Author's note: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire. If I did, the Winds of Winter would have been published a long time ago. I do not own Warhammer. It is the property of Games Workshop, praise the Gods for that.
Fair warning, this story will contain atrocities beyond counting, murders, bloody executions, sacks, betrayals and will generally reach a point where they will be no good guys left standing.
I do not know how long or how frequent the updates will be. The other stories have priority, but as I have several flashes of inspiration it may advance faster than predicted. And now let's the story begin!
A Dance of Magic and Chaos
Waymar Royce 1
According to one of the Black Spear sailors, this was no storm. Of course the man knew what he was talking about; more than twenty of his fifty name days had been passed sailing from Eastwatch to Oldtown. But when the sky was near-black in the horizon and the sun hadn't set over the grey sea, a storm was the best description one could come up with.
The waves were high, too high for his taste. The waves near Gulltown, Runestone or Old Anchor were no small wavelets, but these ones...sometimes Waymar feared one was going to pass over the ship and sink it in less time it took to say it.
Next issue, the water sent on the bridge was hellishly cold. The air had already not been warm each time he left his cabin in the morning for an early collation, but here it was becoming ridiculous. At first, he had worn the furred boots, the heavy coat and the gloves. A black ensemble of clothes, not perhaps the newest trend from the Free Cities of King's Landing, but a practical and warm set nonetheless. After a few days he had had to add a new layer of clothes and furs, the one he had thought only to wear at the still distant Wall. When the man in the lookout had announced Widow's Watch at the end of a foggy morning, he had begun to wear everything furred he owned. It wasn't nearly enough for his poor skin, the wind was piercing him to the core of his bones.
The Shivering Sea was a harsh mistress, Waymar had been forced to conclude. This water expanse –the young Valemen had heard far cruder adjectives be pronounced by the sailors of the Black Spear – truly deserved its name. And as the sailors took an evil pleasure to remember him, this horrible weather was actually pretty calm for the Sea they were currently navigating on. It was still summer after all.
Why in the Seven Hells did I choose to go by sea? We aren't at the Wall yet and I have already enough of this water and the cold!
In his heart Royce knew the answer though. Going by land would have been undoubtedly more comfortable, with taverns and inns from Runestone to the Eyrie and from the Crossroads to Sentinel's Stand. One thing the travel would not have been however, was less dangerous.
The Brave Sons – the Faithful who still pretended Maegor's Edict was respected in King Aerys' realm – were in the thousands in the Vale and the Riverlands. Rumours spread fast to their ears across the kingdoms of the mountains and the rivers, and they had little patience for the men willing to move northwards. Except if you were a murderer or another type of criminal, there were nasty rumours of men going to take the black and instead finding an early grave. The septons and septas really didn't want anyone 'redeemable' going to grow the ranks of heretics.
It also explains why I am one out of two 'volunteers' for the Watch this year...
"Land ahoy!"
Despite the new freezing wind gust, Royce felt a smile widen his lips under his racoon mask. They had entered the Bay of Seals two days ago; the land being sighted again could only mean one thing: their destination was finally in view.
"We will reach Eastwatch today?"
The Captain of the Black Spear, a man of very few words, grunted noncommittally. Since he had embarked at Gulltown, Royce had learnt a bit to interpret these grunts and groans. This one was close to a 'maybe'.
This is it, then. Soon there won't be any turning back.
A little voice in the back of his head laughed at this affirmation. Had he forgotten the murderous looks his brother Robar had sent him at the last meal they shared together in Runestone ancient hall? The disappointed expressions of many knights living at a four or five days ride from Runestone? The mummery commissioned by one of these Grafton fools where the play's fool was mimicking his face?
"You'd better prepare the Pig." Informed him the second of the Black Spear, who had undoubtedly proved he was far looser with his tongue than his superior. "The fastest he's off the Spear, the better for everyone."
Royce nodded morosely, gave a friendly salute to two men busy loosening some ropes and marched back to the direction of his cabin, taking great care where he put his feet. This was not the moment to lose balance, not when he was so close to leave the ship. Once before the door that was his destination, the courtesy knock did not receive any answer.
"Sam, it's me. Can I enter?"
"Go away..." Was the most intelligible grunt which came to his ears.
Waymar with a dark amusement ignored it and opened the door to reveal a very nauseating spectacle.
"By the Seven, Sam!"
Samwell Tarly, who shared the cabin with him, was busy vomiting in the bowl which had once served to bring him his food. The dour mounting from his bed and the ground was awful, and several containers were already full of horrid fluids and substances. The Tarly boy was not wearing any clothes but his bed sheets, looking like a parody of a Summer Prince. His size and the grease constituting most of his body were revealed in an obscene manner: there was enough weight there in his opinion to challenge one of the small Volantene elephants.
"You must prepare Sam. We're close to Eastwatch."
A new retch followed, and the large boy looked even more livid than usual.
When Waymar was in his friendliest mind, he fully agreed that the decision of Lord Randyll Tarly had been unfair and cruel. Samwell was a polite and cultured boy, sending him to the Wall where he would be surrounded by people of a different religion and if rumours were true disdaining weaknesses...this was no better than a death sentence. Especially when there were better and closer alternatives at hand. It was almost a tradition from King's Landing to Highgarden that when a noble Lord had a son not showing the slightest inclination for the sword, the joust or the hunt, it was better to send him to the maesters.
If the masters of the Citadel were not suitable, there was always the Faith. The Quill Bearers or the Order of the Lantern would have been perfectly happy to welcome a reader and seeker of knowledge inside their ranks. The candidate was removed from the order of succession, the Faithful gained a new recruit and everyone won in the transaction.
But no, Lord Randyll had chosen the Wall for his eldest son. And when he was annoyed or in a very irritable mood – like right now – the third son of House Royce understood the Master of Horn Hill. Samwell Tarly was fat and a coward. 'Fat' in this case meant the Reacher Heir would have been unable to walk in the narrowest corridors of his ancestral home. 'Coward' because anything more threatening than a spider would send him running in fear.
If at least the Tarly former Heir had a valuable talent or something in him worthy to be heard! But no, apparently the only thing of limited value Samwell knew was reading books. No instinct to play House politics, which could have avoided him this shameful exile. No will to take a bit of discomfort or eat less in order to show a slimmer body. Samwell Tarly had not a shadow of tenacity in his bones. His only pleasure was to eat candy and the most salivating food he could put his fat hands on. Eat, swallow, eat, sleep, read and eat. Those were the only things Samwell Tarly was considering for his life. Waymar had no doubts that if he had remained in the South, in two or three years Sam would go from his bed to the banquet room carried by a dozen of servants on a stretcher. A very large one and with servants boasting powerful arms.
"Hurry!" Angrily whispered Waymar. "We're close to Eastwatch and we must leave the cabin in a better state than what it is now!"
"Leave me alone..." Grasped the whale-sized boy.
"The crew is going to send you into the sea, you know." Declared the Valeman. "They don't like you and they want you gone. If you stay in this cabin, they will throw you in the Shivering Sea as soon as they will have left Eastwatch."
This was not a complete lie. The Black Ships' crew, of which the Black Spear belonged, was not a brotherhood of very friendly sailors. Half of the time, they sailed in the great harbours of Westeros like Oldtown or King's Landing, selling diverse Northern woods like wood, amber or furs. It was a charter of Aegon the Fifth who had granted them this right fifty years ago when the number of Southern hulls willing to trade with the North became close to zero. The Faith had forbid their worshippers any trade with heretics, but the gold dragons which fell into Braavosi and Pentoshi purses had forced the Crown to adopt a far more conciliating measure.
The other half of the year, the Black Ships sailed north with their holds full of convicted thieves, rapists and murderers. Men who had sworn to take the Black, but who obviously couldn't be trusted to go join the Night's Watch on their own and thus went in chains to swear their vows. Between two hundred and two hundred and fifty were below his feet in the cells of the Black Spear.
It took several more outlandish threats and wheedling, but Waymar finally managed to get Samwell Tarly out of his couch. Urging the large boy to clothe warmly and packing his affairs took more time they hadn't in the first place. The traces of vomit and diverse fluids the Reacher noble had made were erased, the contents of the bowls and basin were sent directly into the sea. For the nasty odour, Waymar could do nothing but open the cabin door and let the frigid air come in. He had no doubt the crewmen in charge of making this space clean and fit for another person would curse him, but hopefully he would be far from this ship when it happened. How Samwell was going to keep his clothes however Waymar had no idea. The armour was fit for his 'impressive' body but there was no way the Night's Watch was going to tolerate the flamboyant red-green hunter embroidered on everything.
Not my problem by the Seven. If the Watch accept him he will certainly be a Steward, and I want to be a Ranger...
Once they got out with their weapons and possessions, the land was now clearly in view despite the blackness of the sky. Dread cliffs and stone shores could be seen, but a gasp mounted from his throat as the reason of their travel was visible to their mortal's eyes.
It was big. It was tall. It was the Wall.
Waymar had heard it mentioned in uncountable tales and legends, but somewhat they had failed to do it justice. One of the Great Marvels of this world, it was like a God had decided to mould a mountain of ice. The seven hundred feet of the titanic construction were rising through the heavens, ridiculing by its simple presence the castle next to it...and as the Black Spear closed the distance Waymar realised Eastwatch was in a similar league as Runestone.
How could men build something so big?
Next to him, Samwell Tarly was almost dancing in joy at the view. Well, not dancing because his corpulence and the disgusted looks of his neighbours prevented such a ridiculous spectacle.
The moment of contemplation did not last long unfortunately –though Waymar had the feeling he would have the occasion to see the Wall and its surroundings until he was sick of it – they were entering the harbour of Eastwatch. It was a very orderly place, with eight or nine stone pontoons, small warehouses and plenty of sailors working. There were three Braavosi ships – easily recognisable thanks to their famous purple sails – and one of Essossi origin that could be either Tyroshi or Lysene. A gust of wind flew in, and Waymar breathed in relief as he noticed the cold was far less biting here. The Wall had to act like a natural shield for the black garrison, and now that he had a better view the scion of Runestone could see there was far little to no snow on this side of the Wall. The other side was another story, but even here the Night's Watch was feeling the effects of the endless Long Summer.
