Disclaimer: I don't own A song of Ice and Fire or Dragon Age
This bit of altered lore came to me when reading about the faceless god, I'm thinking, what could be considered faceless in Dragon Age?
The answer reveals itself in this arc
Game of Dragons
"The Crows," Fausten said, moving another of his pieces.
"Bullshit," Aerys muttered.
"Language my prince, such words are unbecoming of one of your station," Fausten grinned.
"Blow it out of your arse, we both know the greatest assassins are the faceless men, death worshipping pricks devoid of passion," Aerys explained.
"Not so devoid of passion that they're above accepting coin for a job," Fausten said.
"I wouldn't dismiss them so, they claim to have come from the old Valyrian freehold, death, the stranger, the lion of night, the black goat, Fa'lon Din, or as the Faceless men generally accept him to be, Him of many faces," Aerys explained, taking another of Fausten's pieces.
Fausten retaliated by taking one of Aerys's.
"Fa'lon Din is an elvhan god, so basically they think it's all the same, one god," Fausten said.
"The god called death!"
"Accurate I suppose, death is the only absolute," Fausten said.
"Unless you walk through fire," Aerys huffed.
"I remember when I was a little boy; one of my uncles received a cut from a piece of art he was buying. It was a prickly little thing; one had to hold it in a specific way, much like how one has to sit on the iron throne in a specific way. He cut his hand on it, thought he was fine; he ended up getting an infection and dying. It was my first experience with death; I didn't understand why my uncle wouldn't wake up nor how something as simple as a cut could kill him. Some scholar my father encouraged to teach me told me the specifics of his death, how diseases of all sorts can be left on sharp objects but the explanation I liked the most came from our manservant," Fausten explained.
"Wisdom from a commoner," Aerys said.
"Don't mock it; commoners can actually be the wisest of people. Besides he was of semi-noble birth, servants can actually make quite a bit of coin themselves. He said to me that death comes to us all, that eventually even the richest and most powerful of nobles will die. Man or woman, human or dwarf, even the elves were robbed of supposed immortality in order for death to maintain the balance. Everything dies, you, me, the stone of our castle will decay, the grass in the plains will fade and be replaced with new growth, everything dies. It is the natural fate, and that's okay," Fausten explained.
"He convinced you that it was all right to die?" Aerys asked.
"A natural end, what is not all right is an early end, a death given to you by another, or a life you yourself have cut short. Live whilst you still can, fight to live if you must, I have read that the Faceless men see death as a gift, either they have lived incredibly poor lives…or they know nothing of the agony death can be," Fausten stated with ferocity as he took another piece.
"An assassin is an assassin, no matter the philosophy," Aerys said.
The Phoenix and the Griffin
Chapter 30: Faceless
Rain batted off of Zevran's face, the adopted child of House Arainai had his target in sight. Antiva had its own game of thrones, and the crows were the key pieces. There were a great many royal bastards, Claudio Valisti, prince and sponsor of the crows had his own heirs in mind, puppet rulers for him to control. Zevran weaved into the crows of people, moving towards the drunk man.
"Hey," he laughed, pushing against the man, guiding him to the alley, away from the uninterested crowds.
Rinna was dancing, providing the distraction and Taliesen had covered the city guards. Zevran slid a blade hidden up his sleeve into the man's chest, through his heart. An easy and clean kill, a text book assassination, and every reason to believe it was a robbery when Zevran deprived the man of his coin purse. The three enjoyed one another's company that night, as they did many nights since they had survived training with Master Eoman. Taliesen drank and Rinna rode out the high of the sex she and Zevran had had.
"I wish you had kept the dancer's costume on," Zevran told her.
"I won't be doing that again, I'd prefer a richer role," Rinna said.
"Well we'll have plenty of coin after this job," Taliesen said, pouring them both cups of wine.
"But where does it end?" Rinna asked.
"With them dead and us rich," Zevran retorted.
"Surely we want more than that, more than just being Master Eoman's enforcers, sweating, bleeding…"
"I don't mind the sweating part," Taliesen kissed her neck and she slapped his cheek playfully.
