DEVOLA V
The rays of evening light filtering through , clouds heavy with unshed rain, made the pale that settled over the district even more apparent, as if the very weather was joining in on the city's collective mourning. The streets, usually held more character and life amongst the depths of commerce, thought now it seemed the very air had been thickened with cement. Jon Arryn's death had cast a long shadow, one reaching even the most secluded corners of the city. Though his influence may have not always been seen; his absence became a silent scream across the city.
As she wandered through the street of flour's market, the impact of the Hand's passing was evident in the shuttered stalls and covered entrances a primordial empty settled into spaces where laughter, haggling and occasionally fist fights filled the air. It seemed many businesses across the city that had thrived under the stability Jon Arryn brought were now faltering, their owners left to grapple with an uncertain future. Prices for basic necessities had soared, a cruel twist to an already struggling populace, making survival in the capital's underbelly that much harder.
She pondered the broader implications of Arryn's death, wondering if Alayaya's business felt the ripple of this loss as acutely as those mired in the mud. It seemed unlikely that the lords and ladies, wrapped in their fine gowns and robes. would understand the true depth of the void the hands passing has left. Insulated from the struggle of the common man for bread and dignity, they would likely go on much the same way as before in due time, untouched by the desperation now gripping the "lesser" districts. The Great Savior Humanity, in its myriad forms, puzzles her still; its capacity for beauty shadowed by its inclination towards oblivion.
Leerah's visage floated into Devola's mind, and her child, Barra. The Royal connection with them had been a source of worry and unease, but Jon Arryn's visit certainly provided a greater layer of social security than any other in that brothel could ask for. Now, with Jon Arryn gone, Devola feared that barrier has been toppled and in due time the girl would be forced to do the work of the other girls. An unpleasant thought but a likely reality in this place. Would the king send another to ensure their welfare, or would they become yet another footnote in the chaotic sprawl they've left to fester in King's Landing?
She and Popola had worked tirelessly to plant seeds of hope into the streets, to mend what was torn and bolster what remained. Yet, the challenge seemed greater now, the path forward more daunting after golden opportunity came to them. The city lost Jon Arryn and with him they lost the ability to ask for more from the highers ups of the city.
His legacy, though perhaps unacknowledged by many common folk who were unaware of the happenings, would live on in the hearts of those he had touched even in there world there never was a certainty in what exactly happened to a gestalt or even a replicant after they passed… but there seemed to be truth in the power of memories. "You live as long as the last person who remembers you" And for Leerah the memory of the hand was certainly strong, Devola vowed to watch over them and baby Barra as best she could now that the hands guarantee of safety could no longer be ensured, hoping against hope that the king's gaze would once again turn kindly towards the girl and his child.
In the now amber light, Devola's lute once again found voice, a soft lament for the people of the city. A tribute to Jon Arryn, carried on the breeze, a gentle reminder that even in the darkest times, there were those of all sections of the city who would remember the hand.
Through storms it dances, fearless bold,
Its story sung, its story told,
In whispers soft, in cries so stark,
The falcon flies from dawn to dark.
Oh, falcon, soar, on wings so free,
Above the world, where eyes can't see,
A journey far, in skies so vast,
A tale of now, a tale of past.
And when the final dusk does fall,
And shadows claim the falcon's call,
In hearts of those who watched it fly,
Its spirit lives, it never dies.
Soar on, oh falcon, through the night,
Your journey's end, now out of sight,
In songs we'll keep your memory alive,
On winds of time, you will forever thrive.
As the last chord of Devola's lute disipated into the encroaching twilight, a solitary figure caught her attention. It was Henrik, moving towards her not with his usual steady patrol gait but with hurried, uneven steps. The setting sun cast long, ominous shadows around him, deepening the grave expression etched across his face—a rare sight on the normally stoic, occasionally jovial watchman.
A silent storm brewed in his eyes. Devola felt a knot tighten in her chest at the atypical sight. Setting her lute aside, she stepped towards him, her footsteps soft yet determined on the cobblestones. The usual authority Henrik commanded was replaced by an urgent vulnerability that pulled at her instincts more compellingly than any command could.
"To find you in such a state, Henrik," Devola approached with a cautious tone, her voice low and direct. "The hells going on?"
Henrik met her approach with a surprised look, his voice shedding its usual confidence for a tremor of apprehension. "Devola," he started, glancing uneasily towards a shadowed alleyway. "We face a grave situation," he confessed, the weight of his words a chill filling the space between them.