Ropes were launched on the docks, the Black Spear's speed became synonym with immobility and finally everything stopped. The last part of his travel had finally come to an end.
Sam and Waymar, as the only two volunteers of the Night's Watch, had the 'honour' of being the first to debark. As they made steps to descend, groans and insults made clear their future 'brothers' were treated far less gently.
Their landing on Northern soil was not greeted by a grand ceremony or a cheering crowd. The conversation of fishermen and Essossi merchants interrupted itself for a few turn of hourglasses before resuming. The men who had to be the black brothers were throwing a few glances before resuming their patrols. Progressing on the stone pier with scores of chained prisoners in tow, Waymar figured they must have seen this spectacle enough to be bored of it.
The second of the Black Spear led them to what had to be an empty training field. On the right was Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, fortress of the Night's Watch, though of course all the gazes were pointed towards the impossibly-high Wall.
One by one, the sailors forced the prisoners to form five neat lines on this large field where thousands warriors could muster with ease. Waymar could not escape a shudder at the empty gazes and the hate some of them had in their eyes. They had gaunt and tormented appearances; the saying only dead men took the Black had evidently some grain of truth in it. Many were already suffering from the cold; the clothes they wore were quite appropriate for the Mander or Blackwater villages, where the sun's wrath was properly infernal these last years. For a travel to the Wall, they were far too light and the members of the men were shivering.
This contemplation ceased when an impressive warrior equipped in a full set of plate armour arrived. Waymar was mildly impressed; he knew the most powerful Houses of the North had great forges to satisfy their best smiths, but if officers of the Watch had access to these protections then the military capabilities of the Northerners were severely underestimated.
On his chest was graved a black sign combining an orb and two irregular flames. Waymar felt his eyes widen and then trouble in unease. After mere seconds he was forced to direct his attention away, small tears falling from his eyes.
Fine, the septons are at least right on one thing...they have powers.
"Welcome recruits to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea." The black brother had a powerful voice, and Waymar was surprised to hear the same hints of command his father used to make his men bend to his will. "I am Ralfor Darkshore, Black Castellan of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."
One in ten of the former prisoners made moves like they intended to bow or throw themselves onto the ground in submission, but a loud affirmation stopped them in their tracks.
"No." The tone was sharp, able to cut the very ice of the Northern wastes. "If the Gods are willing, we will all be brothers in a moon. And brothers do not bend the knee to each other."
A majority of the former prisoners looked perturbed and shocked by this sentence. Waymar understood them very well. All their lives, the smallfolk who were in this crowd had been told to bend the knee and curb the head if someone like Lord Arryn graced them with the honour of his presence. Failure to show proper respect could lead to...their current presence in front of Eastwatch.
The imposing Master of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea turned his head towards the Black Spear's officer.
"How many of them are they?"
"Two volunteers. One hundred and ninety-one prisoners from the prisons of the Reach, the Stormlands, the Crownlands and the Vale." Contrary to his ordinary behaviour, the sailor did not bluster or tried to make his interlocutor sounds thankful. It was just a succession of hard facts. "The Black Sword and the Black Skull are not far behind us. They should be here before the end of the year."
"Good. Paymaster Woolsfield will have all the papers and your cargo ready for tomorrow."
The sailor saluted Castellan Darkshore, before marching out of the training area with indecent haste. Surprisingly, all the other sailors went with him. It was...surprising. While Waymar did not doubt the man before the assembled convicts was a redoubtable man – he would not have risen up to his post otherwise – taking a bit less than two hundred of them with only a handful of guards in proximity seemed a bit...overconfident.
Silence came upon the brown and grey earth, with only the northern winds providing the sound, clacking the black banners. And then without warning the Northerner opened the palm of his hand.
Impossibly, blue flames danced in the black fist.
Sorcery...
This was the first thought which came to Waymar's mind. Screams of alarm and the Seven Signs of Protection being repeated by scores of men in the assembly told him most of his companions of misfortune had arrived to the same conclusion.
"Heretic!"
"Traitor!"
"Bane of the Faithful!"
"Demon!"
"Let's begin." Said the black brother in a fashion which explained how little he cared for their insults and accusations. It was like someone had magically silenced the Southerners present. Suddenly, no one was able to utter one more word. Waymar felt like his tongue had been stuck to his palate. "Everything you have been told about the Watch, about us...is a lie."
The blue flames intensified, forming a blue cloud of magic. As he was mere feet away from the smoke, Waymar began to cough first, with Sam next to him imitating shortly after.
"But in the name of Tzeentch I am going to reveal you the truth."
Ser Patrek Mallister 1
"The Ironborn are up to something." Said Ser Jason Mallister, contemplating the defences of Seagard below the Booming Tower. "And whatever they're preparing, we are not going to like it."
"Brother, the Ironborn are always up to something." Replied Lord Jeffory Mallister, sipping a cup of red wine. By the form and the gravures on the bottle sitting on the table nearby, Patrek could deduce it had been a gift of House Rowan. "I believe it's in their nature."
"True." Conceded his father. "But you have to admit that over forty longships being rearmed and sailing away..."
"It is worrying, I agree." Replied the Master of Seagard, his gaze carrying well past the chamber in the direction of Ironman's Bay. "Especially as we have no idea where they're heading to."
Patrek and his cousin Myles exchanged amused glances. Sometimes, their fathers focusing on the Ironborn intentions to the exclusion of everything else was simply too funny. Never mind that the Ironborn hadn't dared raiding Seagard in over three hundred years and the time of the Hoares. The Greyjoys and the pirates they ruled seemed to prefer easier targets. Once upon a time, it had been the North but whatever sorcery and heresy fuelled the hearts of the Northerners had made the reavers abandon their raids on Blazewater Bay and the Stony Shore long before their births. Undefended villages of the Reach and the West had sometimes been raided since the beginning of King Aerys' long reign, but those had been answered by force of arms and the culprits were hanged when true knights fought them.
The truth was the Ironborn were weak. While the Long Summer was giving the islanders some time to support their families and go fishing, it was nothing compared the increasing strength of the Riverlands. At the first sign of rebellion, tens of thousands men would be ready to march against the Kraken and Balon Greyjoy knew it. The longships would still win on the seas for a time, but this superiority would only last the time the Royal Fleet and the other great naval powers mustered their naval forces.
No, his uncle and his father were boring when they grumbled of past grudges and future Ironborn wars. This was the era of the Long Summer, an age of prosperity and plentiful harvests. The closest Ironborn raids were on the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands and the Summer Isles, regions outside the Iron Throne's rule. And those were lone longships with hot-blooded corsairs at their head, not the dreaded Iron Fleet armada of old.
The Lord of Pyke had certainly wanted to play the admiral and enforce discipline into his rebellious sons. Something to keep an eye on, but not the impending apocalypse their elders feared each time something unexpected on these disease-ridden shores happened.
"Maybe the Kraken decided to go to the Basilisk Isles and reave like in his youth, father." Intervened Myles Mallister, the black eyes he had inherited from his Whent mother shining with mischief.
"If you really believe this my son, then I have a nice piece of land at the bottom of Ironman's Bay I'd like you to inherit." The tone of Lord Jeffory was pleasant, but his blue-grey eyes were not exactly tickling with warmth. "Balon Greyjoy has always been too ambitious for his own good and I doubt the last decade has mellowed him. The last proposition he sent to the Council at King's Landing a couple of years ago was advising His Grace to sack Tyrosh."
The Lord of Seagard frowned in consternation at the arrogance of the weakest of the Lord Paramounts 'advising' the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Patrek nodded in approval. The Ironborn were already regarded as dangerous heretics at court and thorough the mainland; these words had not given them any friends or allies.
"Anyway our spies at Pyke had no idea where the old pirate went." Concluded Patrek's father.
"Which is why I want you to go to Riverrun, brother." Affirmed Lord Jeffory. "Hoster has not answered my letters for quite a time, we must make sure reliable news and not sailors' rumours arrive to his hears.
The simple mention of Riverrun raised Patrek and the Heir of Riverrun spirits immediately.
"Can we go with him?" Grinned Myles. "We'll take Hendry and Quenton with us!"
"No." Commanded their liege lord, whose face shared none of their enthusiasm. "None of you will go south. You have other duties."
"But we're friends with Edmure!" Protested Patrek.
"And your friend the Heir of the Riverrun has been sent to the capital." Said his uncle in a tone that tolerated no discussion. "Perhaps because he must stop running around and learn his lordly duties."
The silent accusation conveyed by the grey-blue Mallister eyes was that they better should do the same thing. Both young knights winced internally. These celebrations and kisses for two fortnights at Pinkmaiden had been balm to their hearts, but everyone was giving them hell since they had come back. No one had died but the faces they were meeting after this festivities were relentlessly condemning them.
"There have been several disappearances in the new villages House Nayland's smallfolk are building close to Oldstones." Jason Mallister told his son and his nephew. "Lord Rufus Nayland believes this is the work of bandits but unfortunately he lacks the men to patrol efficiently the entire area. You will take fifty men with you and search if there is any credit to his tales."
"Father..." Groaned Myles. Internally, Patrek did the same thing. Lord Rufus Nayland was an old skeleton, jumping on his chair every time a shadow came too close from him. Nine times out of ten his 'alerts' and 'disappearances' were the fruit of his delirious imagination. The rest of the time it was the ramblings of his brainless son Ser Raymond who caused panic in the hamlets near Hag's Mire.
"Obey." Lord Jeffory Mallister did not turn his head from the great window of the Booming Tower where he observed the sea. This single word was somehow more terrifying than a litany of sermon pronounced by a septon on a holy day.
Patrek and his cousin looked at each other with resignation. Perhaps with a lot of luck there was an old bandit starving in a mud hole somewhere ready to give them a reason for this travel. It wasn't bloody likely though.
The Lord of Seagard had commanded, Myles and Patrek bowed and marched out, taking great care not to run in the first steps when they descended the great tower. One session of reprimand per day was quite enough, thank the Seven.