"Taking all of the risks for that prick to be called the Grand Master when he hasn't shown any of the skill necessary to achieve it," Rinna said.
"That's far too much thinking for the bedroom my dear," Zevran said.
Rinna leant forward and cupped his cheeks, kissing him on the lips. She climbed out of the bed and picked up her small clothes.
"Where are you off to?" Zevran asked.
"We're running out of wine, and I require sustenance, and don't even think about saying what you're thinking," Rinna smirked as Zevran raised his hands.
"I wouldn't mind a little snack myself," Taliesen said and Rinna laughed as she left the room.
Zevran put his trousers on and stretched his arms out; Taliesen poured him a cup of wine and slid it to his hand.
"I think Rinna wavered today," Taliesen said.
"We all have a little something we waver at, children, a few women, a particularly handsome man," Zevran smirked and Taliesen slapped his shoulder.
"I'm serious though, you did listen to what she was saying didn't you?" Taliesen asked.
"I was listening, what exactly are you getting at Tali?" Zevran asked.
"Rosso Noche, the red night," Taliesen said.
Zevran looked towards his partner; a rare frown crossed his face. Taliesen's expression was cold and unwavering, and it told Zevran that this was going to be a very serious conversation.
Present Time-Brecilian Forest
The Elven assassin followed behind the human mage, it was the perfect angle to stab him in the back. They had been walking through the elven ruins for several minutes, and it seemed they were lost, with only the dead for company. The dead rose up several times, but Zevran had kept some freezing coatings and flame coating in his pack. He used one for his knife as an extra torch and another for his sword, using that to kill any undead they came across. The duo came to a room that housed weapons and armour, though some of the armour had become obscured by cobwebs, or brittle due to the age. Daylen looked over a rack of blades and put them aside.
"Not going to take one?" Zevran asked.
"Some of them are too long for the corridors, maybe this was a training ground," Daylen suggested.
"A good eye, but I think it was more of an outpost, I don't pretend to know Elven culture or history, the closest thing to a connection is knowledge of my father, or supposedly my father," Zevran explained.
"The Elven wood cutter?" Daylen asked.
"I was raised in a whorehouse, my father could have been anyone," Zevran shrugged.
"I never knew my father either, I'm probably not even Revka's son," Daylen said.
"I heard from some of the circle mages that you apparently arrived with red eyes, but that you used to have blue eyes, it is a common Amell trait," Zevran explained.
"Supposedly my father's genes were dominant," Daylen took a staff off of the wall, testing its reach and rubbing the branch like ornaments on it.
"Alistair thinks it's Rivain, Leliana bless her believes your father to be of Tevinter, even Sten said from your height it is apparently 'obvious' that your father was…what did he call it? Ah yes, Tal-Vashoth, I believe there is some Antivan in you," Zevran grinned as Daylen looked to him with a sceptical look.
"No one was ever cruel enough to call her a whore," Daylen said.
"Whore would be incorrect anyway, whore implies payment, slut would be a more accurate term for one with multiple sexual partners," Zevran said.
"The voice of experience?" Daylen asked.
"Yes," Zevran said with his tone being plain and humourless.
Daylen shook his head and continued onwards with Zevran, coming to a wide circular chamber.
"A training courtyard," Daylen said.
"Possibly, if it was an outpost or a type of military academy, it might explain why the Dalish came here, much could be found in the way of relics and records," Zevran stated.
"What do you think about them?" Daylen asked.
"They seem like good people sometimes, trying to find their way, taking revenge, being bastards at times, I've never thought of anyone as the crux of all evil, or anyone as particularly different or special in some way. It seems a tragedy though for them to have come upon these werewolves like this. What I saw in the camp was akin to some of the poisons I've seen," Zevran explained.
"You've seen a lot then?" Daylen asked.
