had fun chatting in Old One; that you can vaguely translate for yourselves if you're smart about it. I stole the language from the Old Gods in World of Warcraft. I leave the translating to you if you wish it. K'Dath is a fun side-story that we'll continue to explore, without spoiling too much, there is some vague canon material behind it all; though extremely vague – it's still fun to explore.
Chapter 5 should be up within a week or so, then Chapter 6 should follow in due course; as quickly as time permits :)