The preparations for this boring travel were not long to make. A quick goodbye to his mother and his young brother Quenton, confirmation they were going to hunt the 'Nayland ghosts'. A rapid promise neither Myles nor himself would bring shame to the Mallister name and they were ready to go. The horses were readied, the men mustered, the weapons were taken out of the armoury.
As they rode out of Seagard in a neat and impeccable column, Patrek and Myles could proudly swell their armoured chests. The grand banner of their House was magnificent, floating in the gentle wind. The knights and horse-mounted sworn swords coming behind them were resplendent in the violet and silver protections House Mallister could afford. Few Houses in peace time could boast having so many guards detached for a minor expedition at a moment's notice but House Mallister was among them. Seagard had many smiths and suppliers for battles and skirmishes. The proximity of the Iron Islands and the 'Small Wall', the line of seven fortresses marking the divide between the North and the South was no stranger to that.
Above the Rest are our House words and we will prove it again.
In this jovial atmosphere, the disappearances imagined by Lord Nayland were far away. The sun was shining already proudly, the few white clouds not tarnishing in the least its brilliance. A calm breeze was coming from the sea, making sure the atmosphere was warm but not unbearable for the horse and men. A few children ran at good distance, throwing flowers and applauding when one cavalier waved at them. The corn fields were waves of green and gold, the fruit trees were full of tasty pears, apricots, apples and peaches.
The Long Summer...by the Seven may it never ends.
For the first day they maintained a good pace. The Eagle Road was in an excellent condition, courtesy of decades of peace and hard work from labour parties. Hundreds of hours done by young and middle-aged men, because everyone knew that if the roads were a disastrous state, the merchants were going to be far more hesitant to come and discuss affairs. The high tolls of this fence-sitting weasel at the Twins were already ruinous, the men and women of Seagard could not neglect the fields west of the Green Fork!
The travel was calm and peaceful from their departure of Seagard to their night stop at a comfortable inn in the village of Stone-on-Mire. The only incident of note had been a recalcitrant cow taking a stubborn rest in the middle of the road, and everyone had put a hand moving the recalcitrant animal blocking the passage of the merchant chariots.
After a calm night, they left the inn and the Eagle Road behind them. Due to the geography of this part of the Riverlands, the road was making a curve to reach Fairmarket and the lands of House Paege. The Mallister group on the other hand, had to travel straight to the south to reach the hands of House Nayland.
It was unfortunately a far less pleasant travel from this point. The Eagle Road was linking the green fields of House Mallister to renowned Houses like Charlton, Vypren, Shawney and Deddings. Irrigated by the Blue and the Green Forks, these were fertile lands giving the smallfolk plenty of delectable food when the summer was long and the winds favourable. The only disadvantage came in autumn, when the low elevation of the fields meant they were often flooded by the nearby rivers.
The region of Hag's Mire was the exact opposite of this Seven-blessed landscape. Uneven, filled with grey stones and low valleys which became easy swamps as soon as there was a little bit of rain, the land revealing itself to the Mallister riders was not bountiful. Fortunately the last fortnight had been free of rains, but it did not mean Patrek wanted to stay here longer than his duties required. The coves were dark and tormented in appearance; a swirling wind was removing a large part of the summer warmth they had profited the day before.
The villages they saw were sparse and had few inhabitants. The faces and the bodies of the local smallfolk were looking gaunt and anxious. Myles, so prone to joke and rejoice in all occasions, was now leading his guards with an unusual grimness. It was wrong to say everyone in the cavalry column had suddenly become a ghost believer, but the region was burdening them of a presence that was really negative and nerve-wracking.
When the ruins of Oldstones appeared in the distance, it was a relief for every member of their party. Situated over a lonely hill overlooking the Blue Fork, the ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings was lonely. It was hardly surprising the son of Ser Jason reflected; after all since the Eagle Road had been built under the reign of Aegon the Dragonbane, the merchants and the voyagers had no reason to pass in the vicinity of this destroyed castle. One day, no doubt the very foundations of this place would fade into obscurity.
"Where do we begin, my lord?" Asked Ser Brynden Gull, who at two and sixty name days was one of the oldest knights in their party. The man bore a large grey beard and a broken nose, and was one of the best swordsmen in their entire group.
"By the top of the hill." Answered the Heir of Seagard. It was only logical with so few hours of sunlight left; the Seagard armsmen and knights would camp at the top of the hill and when the sun rose next morning, they would have a good view on the entire area. The search for the bandits and the missing people would have to wait the next dawn.
"Would it be not preferable to investigate this fire?" Over forty pair of eyes turned to watch the direction one of the sworn swords pointed to with his arm. Effectively, there was a bonfire lighted on the eastern slope of Oldstones' hill. It was somewhat strange, by the way. The meagre vegetation and the lack of villages nearby did not make a very good meeting place. Except outlaws, who had the time and the motive to come in this isolated place?
"Bandits?" Voiced one of the knights.
"No. Bandits aren't that careless." Replied Mat, one of the men Patrek liked to spare with. "The outlaws are lighting small fires and only when they are sure not to be noticed. Look, there are two others now."
Mat had a point. And as under their very eyes there were three big fires less than two leagues away, it was clear this was a large group they were dealing with. If this was a band of bandits, it would be one of impressive size. Most of the times these days, the outlaws were four or five-strong; small to disperse in the villages when the authorities arrived, strong enough to beat the lone sellsword guarding the average merchant.
"Let's see who these people are." Myles had spoken, which made it an order, not a suggestion.
The horses advanced at a moderate trot, and their riders formed two redoubtable columns, seizing their swords and their spears. If these were bandits, the Seagard warriors were going to ensure they would never prey on defenceless civilians.
As they approached the fires, more and more visible as the sun set over the horizon, it became clear their weapons would not be necessary. A large flag flew over the encampment, a raised hand under seven stars, the symbols were in rainbow colours on a white field. This was the emblem of the Brave Sons, the men following the Father. As a knight of Seagard, Patrek had seen them quite often patrolling and doing menial work in the seven fortresses forming the Small Wall. They pursued the enemies of the High Septon with an implacable ferocity and protected the pilgrims, though they did not have the right to carry weapons.
Somehow, Patrek had the feeling they had set foot in a far more complicated affair than a few brigands.
"Hey, it's Myles and Patrek!"
Patrek made a small moan and he noticed he wasn't the only one. This was the voice of Ser Raymond Nayland.
The Father tests us in more way than one.
The remark was not made out loud, but the young man knew few who knew Raymond would have disagreed.
Coming closer to the fires, the men under Myles Mallister saw that in reality only two of the three fires were cooking the dinner of the Brave Sons. The other had been made by House Nayland men-at-arms. The Heir of House Nayland had his arms wide open to welcome them in the middle of the camp...but Patrek remarked with a growing sense of amusement that the Brave Sons were trying inauspiciously to be as far away from him as it was humanly possible.
"The Blessings of the Seven upon you, Knights of the Rivers." Said a man who had to be the leader of this party, given the assurance and the will his presence imposed. His head had been totally shaved, and he wore modest clothes marked with the symbol of his Order. His words were spoken in a heavy Reach accent, and the reason of this was explained in the next sentence. "I am Brother-Marshal Victor of the Whirlwind Commandry."
Patrek's eyebrows rose in surprise. The Whirlwind Commandry was a rather large establishment, one of the most important existing in the Reach. It was also located a few leagues south of Cider Hall. These Brave Sons were not exactly close to their homes! What were they doing in the wilderness of the Hag's Mire?
Politeness and courtesy prevented the Riverlanders from asking this very question as they dismounted and began to make preparations for the night after asking the permission of Brother-Marshal Victor to join their assembly. Not that they really needed to ask questions: Raymond Nayland was too loose with his tongue and was revealing everything.
The only issue was the information requested was somewhat lost in the speech flow...the knight of Hag's Mire was telling everything...from his childhood in this poor region, the things he had eaten the last day, how boring and stiffed-necked these Brave Sons were – many sent Raymond menacing glares at these words – and finally the reason of their presence here.
"They are searching a heretic worshipping Nurgle!" Finally blurted the loud-mouthed idiot.
"Don't pronounce this name!" Thundered Brother-Marshal Victor, who had evidently heard everything of this not-so-discreet conversation. "Names have powers and I won't jeopardy this mission because you haven't the intelligence of a goose, Ser!"
Despite Ser Raymond being the taller of the two and being armoured to boot, the Reacher Faithful towered over him like he was an ant. Each word enounced was seeing the Heir of Hag's Mire cowering on himself.
"Is it true?" Mat was harbouring a shocked expression and Patrek didn't blame him. True heretics in the Riverlands were not exactly common. There were the odd smallfolk and merchant having been in contact with something reeking of sorcery, but these cases were rapidly settled with the lash, marches of shame and months of penitence. To be accused of true heresy, you must have done something unforgivable...and there was only one sentence to remedy it.
"As the Seven are my witness, it is." Admitted the commander of the Brave Sons. "We are tracking a dangerous heretic worshipping the Great Demon of Diseases and Putrefaction."
Many Faithful and Nayland swordsmen nodded around the fire.
"With all my respect Brother-Marshal, why haven't the Riverlands Commandries been contacted?"
"They already have been." Replied the Faithful, pushing more dead wood in the closest fire. "The heretic in question is hunted by several Commandries of the Reach, the Crownlands and the Riverlands. We are merely one of many groups searching for him; this viper has evaded us for a long time."
"This demon-worshipper must be truly redoubtable to require the mustering of so many brothers." Myles sentence was half-question half-assertion.
"Not really." Told Victor, his eyes fixing with a terrible attention the flames cooking a rabbit. "But he has come into the possession of a dark tome which could provoke untold damage in the wrong hands. We have managed to capture his accomplices, who told us he intended to go northwards and demand the protection of his heretics' brethren living in the Neck swamps."
This made sense; although Patrek had an intuition Victor hadn't revealed the entire truth.
"What is the name of this cursed tome?" Demanded Myles, obviously devoured by the curiosity. A book so dangerous it was mustering hundreds of Faithful was more heard in the bards' tales than in the realms of the living.