"There are rumours that there are gentle poisons that can put one into a calm and gentle death, some are worse than others but I can tell you this with certainty, all poisons do terrible things to the body. Tears of Lys, tasteless and odourless, once dissolved and swallowed the particles begin to eat away at the bowls and stomach of the victim, making it look like a natural disease, typically used on the elderly targets. But then you have poisons like Nightshade, the kind that are obvious," Zevran stated and Daylen turned to him, focused on the subject more.
"People actually choose these poisons?" he asked.
"I have taken all sorts of contracts, by deplorable bastards, or people who want revenge, who want the target to suffer, that is what the wolf curse reminded me of, seeing those people writhing in slow agony, their loved ones unable to do anything to help them, much like Taint poisoning, and believe me there have been some sick people that have wanted the crows to use Darkspawn blood."
"I'm hoping they had the common sense to reject such a contract," Daylen said.
"Oh they still took the contract, but they weren't stupid enough to actually use the blood, no, another poison sufficed," Zevran said.
"What about Zathrian, what's your reading on him?" Daylen asked.
"Poor man in a difficult position, that being said, I know for a fact he's hiding something, and his people are suffering for it," Zevran frowned with an anger Daylen had never seen from him before.
They heard rubble crumble in the distance and they looked into the darkness with their torches. Zevran kept his dagger at the ready whilst Daylen moved forward first. The mage created a spark with his magic, illuminating part of the corridor. He did it again, and again, suddenly something screeched and a furry mass came towards Daylen, pincers on its mouth grinding, eight legs skittering across the floor. Daylen stepped back as the giant spider lunged, the creature barging him on the shoulder. He grabbed one of the spider's legs, running electricity through it. It screeched in pain, convulsing before Zevran put his dagger through one of its eyes.
"Small world, we were just talking about poison and along comes a good source, I could perhaps give it to you," Zevran smirked, spinning his dagger before sliding it back into its sheath.
"Assassin's already tried it; it made me feel ill but other than that it didn't kill me," Daylen shrugged.
"It must be the taint flowing in your blood, you're already poisoned, and it's just biding its time, so technically in that regard I don't have to do anything to you," Zevran said.
"I'm glad that my limited time and sanity on this world counts as a loop hole for your contract, it didn't stop you from taking the job," Daylen said.
"The crows don't give a lot of choice, that being said they aren't above getting involved in politics, it's the majority motivation for our work after all. Loghain has an infamous hatred of the Orlesians, perhaps the Antivans too due to our politics being similar to the Orlesian game. From what I've heard of Westeros there is a great game there too, borders, traditions, it doesn't change the fact that there is a game in every corner of the world, a game of politics," Zevran explained.
"Of thrones," Daylen muttered.
"No matter how much Loghain might try to deny it, Ferelden has its own game of thrones, Arl Eamon might try to deny it, but he too is playing this game. Even the most honourable of fools is a player, you'll have to play too," Zevran stated.
"I know," Daylen lowered his head slightly, his voice tired and depressed.
"But you'd be a good player, I don't just mean skilled Amell, I mean good…too many people possess ruthless efficiency for the sake of it, you could lead people, control them, but maintain your own ideals," the assassin explained.
"No I couldn't, there's always a price to pay for power," Daylen said.
"Says the man who was born with it," Zevran shrugged.
"Don't ever mistake restraint for apathy, when I arrived at the tower, barely able to form a coherent thought, I made mistakes, I nearly set fire to the tower so many times. So yes, I learned to hold back," Daylen stated.
"Well I'm glad the Wardens saw something in you, I'm glad it was you, who knows what a Ferelden lord would have done if they had been a warden," Zevran explained.
"You weren't afraid."
"Fear of dying can get you in trouble if you panic," Zevran said.
"True, but what I mean Zevran is that you weren't afraid, you wanted me to kill you didn't you?" Daylen asked.
The assassin lowered his head and walked in front of Daylen, remaining silent and avoiding his gaze. Daylen though could see the elf's hands tighten before going limp in defeat.
The worst injuries the Stark boys had ever suffered were some bruises training in the yard. Jon had once gotten sick, so sick that even Lady Catelyn had cared for him, though she would never admit it. Theon heard his friend yell in his ear, yell in such agony that he was surprised every wild beast in the forest hadn't come to try and find easy wounded prey. Robb's wound had faded yet he was writhing in pain, clawing at the dirt whilst Theon struggled to carry him across the forest. The Iron born boy looked into the trees, convinced something was watching them.
Robb suddenly pushed him away, leaning against one of the trees and yelling. There was only one pain that Theon and Robb could liken it to, the pattern of his screams seemed like what they had heard the days Lady Catelyn had given birth to Bran and Rickon. Personally for Robb, he felt as if his bones were bending, back bending and nose stretching. Yet his body was intact, many a time he had asked Maestar Luwin about magic and he always went to what the Citadel taught, magic was dead. Grumpkins and snarks, the Others too were simply legends and Robb wondered if the old man was just trying to reassure them.
'Don't fear child, there's no such thing as monsters, you're safe.'
Or did he truly believe what everyone else in Westeros seemed to believe? What they laughed at the Amell family for behind their backs? Robb laughed too, now he just screamed, not that his brother was what Thedasians called an 'Apostate' but that the magic, the curse, was flowing through him. He accidentally elbowed Theon in the face as he stumbled away from the tree.
"What can I do? I have those potions Wynn gave us, Elfroot? What can I do?" Theon asked, panicking and grabbing Robb's arm. "The camp, the Dalish, maybe they can help, yes, they can help we're not far, we just have to go a little bit further," he explained.
"Burning, burning at my chest, my bones feel like they're snapping, seven hells," Robb grit his teeth together.
He was crying, it was probably the only time Theon had seen him done so. On the Iron islands, men who cried were mocked, yet for Robb it was tears forced out by a pain no iron islander had ever felt before. Theon put Robb's arm around him and tried to focus on the back breaking work his father had been forced to endure, to create a garden that would never be used, just to teach a humility the short lived king of the salt throne would never have. Sweat and eventual tears ran down Theon's face, but still he walked, enduring the wild and angry swings of Robb's arms, the blows from involuntary spasms, Theon was hit harder than he had ever been on the field. Strength to the iron born was taking whatever you deserved, paying the iron price, with each step Theon took he began to learn what true strength was, as Robb buried his pain and helped Theon to help him, he learned what true strength was.
Each step was like their resolve was being hardened.
'Get him help,' Theon thought.
'Endure, don't give up,' Robb thought.
Something flowed through them both; to the point where they thought they could endure anything. But just as they felt like they were unstoppable, the woods reminded them again of the way of things. Theon heard the bear approach just as he saw the cubs in the distance. Then he felt the weight of the creature slam into his side, sending him and Robb sprawling across the dirt.
"Jon, Jon wake up…wake up!"
Slowly he opened his eyes, looking up and seeing the forest trees. There was a woman standing over him, the dark eyes and hair of a Stark, though she wore a disapproving smirk well.
"They told you the veil was thin here, but not all magic is bad," she whispered.
Jon blinked and she was gone, he rose slowly, his back aching whilst he picked up his snapped bow. He tossed the weapon aside and searched for his sword. Resisting the urge to yell out a curse, he stood up and looked at his surroundings. It was an elven ruin, though it had a hole in the ceiling offered a view of the forest above. Vines and cracks on the wall would probably be good holds for climbing it, but Jon didn't want to take the risk. He checked his belt for his knife and picked up his shield. He could only go deeper into the ruin, still unsure though he used some flint and oil to put together a torch. The walk down the tunnel was short, taking him to a circular chamber.
"Luwin would be envious," Jon whispered.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, and after quickly putting his torch out Jon hid in one of the darker corridors. He drew his knife and looked to one of the better lit entranceways. It was Zathrian, the keeper walked with a purpose in his stride, his eyes scanning the walls around him. The tip was already glowing with energy and for a moment Jon thought he had found him. Then came a great growl and a brown furred mass came down from the ceiling. The werewolf aimed a claw at Zathrian's chest, narrowly missing his robe.