"The Ildatch." The expression on the face of every Brave Sons in view was dark. "Pray you never have to see its horrors."
Lady Lyanna Stark 1
King's Landing stank.
This was not an original remark when one came close to the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. The woman watching the large walls of the city created by House Targaryen from the bridge of the Braavosi carrack Blue Adventure thought there were likely hundreds of persons thinking the same thing at this very moment.
Nonetheless, these thoughts did not hide the unpleasant smell. King's Landing stank.
It was not the smell of a freshly torn-apart corpse. She had killed her fair share of men and women to be where she stood today. None had smelled like this. The idiots calling themselves the Most Devout for this vapid religion known as the Faith of the Seven liked to say King's Landing still smelt better than the Nurgle-contaminated swamps of the Neck. She knew it was a lie. Twice she had been to Greywater Watch, and the dangerous green waters where House Reed ruled were not that bad compared to this infection. The Targaryen boot-lickers loved to say every grand city had its fair share of problems. The Northern Lady was not sorry to say that all the Northern cities had built functional sewers and had measures to prevent an epidemic of grey plague or bloody flux, benedictions of the Grandfather aside. King's Landing sewers had been built during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. At the time, the capital had less than three hundred thousand inhabitants. Today, this number was said to be somewhere between three quarters of a million and eight hundred thousand. It was a rough estimate, there had been no proper census in the last decade and the Long Summer had swelled the ranks of the vermin crawling in the gutters of Fleabottom. But the sewers had not been replaced or modernised. This lack of change must have tremendously angered the Lord of Change continuously these last decades.
With this warm climate, the garbage being thrown everywhere and the use of the Blackwater for everything ranging from murder to pisser it was truly an astounding miracle King's Landing hadn't already been struck by a plague epidemic or something equally nasty. Grandfather Nurgle might have an arm or two in this miraculous luck, judging the city worthy of the gifts growing in the shadows.
Or the Lord of Life and Death was simply bidding his time, waiting for the incompetence and the corruption in these wretched souls to provoke a disaster. Nurgle was recognised as many things and patient was one of its most prized qualities.
Contemplating the red towers of Maegor's Citadel over the smokes and the disorganised blocks where thousands of humans lived their miserable existence, Lady Lyanna Stark was really tempted to throw her plans by the wayside and give the destruction commands this very night to her minions. It was tempting. Too tempting. After her heart had beaten in exaltation thirty times, she abandoned the idea. Her Lord Father would not enjoy learning she had destroyed decades of hard and meticulous preparations for her own amusement. A sliver of amusement came from the link with her bonded Onyx, the soul-sharing she had with her magnificent direwolf; it was diffused but still present despite the thousands of leagues separating each other bodies. If there was one thing all servants of the True Gods knew better than to unleash, it was the wrath of the Grey Wolf.
Lord Rickard Stark, Master of Winterfell and Universal Champion of the True Gods, was old but no intelligent warrior was imbecilic to challenge his will. The arrogant simpletons believing the contrary had their skulls adorning the pikes at the gates of Winterfell.
And he had enough time to train Eddard. To train my brother to be like him.
Not that there was anything...wrong being like her father, no. It was just...Eddard had been the only one of her brothers who hadn't been choosing Khorne before the other True Gods. Brandon had dreamt so much about adding skulls to his tally that he had departed for Beyond-the-Wall as soon as it was humanly possible...and it had led him to an early grave. Benjen had chosen the role of Black Custodian for himself, standing vigil on the Wall like their House's duty demanded. Eddard had been different, sharing her love for secrets, the desire to be part of the pack and make their household happy.
But learning to be the Heir and mastering the disciplines of the four True Gods is taxing, we barely saw each other after he seeded his River bitch. And it's not like father did not have his own plans for my future. No matter how...enjoyable they were, we had to obey. He is the Stark.
"My lady." Whispered a woman coming to her side on the bridge. Like Lyanna, the woman wore the unflattering clothes of a sister of the Order of the Lantern, the septons and the septas reserving their worship to the aspect of the Crone. Misguided in the extreme, these men and women were guarding the knowledge of the Faith of Seven. To say the simple truth, they were at the same time the librarians, censors and archivists of the Faith.
It went without saying their libraries had really little information on the true state of the world. Even the maesters knew what they were talking about on certain subjects, no matter how delusional they were on the topic of magic. The Order of the Lantern was an Order of ignorant pious fools, easy to corrupt and use for their own purposes. Take the two grey robes she and her companion were wearing for example. The two cows who had owned them had believed quoting a prayer of the Book of Holy Guidance was going to provide them divine aid against the power she wielded! If it had not been so pathetic, it might have been downright hilarious.
"Miria." Replied the Northern priestess. "I presume everything is ready for our landing?"
Miria Rahl made a quick nod, maintaining a very conservative posture in the ugly grey robes of the Faith covering her from head to toe. Her blonde hairs in a ponytail were invisible under the heavy robes, but her icy blue eyes were showing the same calm detachment she always showed when they entered unfamiliar places.
But then she was a Morghon-Sidai and following Lyanna all these years had given her plenty of patience.
"The guards and the sailors have been bribed, the captain knows only what he needs to know and your illusions make our disguises perfect my lady."
Lyanna made a thin smile of approval before assuring herself her own unsightly clothes were showing the image of a common septa with no curves and no breasts. All things she definitely wasn't, praise Slaanesh.
"Then let's walk into the dragonet's den."
Calling King's Landing a den of dragons would have been a deep insult for the dragons. The Targaryen today were really shadows of their glorious ancestors. They had lost their flying reptiles, to begin with. They had lost their prestige. Soon they were going to lose their kingdom.
Soon.
The Braavosi ship had the wind for it today and the last moments of their travel were relatively fast and swift. Nothing common with the Manderly ship which had transported them from the Northern shores to the sea city of Essos. But then the Blackwater Bay was tranquillity itself compared to the Bite, never mind the Shivering Sea.
King's Landing was now impossible to miss. The Red Keep was now attracting all the watchers' eyes, thanks to the red stone used for its construction and its elevation at the top of Aegon's Hill. To its right was the Dragonpit, abandoned and forbidden since the devastating Dance of the Dragons. Behind on the third hill was the Great Sept of Baelor, built in marble and stone of the purest white. A construction every follower of the True Gods, Northerner or Southerner, swore to cast down or desecrate at the earliest opportunity. This religion of False Gods, pompous lies, obese priests and hypocritical chivalry deserved nothing else.
Finally, the Blue Adventure stopped next to a stone pier. The Braavosi Captain and his officers urged the passengers and their sailors to take their possessions and leave the ship. An understandable attitude; the docks were literally crowded with hulls coming from all over the world. Already a custom sergeant was walking in a hurried pace to claim the taxes he and his superiors extorted to the Essossi and Westerosi merchants alike.
While prudence recommended for two servants of the True Old Gods to hurry and disappear in the thousands of people shouting, crying and protesting, Miria and Lyanna did the exact opposite, sticking with a slow approach. They were supposed to be septas bloated with their self-importance after all. Moreover, waiting a bit for the sailors and the Braavosi to debark allowed her to hear the conversation of the captain and the customs sergeant.
"Two more stags per crate than the last time? But this is...robbery!" A stronger word might have been used, but there was now eight Goldcloaks behind the inspector. They were as ridiculous as ever, in their brown-earth light armour and their shiny gold cloaks.
For an unarmed merchant however, the swords to their sides were undoubtedly menacing and carried a powerful message.
"I don't fix the price." Replied the Kingslander sergeant with an expression which suggested that no matter who wrote the edicts and regulations, the large-cheeked official would always take its part and earn more money on the back of the merchants. "You want to complain? Go to Harbourmaster Baelish!"
"Why not Dennas Rollingford the King's Counter while you're at it?" Asked sarcastically the Braavosi, caressing his long beard, giving him the respectable image of the old sea wolf. "No, be reasonable..."
The Northern Lady had heard enough for the day, and a discreet sign of her fingers informed her co-conspirator they could descend the stairs and leave this uncivil conversation behind.
Not that discretion was really needed of course; the nine Goldcloaks were watching the well-developed tits of a whore on the other side when the two Northern women passed next to them. For a city boasting its vigilance against all kinds of pirates, heretics and treacheries, the City Watch of King's Landing was really underwhelming. Every time she arrived in the city, Lyanna wondered how in the name of Khorne the capital had avoided a true sack in the last three hundred years. It certainly wasn't due to their steadfastness. The Morghon-Sidai and her mistress disappeared in the thousands of smallfolk and merchants attending their businesses in the fisheries and shops of the Fishmarket.
The score of guards standing vigil at the Mud Gate were a bit more alert, she could give them this praise. They were standing proud, their weapons looked in good condition and they seemed to make a real effort to look for threats. Sadly for them, there was so many persons running and racing before them that they had not the opportunity to search a carriage out of ten.
"It's Jacelyn Bywater who is commanding the River Gate, no?" The question was rhetorical since Lyanna had learnt long ago who commanded what in King's Landing. Frequently she had nominated the persons in question after all. The benefits of having a Prince in her bed had been huge...for her.
"Yes, my lady." Confirmed Miria. "The men are calling him 'Ironhand' since he lost one hand in an expedition against the Stepstones pirates a decade ago and replaced it with a metal one."
The two Ladies were not whispering as they marched up the Muddy Way towards the Street of Sisters. The noise was properly infernal and hundreds of Kingslanders pressed from all sides, ignoring the mediocre vision of two Lantern septas discovering the largest city of the Seven Kingdoms.
"A competent man." Mused the Stark Lady. "Remind me to remove him from his post when our grand plan comes to fruition."
The Morghon-Sidai acquiesced eagerly. Over the last decades, the followers of the Old Gods inside the capital had compiled impressive lists on the Goldcloaks. When Lyanna had gained enough influence over her dear Crown Prince to decide who was going to be promoted, their followers had been ready to give the most incompetent of the City Watch a promotion they assuredly didn't deserve. Ser Boros Blount was commanding the Iron Gate as if it was his Seven-damned due. Janos Slynt, a butcher's son of all men, had his greedy paw over the Lion Gate. Ser Melwys Cressey for the King's Gate, Ser Hubard Thorne for the Dragon Gate, Ser Arryk Velaryon for the Gate of the Gods and Ser Gilbert Staunton for the Old Gate completed the derelict state of King's Landing senior commanders.