"MA HAREL, LASA!" the werewolf roared in a thunderous voice, fierce yet coherent, wrathful and intelligent.
"Da'len," Zathrian stepped back, lowering his staff.
He looked at the wolf with shock, almost sorrow in his eyes. The werewolf just stood there, growling, even glaring at Zathrian.
"Ir tel'him," the werewolf said.
'Elvish,' Jon thought, understanding the sound but not the words.
It was supposed to be a dead language, yet Zathrian spoke it so well, walking around the werewolf calmly. They whispered at a level Jon could not understand. But then their voices became raised when the hairs on the werewolf's back stood up.
"DIRTH MA BANAL! MAR SOLAS ENA MAR DIN!" the werewolf snarled.
"Tel'abelas," Zathrian retorted, his staff again began to glow.
"Dirth Ma Harellan, Ma banal enasalin, MAR SOLAS ENA MAR DIN!" the wolf roared before jumping at Zathrian.
The Keeper thrust his staff, enveloping the werewolf in a purple glow. As purple light consumed the wolf, a lighter haze ran through Zathrian's hand. The werewolf was weakened, dazed, so dazed that it stumbled into a trap of some kind, runes glowed on the floor and the werewolf was bound.
"Falon'Din enasal enaste," Zathrian said.
Thorn like protrusions began to glow along the tip of his staff, sharpening it. Then he thrust the staff through the werewolf's chest, tearing through its chest. It though began to change, the fur faded as it slid off of Zathrian's staff and crashed into the ground. Jon moved his head to get a closer look and saw instead of a werewolf a Dalish woman. Zathrian looked down at the woman, his hands shaking before he looked towards Jon.
'Seven hells,' Jon quickly slunk back into hiding, moving into the darkness.
He slowed his breathing, ready to lash out with his knife if need be. But he couldn't hear Zathrian's footsteps to confirm if the Keeper was even approaching. The young man shuffled back further, holding his breath. Then something grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into the shadows. He was sent sprawling onto the ground, rolling through a tunnel. Jon lost his knife in the confusion, striking his head on a rock and losing consciousness for a moment. Something licked his face, dragging its tongue across his cheek. Panic began to sweep through Jon, he was going to die, the werewolf was going to rip his neck off. Then he opened his eyes and saw the wolf's massive maw, panting at him, drool dripped onto his face. The wolf barked and Jon blinked, did werewolves bark?
"What's this you've found Alpha? A new friend? He looks an awful lot like Jon!"
Jon's eyes adjusted and he looked up at Leliana. She knelt down, checking the wound on Jon's head.
"These ruins go deep, for once Oghren came up with a not so stupid idea that perhaps the elves built cities once, and then he suggested they probably started as dwarves," she explained.
"Zathrian," Jon whispered.
"Take a moment, take a moment," she rubbed a poultice over his cut and supported him to sit up.
"I saw Zathrian, I saw him killing a werewolf, it was an elf girl," he said.
Alpha whined and looked up at Leliana, clearly trying to communicate the same point. He had been different around the werewolves, different around Zathrian too. Leliana pulled a dagger from her belt and gave it to Jon, he was still dazed and his grip was weak.
"Couldn't you have been a bit gentler?" he asked.
"What do you mean? You're the one who just fell through the hole in the ceiling," Leliana said.
"You didn't pull me in there?" Jon asked.
"Alpha and I were separated from the rest of the group, someone hit the ground with an Earthquake spell," Leliana said.
"Is that what you think happened?"
"Alistair and Daylen might know, or I hope so, something tells me as usual this isn't going to be a simple issue," Leliana said.
"It wasn't simple when the werewolves attacked the elves?" Jon didn't hide the scepticism and amazement in his voice.
Leliana smiled, helping Jon up off of the floor. She had to support him for a few feet before he was able to walk by himself. His legs would be sore and bruised later, but he was still able to walk and he would have to fight later. They kept going until they reached an opening that led to the forest. Leliana pulled out her bow as the tree branches began to shift. Jon too shuffled his feet, keeping his shield raised. Alpha however ran forward and began to bark. Masses of fur moved towards the trio and Leliana drew back her bow. Alpha however looked back at her and barked, a warning, even as three werewolves approached them.
"Humans, enough," one of the wolves growled.
"Seven hells they do talk," Jon gasped.
"Of course we talk," one of the other wolves snarled.
"You were with the Grey Wardens weren't you?" the calmest of the wolves asked.
"We are, you attacked Zathrian's clan," Leliana said.
They knew it wasn't a question, but the calmer wolf nodded his head.
"There is an intruder in this forest, the spirits are warning us humans, warning us of a demon," he stated.
"Witherfang," Jon said and the angrier werewolf snarled at him, the 'expression' in his eyes indicating he was insulted.
"No, not Witherfang, something filled with blood lust and envy, a demon with no face!" he said.
Zevran watched Daylen's back, knowing he could try to stab the mage, knowing that he could leave him for dead, flee the ruins and the forest and report back to Loghain and collect his payment. But he didn't and wouldn't, not because of any fear of failure or any respect he might have gained for Daylen. No, Zevran simply didn't want to assassinate for the Crows, even if he could redeem himself for his previous failure, he couldn't go back. Loyalty, even for someone whom had been with a group since childhood, had a limit and Rinna had been Zevran's limit. Not just what became of her but the very circumstances behind her death, a game of thrones existed within the crows, Zevran sighed, perhaps every group had competition. In Zevran's life of undercover work and infiltrations he had learnt of a truth, that very few people in the world showed their true faces.
He remembered the baker in an Antivan noble household, always smiling as he cooked and made the greatest cakes Zevran had ever had, and Zevran remembered the day he found the man crying outside of his kitchen, he wanted to paint on a canvas, not make something for gluttonous, unappreciative nobles. There was a scholar who taught the son of an Orlesian Chevalier, the man always sung high praises of his master and his student, but after one drink with Zevran, the assassin learned that the teacher despised the child, the sweetest little boy Zevran had ever met. Suffice to say Zevran found a good scapegoat for the Crows to use when they assassinated the boy. Then Taliesen and Rinna, even they had masks, Tali's was one of love and Rinna's was one of courage. Though Zevran never faulted her for that, who could be brave in the face of imminent death?
"Are you all right?" Daylen asked him.
"Never better," Zevran said, putting on his mask.
Daylen hummed, unconvinced, he and Zevran made it further into the ruins. They could feel a breeze, and the light was brighter than it had been since they became trapped. Daylen touched Spellweaver's hilt, feeling it shake, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something watching them. But it wasn't spiders, or rats, they had come across some big rats. That's when they had begun to hear something in the distance. It was a cry of some kind, echoing between the walls. Though Zevran could make out something of a whisper in his ear, and he knew Daylen could too from the way the man's head perked.
'Mother,' was the whisper, or at least Zevran assumed from his understanding of the elf language.
"Help," was the echo.
A simple nod was all Zevran needed to follow Daylen in a run through the ruins. They came to a crossing where an old sewage tunnel had been, the tunnel was drained and dry. And crawling across it was a Dalish elf.
"Help me please," he said weakly.
Daylen was going to go and help him, when Zevran gripped his shoulder.
"How did he get down here?" he asked.
"I was making my way back to the camp, I'd been hunting the werewolves," the elf said.
"Zathrian and Lanaya insisted that their people remain at the camp," Daylen said.
"I stupidly disobeyed, my wife you see, she was taken by the werewolves," the elf said.
"Okay, so what happened?" Daylen asked.
"I couldn't find her, I was too late, so I made my way back to camp, then the ground gave away and I fell into these ruins, I've been limping for so long but my leg, I think it's broken," the elf explained.
"I might be able to help with that," Zevran said.
"What about the mage, can't he heal my wounds?" the elf asked.
"I'm not capable of using healing magic," Daylen said and then looked at Zevran as the crow touched his shoulder again.