None of these men followed a True God. There was no monetary link between the Northern treasury and them. All she relied upon was their greed, ambition and complete lack of intelligence. The plans imagined by Lord Rickard Stark and accomplished by his daughter required nothing more of them...and truthfully this was for the best because Lyanna doubted these men were able to tie the laces of their shoes alone.
The two fake sisters did not walk long on the Street of Sisters once they reached its entrance, instead using the tortuous back alleys of Rhaenys' Hill where the flow of men and women was close to inexistent. The fractured dome of the Dragonpit loomed closer over their heads. The cacophony of the merchants and the rest of the human herd were reduced to mere murmurs. The architecture changed, this was neither the Fleabottom of below nor the grand mansions where the upper classes of King's Landing. No, these houses were nicely arranged but the paint of the walls and the doors had been suffering the ravages of time. The area had never quite recovered from the Great Spring Sickness, the short distance between this place and the Dragonpit had not helped the reputation of the place.
Oh, well. The loss of these superstitious Kingslanders was her gain.
Finally they were at their destination: a dead end in a minuscule street, with the door of what must have been under King Baelor the Dim-Witted a small sept. The Faithful must have gathered inside these walls on holy days where their fasting king starved and tried to interpret the visions sent by its agonising body. The former white walls were grey-black and fissured now. Several mansions and modest lodgements around had been rebuilt, but this part of the block had missed a benevolent rescuer. It was hardly an unusual scene in King's Landing, where in spite of the overcrowding a rather astonishing number of constructions were empty. Like the Dragonpit, they were waiting for newcomers who never seemed to come.
Satisfied she had found nothing to attract the attention of the Watch, Lyanna knocked six times an apparently abandoned door. The iron-forged number six rusting on the left was all the clue this was the hideout Miria and she were searching for.
The rusty look-out cracked when it opened from the inside. A whisper, so low Lyanna half-missed the secret greeting, was pronounced.
"Glory to the High Septon."
"Glory to the Faithful." The answer was spoken in a solemn tone, as was required from the circumstances.
"May the Maiden bathe your path in light."
"And may the Stranger hold back his darkness."
The noise of several locks being unlocked was heard, before finally the door was opened and the two Northerners hurried inside. The hooded figure who had just invited them in closed back the door immediately. The hard sound of the locks being bolted again resonated in the darkness. A torch was lighted on, allowing Lyanna and her Rahl protector to see the interior architecture of the small sept. It was in ruins; the marble floor was full of holes and the walls were showing fissures going from the ceilings to the ground.
They did not wait long in the entrance, just the time for Lyanna to activate a spark of her magic. In less time than it took to say it, her powers materialised in three small globes of purple light. Each flew to the eyes of the persons present and granted the three members of their group night vision. The door guardian lighted off the torch. They didn't need it anymore, and besides this had been the last sign to recognise friend from foe.
The guide marched at a hurried pace, bypassing several archways before jumping in a sizeable hole with a fluid movement. Lyanna and Miria followed, passed a half-opened wood door at the bottom before shedding their minable Faith clothes. So close to their inner sanctum, there was no point to hide anymore.
Next to them, their guide proceeded to the same removal, revealing the visage and the body of an extremely beautiful woman with black hair and purple eyes.
"Ashara."
The Dornish lady bent on her knees without any other word, kissing the ring on her right hand.
"High Priestess." The satisfaction in Ashara's voice gave her superior tremendous pleasure. "We were eagerly awaiting your return."
"I'm pleased to hear it." Lyanna watched with non-hidden fondness the extremely expensive and indecent dark blue dress Ashara Dayne was wearing before returning to the business bringing her here. "Have there been any complications since I left?"
"No, High Priestess." The lady of Starfall sent an eager look to the cleavage shown by Lyanna's dark leather travel clothes. For a servant of the True Gods in the North, these were mostly conservative. For someone in the South worshipping the false deities of the Seven, this was a whorish accoutrement. Not that the opinion of the latter would matter for much longer. "The Cult has been gathered as per your orders."
"Excellent." While they were speaking, Miria marched in her dark crimson leather uniform to an apparent void part of the walls and pushed a series of three cornerstones. In a loud groan, a new secret passage was revealed. "Then let's not made our Faithful wait."
Her use of the disparaging word made the two other women smile at the dark irony. Two narrow dark stone-carved series of stairs were descended before they entered a vast underground cavern. Once upon a time, this had been a secret place built by Maegor the Cruel architects. The bloodthirsty Targaryen had wanted a place where he could lead the resistance against an invader having taken the city and the Red Keep. Weapons had been stockpiled in secret; servants had been bought and afterwards assassinated to preserve the secret. When Maegor was slain with his Blood Guard in his own throne room by the enraged rebels of Jaehaerys I, the underground maze had been forgotten during decades. Under the reign of Baelor the Fool however, Northern agents had rediscovered the place and the multitude of secret passages leading to them. The spears and swords found had been moved and used advisedly. The gold had purchased the allegiance and the mouths of many Kingslanders. The parchments of incriminating information had been used to blackmail the recalcitrant descendants of various families. While the septons brayed over their heads for the salute of the Faithful souls, the Old Gods worshippers were converting guards and merchants to their cause. The decoration had changed with messengers of the True Gods replacing the dragons, purple and pink drapes supplanting the dusty red and black colours. The stage was set for the cache to become a secret holy place for the veneration of the Goddess of Love, Lust and Pleasure; one of several existing south of the Neck.
There had been small conversations going on in the crowd waiting for the main ceremony to begin, but seeing her arrival the participants all stopped their small talk to prostrate themselves. Over a hundred and eighty individuals of every social origin and wealth were reaffirming their allegiance. To her, to House Stark and to Slaanesh.
The High Priestess advanced until she was two feet away from the small altar representing a miniature sculpture of an endowed daemonette with slender wings and a barbed tail. For a few turn of hourglasses she contemplated her violet-robed servants, with Ashara to her right and Miria to her left.
Together, these men and women represented the core of the Cult of Temptations; the most powerful cell of True Gods followers in King's Landing. There were others of course, but to her best knowledge they were neither as influential nor that well-organised. Not everyone was there; many had meetings and activities to attend in the persona they projected in public. Furthermore, for every person who was aware of this room, four or five Kingslanders were unwittingly working for their cause in the capital.
Together, these members had created secondary cells in the different kingdoms they were born into. Ashara, to name the most successful example, had established and converted several hundreds of her own Dornish smallfolk and merchants around Starfall. Hundreds, no, thousands more were dispersed all over Westeros. The few heretics the Brave Sons were pursuing from Oldtown to Gulltown were in reality mere distractions, the torches attracting the gazes when the rest of the true servants were working in the shadows.
Together, they were but one minor part of the grand scheme the Old Gods had put in motion.
Together they were a dagger ready to cleave the head of the Seven Kingdoms in one strike.
"The time for our revenge draws near." Declared Lyanna Stark. "Long shall be the suffering of our enemies. Joyous will be their pain."
The cultists' answer was not long in coming.
"PRAISE SLAANESH!"
Tyrion Lannister 1
"Hear me roar." He mumbled.
There was no answer when he raised his head from the book upon which he had taken a nap. Not that he had expected one of course. The room had been silent when he had entered and would undoubtedly stay that way once he left. This library on the fifth upper level of the Rock was generally welcoming the rats, the rat-catchers and their cats for sole living presence. Removing the drool on his lips, Tyrion Lannister lighted another candle before the one which had burnt during his rest finally gave out.
For such a boring book, Great Treatises of Jaehaerys the Conciliator had a surprisingly comfortable cover. Now if only he could remember why he had spent two candles of time in searching it, it would be a great satisfaction. Sleeping after so many cups of wine was not good for his memory. It was like a dozen axes had been used to batter his miniscule head in submission.
After one-tenth of candle being consumed, the youngest son of Lord Tywin Lannister finally remembered why this work on the ancient Targaryen King had interested him.
Leafing through the hundreds of pages-long tome, the most unpopular dwarf of Casterly Rock – not that the competition was that disputed – found the page he had searched for the better part of the last fortnight.
The Treaty of the Northern Frontier
There wasn't as much as Tyrion had expected – a mere five pages – but it explained nicely what the Conciliator had done. The maester having written the book took time to recall the facts: House Umber had been among the most loyal supporters of Maegor the Cruel, filling the ranks of his Blood Guard with their fierce and bloodthirsty warriors. The massacre of the tyrant and his Northern guards in the throne room had seriously harmed whatever loyalty Last Hearth and several of their bannersmen had for the Iron throne.
Learning of these rebellion murmurs, the Good King and his Queen had wanted to kill an insurrection before it enflamed half of the North. The reign of the weak Aenys I had left very bitter feelings from the Bay of Ice to the Bite and Jaehaerys had wanted to prevent another conflict after disbanding the Faith Militant. House Umber had been 'demanded' to cede half of their northernmost holdings to the Night's Watch. The answer to this 'suggestion' had been...not really a model of politeness. Jaehaerys I had demanded House Stark to convince their unruly vassals, only for Lord Ellard Stark, Master of Winterfell, to side with the Umbers.
A compromise had been broken in the end, but it must have cost the Conciliator a fair amount of his political influence and matters would never be the same again between the North and the Iron Throne. House Umber ceded said holdings to the newly created House Blackfang, whose keep would be named Blackstone. The first members of this House would be a Karstark second son and an Umber girl. Reading between the lines, it was clear the power and the might represented by the dragons had been used more than once to arrive to this outcome.
Else Lord Mors Umber would not have sworn his House's eternal allegiance to the Demon of War, Battle, Justice, Blood and Wrath. A bloody raid against the wildling tribes would not have been launched in the aftermath too. Nice manner to get rid of the dissenters, his father would have surely approved.
A shiver of excitation coursed Tyrion's dwarf body. This was the evidence he had been looking for. The first time a Northern House had embraced the resurging cult of the demons pretending to be Gods.
A quick glance at the first page of the treaty gave him the date: 80 years after the Conquest. About two hundred and twenty years ago before the moment he was reading this page with his miscoloured eyes.
Why did Jaehaerys not act to prevent this heresy?
It was not an entirely unfair question in Tyrion's humble opinion. The worship of the four abominations the Northern heretics dared considering Gods had not yet spread over the entire North. The cults had started to appear during the last years of Torrhen Stark, the King-Who-Knelt. The numerous volumes Tyrion had read in the past years confirmed it.
There had been no open cult worshipping the perverse demons of Lust, Disease, Blood and Forbidden Knowledge before Lord Paramount Torrhen Stark crushed the short-lived rebellion of House Bolton and raised House Rahl to replace them. There had been no blasphemous sign when the Northern armies saw their sovereign bend the knee to the dragons in front of the Red Fork.
No obvious signs the knights saw. Who am I to criticize these men when I went into marriage with a heretic?
Tyrion sighed and seized the bottle waiting for him on the dark table...only to groan when he realised it was empty. A very thorough examination of the other bottles and the golden cups waiting next to it provided the same result.
By the Father Above, I must have been quite thirsty.
Returning to his investigation work, it was possible he had come close to the reasons the Northerners had fallen into heresy...and it was quite possible this was nothing but a falsehood too.
The Faith has its own theory to explain things and it started well further in the past, several thousand years ago give it or take. Theon 'the Wolf of Slaughter' Stark had been the first Arch-Heretic according to the septons and the septas, the seventh-damned warlord who had razed the blessed lands of Andalos and cursed them to know no prosperity as long as a single believer in their heretic worship breathed. Of course Tyrion had heard as many versions from these events as the number of septs in Lannisport...and they were a lot of them in the greatest city of the West.
One thing was sure: many crusades had been waged against the North. None had returned in triumph. The waters of the Neck had buried uncountable armies of the Faith Militant, and the rest had crossed the swamps only to break against the demonic-tainted walls of Moat Cailin. The few eastern outposts of Northern land conquered in amphibious assaults at an atrocious price in blood and resources were frequently abandoned after a moon or two when the direwolf standard appeared on the horizon. According to the rumours spread by the Reachers, this was one of these operations which had allowed the Manderlys to turn their cloaks. That the Morrigen and Swann records were telling a different tale where the Peake warships had abandoned their supposed allies to the tender mercies of the heretics was of little importance. Or was the version of House Corbray true, affirming that White Harbour had turned traitor in the middle of a holy battle, allowing the Northern heretics to turn the tide and repulse the Southern crusade from the North? Tyrion wasn't sure and apart from the main parties concerned – the mermaid and the direwolf - it was likely no one remembered the real history.
The Imp –and yes he was well-aware everyone calling him by that name behind his back – passed a hand on his forehead, feeling a headache coming back. He really needed something to drink.
"Pod?" Tyrion called a first time, then shouted when there was no answer. "Pod!"
The great oak door opened in a volley and his squire rushed in the room like a band of demons was in pursuit.
"Pod! Be care-"
The dwarf had not the time to finish his warning. Before Tyrion was able to remind the young boy of the treacherous stone step, Podrick stumbled his right foot against it and fell upon the hard ground of the library.
Tyrion sighed. The clumsiness of his squire had been somewhat entertaining at first when his Lord Father had presented the young boy to him, but it was becoming more and more a source of consternation these days. Tyrion himself had more coordination in his short legs and arms than the poor Podrick 'Pod' Payne...and unfortunately his squire wasn't exactly shining in the wits section to compensate this.
"Ouch! Sorry, my lord." Said the skinny squire with straight hair. The fourteen name days child stood up, with difficulty, massaging his arms, legs and back. After that he tried to correct his appearance...with a certain lack of success. There was no blood on his white-violet tunic this time, but the dust and the dirt on the floor did not give his clothes a lordly appearance.
"Try to be more prudent next time." The second son of Lady Joanna Lannister grumbled. And there would be a next time; he was sadly ready to bet half of the gold owned by House Lannister on it.
"Yes, my lord." The vigorous nods made by Podrick were kind of dog-like, desperately eager to please. Inwardly, Tyrion cringed though the Lannister tried to show a calm facade outside. Even after two years of squiring, he had not managed to discover the full extent of the discipline Pod had been subjected during his childhood. Born of the third branch of House Payne, Podrick had been the eldest son of a knight known for his extreme aversion to sin and everything going against the tenets of the Faith. As the years passed, his father had grown more and more unsatisfied with his secular life, and finally renounced his title in 294AC to join the ranks of the Brave Sons. His mother, a chandler's daughter, had abandoned him on the spot to remarry with one of his father's youth friends. Ser Cedric Payne, the only close relative to care a moment or two about his fate, delivered him to the custody of Tyrion's uncle Kevan. Two years later after having been the target of nearly all the Casterly Rock squires and young trainees, Kevan had mercifully abandoned the idea of making Pod a true warrior and put him in service of Tyrion.
The Imp had thus added to his titles of Master of Cisterns and Drains, Whore-Master, Grand Keeper of the Libraries, Rat-Catcher-in-Chief and Dwarf-in-the-Tavern the proud duty of making Podrick 'Pod' Payne an acceptable squire. According to the not-so-discreet tongues in the Rock banquets, it was a task he failed utterly. Not that Tyrion really cared about their opinion, of course.
"Go search another bottle or two for me." He commanded in a slow and clear tone in order for his squire not to misunderstand his orders. "Then go to the maesters and ask them if they have the books I wanted."
"The bottles and the books, yes my lord." Answered the fourteen name days squire before leaving the room in a hurry and downing the stairs with a speed his feeble legs would be unable to follow. Hopefully, Pod wouldn't stumble and hurt himself more than the last dozen times. Hopefully.
Exhaling a loud breath of resignation, Tyrion started to put back the books on the shelves and the alcoves where they had been waiting patiently for decades. The Rock was full of archives, books and treatises of some kinds concerning the Westerlands governance and other interesting topics, so many in fact that the few Lannisters aware of the true extent of its archives were often joking there was more parchment in Casterly Rock than gold.
The mismatched-eyed son of the Lions found this point had often a kernel of truth. There were so many rooms in Casterly Rock occupied by books few of his family bothered to read that their maintenance was becoming a real issue. These days the most formidable fortress of the Westerlands had dungeons, barracks, gardens, stables, stairways, courtyards, balconies, a full harbour named the Lion's Mouth and plenty of other things like granaries and the like. Plus the gold mines. Never forget the gold mines.
A small-sized army of servants, men-at-arms and artisans were needed to keep everything in order inside the impregnable Lannister citadel, and force was to admit they weren't enough. For every room which was renovated and every balcony polished, there were two or three falling into disrepair. Tyrion had seen the numbers, made the calculus, asked the good questions. The sad truth was that Casterly Rock was an endless hole devouring fortunes like the participants of a princely dinner ate a pig.
Why do I even care? This will never be mine anyway.
His Lord Father had never summoned him to his quarters at the top of the Rock by the new hydraulic elevator to announce him the news, of course. But judging how Lord Tywin had never stopped pestering the Small Council and his King about releasing Jaime from the Kingsguard...
A new sigh came to his lips. A decade ago, the naive and feeble dwarf he was had taken these refusals like the holy sign he would be the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands one day. Now? He had not much hope left in his dwarf bones.
Cersei had married the Prince of Summerhall eight years ago. Their marriage to the present day had already produced one son and one daughter. Should any boy come out again of his sister's spiteful womb after Daeron and Viserra, there was little doubt this child would be the new Master of the Rock.
Absent this birth, Tyrion's genitor could always decide to fall back on his uncle Kevan's children. Lancel was not very bright, but there was nothing wrong with Martyn and Willem. One could take Tarbeck Hall, no Lion Hall, and the cadet would have the grand prize. It was not like his Lord Father was not able to change the laws for his own purposes.
Either way, Tyrion would never sit at the head of the table in the Hall of Lions – though he would have needed a lot of pillows to be seen from afar in this unlikely case. What really bothered him were not the related issues of his Lord Father hating him for the death of his Lady Mother and barring him from the succession of the Rock. It was the point that except Jaime and his uncles, everyone had followed their liege lord in this distaste. Granted the doctrine of the Faith being not the most tolerant religion towards crippled things had certainly not helped this course of events.
Groaning under the weight of the books, the most avid reader of House Lannister put back at its place The Weasel and the Plague: a History of the Frey-Reed Feud by Archmaester Garizon.
Imbeciles.
Yes, his father and the Faith were very much arrogant twats. The first was always perorating on what a disappointment he was, before sending him draining the shit out of the Rock's sewers, buying several aggressive cats to catch the rats or another noble duty. And when it was done in an exemplary fashion, did he get any congratulations or cheers? No, that would be too much to ask.
As for the Faith, they were expecting to welcome their seventh injunctions when their sermons all emphasized the pressing need to hurl stones at the born-crippled, the deformed, the heretics and the mutants – when they did not preach for their murder pure and simple.
Like they did with Tysha.
The last book put back to its place, Tyrion fell again upon his hard chair. By the Stranger, he should really avoid thinking about his dead wife. These dark thoughts served nothing and he always had nightmares when he finally managed to find the way back to his bed. The smell of burning flesh and the screams of agony were pursuing him to the darkest pits of his mind.
The noise of footsteps was hard anew and for one moment Tyrion caressed the hope it was one of his dear cousins wishing to pass a moment with him. As the door opened, the figure it revealed was far more amusing and predictable: Podrick Payne huffing like an exhausted animal, two wine bottles in his right hand and a pile of books in the other.
"My lord."
"The bottle and the books weren't that urgent, Pod." Said gently his dwarf master, moving around the table and helping his squire off-loading the bottles before something was destroyed. To find everything he had demanded in such a short amount of time, the young boy must have run all the way and back.
"Ah?"
Tyrion Lannister chuckled; assuredly Podrick Payne would never be a great duellist with words. Not that it mattered much when his prospects were little better than his in the West.