"Let me look at him first," the assassin said.
"Don't worry, I have some herbs and bandages in my pack," Zevran stepped forward, smirking slightly as the elf rolled onto his back.
He took a roll of bandages from his belt and knelt in front of the elf. The Dalish had a body type very different from city elves, though not in all cases, most tended to have better physiques. Even leather armour could make it difficult to see a Dalish elf's muscularity. As Zevran took hold of the elf's foot, he briefly looked at his hands, the elf kept his hands flat, hiding his palms. Maybe he had strong skin under there, the tell tale signs of a hunter who often used a bow or skinned his prey. He saw the cracks on the elf's fingers briefly, butchers got it too from cutting apart moist meat all day. The elf had certainly peeled apart something.
But the feet were what Zevran focused on; Dalish elves were used to walking bare foot. Over the course of many years, their skin became rougher and tougher. Zevran had been with Dalish men and women whom got rough feet from walking on the dirt and grass. He had also been with priests, barefoot priests who walked around a stone floor all day. The feet he was looking at certainly matched that type of person, but even then he could be wrong. There could have been a blade underneath the elf's gauntlet, or a knife hidden on his belt. He jiggled the leg a little bit, taking note of the swelling, but with the right amount of heat and pressure one could fake that. The elf winced and Zevran looked at his face.
"Oh fuck, not one of you insufferable arseholes," Zevran huffed.
"What do you mean Zevran?" Daylen asked.
"There's a seam on his neck, he's used one of the hunter's face to make a mask," Zevran said.
He drew one of his knives, but the 'Dalish' slid a dagger into his leg. Zevran recoiled, grabbing the knife arm that held the assassin's dagger. Both stepped back, looking one another in the eyes for a moment. Zevran knew the assassin's plan, it was a common move, drop your knife and then grab it with the other hand. It would have been a quick and cool move, if Zevran didn't viciously slam his head into the assassin as he did it. The dagger clattered to the floor and Zevran took the opportunity to throw his knife at the man. It struck the assassin's hand and he stepped back with a smirk across his face.
"A name has been offered, a man must fulfil the bargain," the assassin said.
Daylen looked between Zevran and the other assassin in confusion whilst Zevran rolled his eyes.
"I can do that too, 'a man got stabbed in the leg, he's now very annoyed,'" Zevran said.
"Enough," Daylen snarled.
He threw his arm forward, releasing a bolt of lightning. The assassin however raised his other hand, conjuring an arcane shield.
"A mage and an assassin, that's just cheating," Zevran said.
"Who are you?" Daylen demanded.
"A man has no name, only the name's he is offered, Daylen Amell, Alistair, Leliana," the man said.
"So if you're offered a woman's name do you suddenly become a woman? Because there are certain things you just cannot fake," Zevran explained.
"Leliana," Daylen whispered, his eyes lit up in fury as cold air came out of mouth.
He suddenly pushed past Zevran, bringing down an icicle he had conjured on the faceless man's arm. The man had sacrificed his wrist to block the strike, shoving Daylen towards Zevran. As both recovered, the faceless man pulled the knife out of his hand and the icicle out of his wrist. Blood swirled between his fingers, becoming razor sharp wires. Zevran drew another knife from his belt and slid a blade out of a compartment on his gauntlet.
"Be careful, that wire can cut through skin," he said.
"Debilitating spells and hexes, that's what he'll go for," Daylen stated.
"Is it nippy in here or is it just me?" Zevran asked.
"I'm decreasing the temperature in case he uses sleeping spells," Daylen said.
"A man is not experienced in entropy spells, a man is experienced in creation spells," the faceless man grinned as a blue light shimmered beneath him.
Then it began to glow beneath Zevran and Daylen, the latter realising too late they had fallen victim to a paralysis glyph. An afterimage effect vibrated around the assassin, the sign of the haste buff. Daylen grit his teeth together as the assassin moved forward. He needed to let off just one spell, resist the glyph and free himself and Zevran. Finally, he heard himself yell and he gathered fire into his left arm just as the assassin lunged towards them.