"Take a wine cup, Pod. You look like you need it."
The first bottle had just been uncorked that the last child of Lady Joanna Lannister realised the mistake.
"Pod, these bottles aren't wine."
"Ah?" No, Pod would never be great with replies.
"That my dear squire is prune liquor." Affirmed Tyrion, serving a large glassful to his squire before filling his own cup. "Put in bottle near Ashford in the year 190 after the Conquest. Powerful and delicious with a rehearsed fruit flavour."
The abandoned scion of House Payne tried to drink the cup in one go...and mere seconds later finished on the decades-old carpet, the alcohol having proven too much for him.
"This boy lacks experience with liquor." Remarked the sole-and-only dwarf of Casterly Rock. "Fortunately I am here to remedy to this dreadful weakness."
His cup empty and his thirst momentarily calmed, Tyrion turned his mismatched eyes in direction of the books brought by his snoring accomplice. Given that his order for more wine bottles had been completely mishandled, there was little chance the books he wanted were the ones Podrick had brought. And as he looked as the books' covers, his fears were fully justified.
The Shameful life of Aegon the Depraved
History of the Tyroshi Archons
Dark Omens: the Great Struggle against the Blackfyre Usurpers
The Book of Malal
"What is a 'Malal' anyway?" Wondered Tyrion, grabbing the cover of said book and opening the heavy tome to the first page.
Ser Gerion Lannister 1
"There is a proverb in Volantis the inhabitants say it goes back to the foundations of the Freehold."
The rat which was his only company fled at the sound of his voice, leaving him alone in his cell. That he missed the little animal showed how desperate he was for some company.
"History is written by the winners."
A series of coughs hurt his throat. How long had it been since he had a proper conversation?
"Quite likely then no one will hear mine."
His eyes fixed the minuscule hole in the massive door's interstice. His only source of light, so close and yet so distant.
"I am Ser Gerion Lannister, son of Lord Tytos Lannister and Lady Jeyne Marbrand. I have three brothers and one sister. Their names are Tywin, Kevan, Tygett and Genna."
Something dolorous came back to the front of his mind.
"No." The dirty prisoner amended. "I had three brothers. Tygett died several years before my departure...and Tywin was never a sibling in the way it counted, doesn't he?"
The humid walls covered in liana and all sort of jungle vegetation stayed silent.
"Where should I begin?" Wondered the lone knight to himself, before coughing again. "I suppose it all started when I fell in love with Briony."
These souvenirs he had not forgotten, in spite of the numerous years having since passed. How many times they had danced during the festivities of the Father's Day in the streets of Lannisport. Their first kisses, hesitant and inexperienced, and yet so sweet.
"Briony gave me Joy." His little daughter, so tiny and adorable with her blonde curls and her green-blue eyes, the pearl of his existence. It made the next words harder to pronounce. "And Tywin took Briony from me."
The Lord and Master of Casterly Rock had not been overjoyed or generous in smiles when he had learnt his youngest brother was in love. Then again he was speaking of a rock disguising himself as a man. Tywin had not smiled since Joanna's death and everyone who had the temerity to rise against him was paying it in blood and gold. You just had to ask the Reynes and the Tarbecks if you wanted more explanations.
"I wanted to be happy and be a good father." Gerion declared to the part of his cell remaining in complete darkness. "Is that a crime?"
For his brother, it clearly was. Tywin had summoned him in front of his hard and mighty throne, and delivered him an ultimatum: go in search of the long-lost Valyrian sword Brightroar or see his love and his daughter suffer unfortunate and tragic accidents.
There would be no marriage to celebrate his union with Briony. There would be no legitimacy for Joyce's birth, his darling daughter condemned for the rest of her life to carry the infamous 'Hill' name. The beating several 'bandits' had given her several days before this summon had been no coincidence...and Gerion had lost whatever respect he had for his brother that day.
If the Lannister knight had not been surrounded by scores of household guards sworn to his brother, it was entirely possible there would have been a kinslaying before the sun set over the ancestral Lannister home. Briony had been terrified to her very bones and unable to protect herself should the dogs of his brother come back while he was away...and unfortunately Gerion couldn't blame her. Tywin had scared him badly too. After a few days Briony had chosen to take a refuge in a sept owned by the Compassionate Sisters, the minor order of the Faith whose members were dedicating themselves to the worship of the Mother. Joy had been confided to the gentle custody of House Falwell, whose members Gerion had been in very good terms with – the two eldest sons had accompanied him to the Free Cities for his coming of age tour.
"I had no choice. No one save the King of the Seven Kingdoms can order Tywin Lannister around." Would the Master of Casterly Rock have made him go missing with a few unsavoury sellswords recruited for the occasion? In his foggy mind, Gerion could not honestly answer by the negative. "I sailed for Valyria with an old carrack I named the Laughing Lion. Joy was four when I saw her for the last time."
Tears came to his eyes. Leaving Joy behind had been the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life.
"In the harbours from Lannisport to Volantis, they will tell you the travel was cursed from the beginning. We had two days out of three facing contrary winds, an encounter with a kraken we survived by a miracle of the Seven, good provisions which soured too fast to be a normal thing...half of my men deserted at Sunspear and the rest did it at Lys or Volantis."
A raspy laugh came to his throat; it was a far different one from the joyous barks he had entertained his Western friends long ago.
"I can't say I blame them." The Lannister man affirmed in whisper. When one ended imprisoned in a Sothoryan temple after eight years of journey which made a full-blown war tame by comparison, the right to cast insults and question the cowardice of someone was lost.
A new series of coughs interrupted him for a long moment before he was able to speak again.
"I can't say I blame them but their desertion made the final travel to the Smoking Sea a nightmarish endeavour. I was forced to recruit the craziest and maddest sailors available. I was forced to buy...slaves."
The simple name disgusted his lips, giving him an envy to retch and spit on the ground. Not that he did it, what little water he was given could not be wasted in such a trivial manner.
Where was he again? Ah, yes. Slaves. One of the rare things each of the nine kingdoms from the Wall to Sunspear agreed upon was the slavery ban. It was perhaps the only thing the worshippers of the New and Old Gods had in common, though its enforcement varied enormously. In most cases, the application was depending on the liege lord of the lands.
Gerion had obviously sullied his honour in the Volantene human markets. There was no way to dance around it, sadly. He wanted a crew, and no one sane and sober was foolhardy to sail straight into the Smoking Sea. Buying one was the last option left to him.
And what a crew he had recruited. His second was a drunk having unparalleled navigation skills for one turn of hourglass per day. His quartermaster had a fondness for the various exotic spices of Qarth, and passed the majority of his time dreaming of pink elephants. The coxswain believed a gigantic sea snake was determined to kill him and passed the majority of his days convincing the rest of the crew it was the truth. The cabin boy was a young slave who believed the greatest honour Gerion could give him was to invite him on the couch; fortunately Gerion had never swung that way. The watch keeping officer was deathly afraid of all animals, a fact everyone had discovered when birds had used the Laughing Lion masts to rest. The third mate...no, better to stop here. Let's it suffice that the slaves he had bought to replace the deserters were far better at their tasks than the men pretending to be his officers.
"We sailed to the Smoking Sea and the ruins of Valyria. The weather was calm and clear. There was no contrary winds anymore." Gerion paused before admitting in a low murmur. "I should have known it was too good to be true."
A crack sounded, the hirsute knight almost jumped before he realised it was the wood board he was sitting on which had cracked.
"When the land came in view we saw it...the Eye of Woe."
The Volantenes and Essossi composing his crew had had other names for it of course. The Curse of the Dragonlords, the Wound of Darkness, the Clouds of the End, the Nightmares made Flesh were four of the most repeated names. Dark clouds staying against all common sense over the Valyrian peninsula, distorting what was true and what wasn't. Darkness and flames united for all eternity to birth a sombre power. Something monstrous which should never exists as long as the Light of the Seven shone on this world.
Gerion had panicked. The rest of the crew had panicked. Everyone had felt a fear so deep and so powerful there was truly no word to describe it. There had been no command, no order but the ninety-plus souls aboard the Laughing Lion had tried to steer it of course and abandon their journey towards the cursed land of the dragonlords.
The black vortex had not been keen on letting his prey escape the maleficent trap. Violet and unreal gales had suddenly stricken his poor carrack, halting all efforts to change the course. One sailor had tried to jump off the ship. He had been torn apart by gigantic sharks in an instant. The currents, the winds, the air...everything had turned against them inexplicably. Gerion had shouted prayers of the Book of the Warrior and he had not been the only one to implore divine aid.
At first the men embarked in this disastrous travel thought the miracle they had called from their mouths had happened. Missing the treacherous shoals and the cliffs by the narrowest margins, the crewmen managed to place the hull in a seemingly calm bay.
"We should have tried to escape as soon as humanly possible...this unnatural darkness was impregnating everything. But our carrack was too damaged to make the return travel possible. We needed wood. We needed drinkable water. And so we went ashore and our fate was sealed."
The youngest son of Tytos Lannister shivered despite the thousands of leagues separating him from this cursed place. He did not remember what he had expected when he had set the first foot on the ravaged territories of the Lands of Always Summer. Uncountable demonic armies waiting to slaughter the first daring adventurer? Antique ruins full of priceless gems, Valyrian heirlooms, dragon bones and weapons of an unequalled sharpness? Lusty demonesses proposing an orgy or two to lure them into damnation?
There had been none of these things to greet them when they landed on the homeland of one of the greatest empires to have governed the world. Nothing, not an animal's cry, not a bird's thrill...nothing. Just an ill-omened silence, pressing on the nerves and the tempers of the men.
After a while, they had just laughed of their worries and begun their searches. The Laughing Lion was not going to repair itself, and since they had arrived on Valyria in one piece, nothing stopped them from searching for the remains of King Tommen Lannister lost expedition.
"We marched inwards. As soon as we left the beach we saw a white-marbled temple on a promontory which did not look in a bad state."
A loud sigh escaped his dry lips.
"It was a temple of Balerion, the Valyrian God of Wrath, Battle and Destruction. I think."
His education on the Seven had been long and mortally boring during his childhood years at Casterly Rock, but he couldn't say his knowledge of foreign divinities was that great. Gerion knew like every child of the Westerlands the name of the four Great Demons the Northerners worshipped; as well as the methods to recognise and denounce these vile heretics. But apart from that...Essos had too many gods to bother remembering them. The Dothraki, these horse-mounted barbarians, had a Horse God, there was a Sea God for Braavos plus hundreds of others...
"Oh, fine. The quartermaster told me it was a temple of Balerion and I believed him."
Not that it had made any differences in the end. They had not posed a foot on the immaculate white stairs that one of the slaves had fallen to his knees and began to scream obscenities. Gerion's knowledge of the Yunkish dialect was not great, but his other companions of misfortune had been unable to understand much of his ramblings except two words.
Ereth Khial.
The poor Yunkai slave had managed to stand up, his features had relaxed and less than one turn of hourglass later he didn't remember anything.
"We should have turned back then. But we were mere feet away from a Valyrian temple! Who knew what sort of treasures awaited us inside?"
The temperatures had gotten colder, enough for the half-naked slaves and freedmen at his service to put one or two clothes on their backs. More proof than something terribly unnatural had happened on these lands but they had entered the white construction.
For a temple, it had been great and nicely built, the Lannister knight admitted. He had been in far greater septs during his life, but this one was well proportioned. The pillars were impressive, the archways had been sculpted with taste and the colours were bright even after three centuries of neglect. If only there hadn't been these bloody dragons everywhere, this place might have been an acceptable sept to pray the Father Above.
"And on the altar...there were a Valyrian sword and a dragon egg. Guess what one of the slaves tried to do."
It was hard to blame his cabin boy for his thoughtless act. Centuries before, the Old Blood of Valyria had voted a law that no person of impure blood was authorised to touch a dragon egg, never mind handle or own one. The boy must have believed it was the chance of a lifetime.
It had been the last mistake of his life. Emerging from the ground, a sort of spectre had appeared and cut him in two neat parts with a sword made of shadows and frost. The egg had rolled to the quartermaster's feet. The sword –and the arm holding it – had collapsed before him.
"We took them and we ran for our lives."
Two slaves had been massacred in the temple before they descended the marble stairs of the entrance. One more had fallen too much behind as they descended the slopes and lost its legs. The arms. The head. Yes, this had been a demon by the Seven. Only a demon would laugh while doing...that to a human being.
"At least we thought it was laughter. For us, it sounded like shrieks and agony screams."
His group had never stopped running but they had not been out of danger. More and more spectres were gathering on their flanks, screaming and forcing them to put their hands on their ears least the noise became too unbearable.
The sky had become even darker, the temperatures had fallen and the first snowflakes had dropped. That it was impossible in a Land known for its hellishly hot seasons did not perturb the demons. Their shrieks had gained in power. The blue sorcery animating them had become more vivid. Shadows and ice were their weapons, fear and despair were their shields. At no moment the seven and ten men left had the idea to turn around and smite one isolated spectre with their weapon.
No, all they had done had been running. They had taken the boats, abandoned what little wood had been found, and sailed away on the Laughing Lion.
"It was at that very moment we heard It in our heads. The Demon which commanded all these monsters."
A rumble sounded in the distance. Certainly drums played by the Sothoryans cannibals, nothing to worry about for the present. It was when they ceased the bad news commenced. Because they announced the beginning of their ignoble feasts...
"Yes, we heard the Demon leading the spectres. It promised us...everything. The world was us to the taking, as long as we came back ashore and agreed to become its servants in this world."
The visions had been incredibly powerful and tempting. Gerion had seen himself cutting down his brother and all who had opposed him. Over a mountain of gold he had wedded Briony and legitimated Joys as his daughter. He saw himself leading the armies of the Rock to war and putting an end to the feeble Targaryen dynasty. He had seen himself become immortal and invincible...he had seen himself...become a monster.
At the price of an effort he didn't think he had in him, Gerion had abandoned the visions and regained control of his wits. The captain of the Laughing Lion had been among the lucky ones. Over two scores of slaves and their overseers alike had succumbed to the power promised by the monsters. They had swum back ashore, only to be cut down by the spectres.
"We thought we were going to escape...how wrong we were."
Whatever sort of demon plagued the ruins of Valyria, it was a powerful one and it had no intention to let the survivors rush back to Volantis and share what they had witnessed. Moving around Cape Damnation –as the southern point of the bay had immediately been nicknamed – the Laughing Lion had been struck by a column of black winds. Clearly the storm had been conjured by the vilest and most depraved sorcery since no natural phenomenon could unleash such effect on the lands of Man.
After that point, they had not controlled a single move of their journey. The carrack had been swept aside by the demonic energy and sent in an uncharted travel southwards. All Gerion and his crew had achieved was repairing the uncountable leaks in the wooden hull. At least wherever they were going, they would have a ship.
A hope which had been forever crushed when finally the maleficent presence had vanished, letting the poor product of the Lannisport shipyards tore itself apart against the shoals of the Sothoryan shoals.
"Eleven men were good swimmers and survived this little disagreement." Chuckled the man who had managed to set foot on the land of demons and retain somewhat his sanity. "But we hadn't met the cannibals."
The rumours of men having degenerated and returned to a semi-bestial state in the jungles had been more than rumours.
Obviously.
Including himself, seven men had survived the desperate fight to be dragged thorough the jungles to a large pyramidal ruin. As far as Gerion had been able to see, it looked Ghiscari in origin...except none of Ghis expeditions had ever settled so far south. The stars were strange in this region, the animals and plants extremely dangerous and the mutants were abominations beyond name.
Loud shouts echoed in the distance and Gerion frowned. One by one, six of the seven survivors had been carried at the top of the pyramid, force-fed juicy meat, fruits and delicacies before at last being sacrificed to the Serpent God these savages venerated. A great ceremony happened once every year, and apparently it was a tradition for the heretics to engage in human sacrifices. At each occasion the survivors of the Laughing Lion had wondered who was going to the designated victim. One by one they had died.
Now he was the last. His fate was all but decided. When the drums would stop their awful pounding, it would be his time to be carried over the bloody stairs.
It should be Tywin here. They could at least verify he has a heart when they cut his chest open.
Gerion laughed without any pleasure. The chances of his eldest brother to find himself in such a situation were so low they bordered on the ridiculous. New screams mounted in the nearby corridors next to his cell. A loud thud echoed, like something heavy had fallen.
"I can only hope someone will realise the danger represented by the demons before it is too late." He continued after the rumble died down. "These things plaguing the lads of Valyria are a massive threat for all the Essossi and Westerosi people."
The noise came back as he spoke these words. More shouts, more screams, accompanied by a familiar noise of weapons clashing and furious battle-cries rising in the air. Whatever was happening behind those doors, it was violent and bloody.
A rescue force? But Tywin wouldn't care about me and for that matter he wouldn't know where to look...
A loud gurgle indicating someone was agonising was heard. A powerful blow struck the wooden door, life if someone had thrown a corpse against it. Gerion tried to stay calm but despite himself felt his chest burn with something he had believed extinct several years ago.
Hope.
Standing laboriously upon his feet, the youngest son of Lady Jeyne Marbrand watched with eagerness someone try to open the door. It was clearly not his cannibal jailor; the clicks and the clangs of keys being discarded one after another was proof of that.
After nearly two scores of failures, the heavy clapper grinded and let Gerion see the face of his saviour. For a moment, he was almost rendered blind due to the light, and needed a third of hourglass' turn before being able to use the detail.
"Gerion Lannister?" Asked the man in clear Westerosi.
The prisoner could only nod in stupefaction. The soldier in front of him was neither a Lannister nor the image of a heroic Faith crusader told in uncountable tales. His armour was light and of a dark colour, save the golden kraken and its tendrils.
A Greyjoy?
The Ironborn's helmet was carried under his right arm, showing the man had a black eye patch over one of his eyes. A smirk was on his lips, and everything in him was showing confidence and controlled brutality.
"Come with me, if you want to live."Said the one-eyed Ironborn. "Quickly!" He barked when Gerion regarded him like one was watching a saint.
Gerion did not try to think anymore. Whether by the designs of the Seven or another God, he had been granted a reprieve. He ran out of his cell, following the Greyjoy man.
The corridor in front of his cell was full of dead mutants and the walls were marked with blood splashes. Not that the Lannister knight was going to cry over the fate of these abominations. They descended the stairs four to four, though Gerion was unavoidably lagging behind his saviour, having been imprisoned in a cell for so long.
The succession of marches ended to his great relief and they emerge in an open courtyard...for the first time in several years Gerion breathed the sweet perfume of liberty. Kay, it was very relative as three scores of men were waiting for them here and none looked like they had bathed in the last fortnight. Furthermore they had all looks one expected from pirates or particularly ugly corsairs.
"We have a problem, Captain!"
The freshly liberated man turned his head where the bare-chested man pointed his arm and gasped. While the lower part of this courtyard was full of cannibal corpses, there were hundreds more alive racing down the slopes of the ancient pyramid.
"There are too many." Added tranquilly a grey-robed man. If such a thing was not ludicrous, Gerion would have thought him a maester. But surely none of the Citadel's sages would have the courage to make the journey to Sothoryos, no?
"I am one-eyed, Qyburn." Answered the Ironborn who had just helped him escape. The battle cries of the cannibals were so loud the officer was shouting to be listened to. "I am not blind."
The dark lips of the captain widened in something too scary to be considered a smile.
"Ramsay. Do your thing."
Gerion for a moment wondered for a moment who his rescuer was talking to, before the big hulking brute at the core of the group made a few step forwards.
This was madness. No matter how strong this colossus was, there were hundreds of barbarians in the first wave with more arriving behind at each turn of hourglass.
If this thought entered the skull of the gigantic warrior, there was no sign it. Brandishing a great double axe he had kept in his back until the command came, the brute did the impossible.
He charged towards the enemy.
This is madness.
And then the warrior screamed.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR HIS SKULL THRONE!"