The explosion muffled out the sound of flesh being torn through.
Bears, they were there in the north, but Ned Stark was never stupid enough to have his children hunt them. Even Rodrick, a warrior and knight, was not so insecure about his strength that he would encourage his charges to face one. Especially one that was protecting its young, Theon rolled to his feet, looking out for any sign of the hunched creature and especially for Robb. Then he heard Robb's scream, and grabbing his sword, Theon made his way towards the sound, around the trees and then to the source of the screaming. Finally he had found his friend, rolling and writhing in the dirt, his clothes already coated and his once red hair blackened because of the dirt.
"GET BACK!" Robb yelled.
"We need to go, the bear," Theon muttered.
"GET BACK THEON! GET AWAY FROM ME NOW!" Robb snapped.
It was a command of equal desperation and fury. Theon was always good at hunting and shooting, but all that training and bravado was replaced by fear, fear for what he understood to be the only thing of value to him. All of his Iron born pride and merit amongst house Stark and all the pleasures he gained from Winterfell's brothel meant nothing in the face of losing his life. That fear of dying still paled next to the disgust and fright of watching a man become a monster in front of him. Robb's eyes had began wolf like slits, his fingers nail had grown sharp, dragging marks across the dirt and his lips had turned black, bending back to reveal his razor sharp teeth. Theon heard the rustle of leaves behind him and ran, ran as fast as he could, jumping over bushes and ditches, the sound of Robb's screams and the bears roar became softer and softer, little more than an echo until Theon could only hear his own rapid and panicked breathing.
Robb bashed his head against a nearby tree, wanting to cave his own skull in, sure that it would be pale in comparison to the pain he was already in. For a moment he could more hear than feel his bones stretching. His own skull began to stretch, pushing against his skin and the young man's eyes crossed in horror as his nose and jaw slowly stretched to become a snout. Robb Stark prayed for death to take him, he tore at his chest with his claws, through his clothes, and then to his flesh, blood and skin spread across the floor. But to his shock, his skin had become like another layer of clothing, to what had grown within him. Instead of tearing into muscle fibres and bone he found fur and tough skin.
'Father, mother, Rickon, Sansa, Arya, Branden, Jon, oh gods, please, don't let Jon or Branden see me like this,' he didn't know anymore if it was tears or sweat running down his cheeks.
No, he corrected himself, definitely tears. The sweat he had broken off into sizzled against his fur, melting away. He recalled a lesson Luwin had, certain animals just didn't sweat as humans did. So he was crying, crying was weak, that's what any Westerosi warrior would say.
But not Ned Stark.
'When I returned from war we had achieved victory, the Mad King was gone, our family had been avenged and we had a new king. But still, I had lost my father, my brother and my sister, no victory could ever change what I had lost, it is alright to mourn, to cry, but you must never let others see you do it, you are to be a lord or the North my son, you must steel yourself. During the dance of dragons it was our ancestor that brought order to the decadent capital, these southern lords call it cold, but that was what was needed,' the man once lectured him.
The memory though began to mean nothing to Robb. It wasn't because he was burying it with the cold logic expected of a Stark heir. He felt only rage now, a rage that echoed out of his mouth. His voice was gone, replaced with the roar of an animal of the night.
When the bear emerged from the bushes ready to face the intruder, she did not find a human hunter. The remains of that man's skin and clothes were scattered across the grass and in place of the man was a werewolf. A red furred, snarling on his hind legs, foam slobbering onto his feet as he snarled at the intruder in his territory.
Next Chapter 31: The god of many faces
I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, this arc is very much a Zevran and Robb arc, the conversation Aerys and Fausten having being more than just small talk but a set up of an Antivan crow versus a faceless man.
Jon's already a Grey Warden, so I abandoned plans to turn him into a werewolf, though I had an idea to make him a white furred werewolf to symbolise both Ghost and his Targaryen roots.
As for who hired the faceless men, a hint, it isn't Loghain surprisingly.