"Keep things calm, will you?" Henrik's gaze darted back to the alley, it was hard for her to tell whether his voice was a command or plea. "The last thing we need is a panic.".
Without waiting for him to give leave, Devola moved towards the dark passage. "Devola, wait! It's not safe—" Henrik's warning came out in a strained shout, but she was already beyond heeding his caution her feet quicker than her care for his words.
As Devola's steps carried her deeper into the alley, they faltered upon what was no doubt the source of Henrik's unusual behavior, a ghastly sight. Suspended from the rusted iron of an old tavern sign, a man's body hung grotesquely distorted. The metal tips, cruel and unyielding, pierced through his shoulders, turning flesh into macabre wings of torn sinew and exposed bone. His back was a canvas of horror, carved open where the bones of his shoulders jutted out like rocky outcrops from a blood-stained cliff. Below, the cobblestones were dark with blood, both dried and disturbingly fresh, sketching sinister shadows that stretched across the ground.
The sight seized Devola's with a visceral dread. This city had seen much death, yet nothing quite as barbaric as this in fact she hasn't seen a sight quite like this since a time she'd rather not recall.
Henrik caught up to her, A weighty silence hung between them, stretching seconds into what felt like years. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low murmur, struggling against the overwhelming darkness. "It's a grim sight," he admitted, his words halting as he seemed to reprocess the scene. "We're used to shadows in this city, but this...this is something else. The Hand's passing was expected to stir unrest, and his son is appears to be missing—a matter I'm sure the nobility are scrambling to resolve—but this kind of madness?" He gestured helplessly towards the grotesque display. "It's been unleashed far too swiftly, more savage than anything we could have anticipated."
"It strikes me," he began hesitantly, "how you stand before such... horror without flinching." Henrik's eyes narrowed slightly, "I've heard tales of Essos, stories of unspeakable cruelty masked by the allure of the exotic. It makes me wonder just how much darkness you've seen, Devola."
His words hung heavy in the chill air, laden with unspoken questions about the depths of suffering one could endure without breaking. Henrik's usual facade when speaking with her was completely absent now replaced with something else curiosity, perhaps even some muted understanding.
Devola's eyes remained fixed on the macabre scene, her mind racing through centuries of observations about humanity. "Henrik, do you ever wonder," she began, her voice tinged with a profound melancholy, "if the darkness we see in men's hearts is inherent, or merely awakened by circumstance?" Her words drifted between them, carrying the weight of countless lifetimes of witnessing human joys and atrocities.
"This violence... it's more than just a reaction to political upheaval. It's as if a deeper, more primal force has been uncaged. The shadows we stand in now are not just cast by the buildings of King's Landing but by the souls of its people." Devola turned to face Henrik, her expression solemn. "In the years I've observed humanity, I've seen great nobility and kindness, yes. But there's always been this undercurrent of darkness regardless of the geographical location, the readiness to descend has always been present."
Henrik listened, the weight of her words sinking into the grim reality around them. He nodded slowly, a newfound respect showing in his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured, "Perhaps we're all just a step from monster or martyr, depending on the stranger's whims," Henrik murmured, his eyes not leaving the grim spectacle.
Devola looked at him, her ancient heart heavy with the sorrow of the ages. "Yes, and perhaps our true test as beings—be we human or something else—is not how we exult in our triumphs, but how we navigate our darkness. How we ensure that the scales tip towards light, even when all around us seems to succumb to night."
Together, they stood in silent vigil, an unexpected degree of understanding on the goldcloak's face, each pondering the thin line between civilization and chaos that they both, in their own ways, were sworn to protect.
A. N. did not intend to take so long to get this chapter out, i did finish up school about a month ago then went on a vacation a few weeks later. Read a book "The Fourth Wing" it was alright. Interesting worldbuilding not the most interesting characters besides a few. I also watched a few period dramas, such as Outlander (Which is pretty good imo) also game of thrones fans might be interested in Diriliş: Ertuğrul which is an historical fiction story about the ottoman empire that has some game of thrones vibes.
This chapter was gonna have more content in it originally spanning a couple days but i decided to keep it standing by itself.. since the next chapter will have a lot. and much of it is written already just need to figure out some of the ordering/ bridging some parts together.
I know many will probably be sad about Jon Arryn still passing and so suddenly, but this was always the plan I also felt like realistically despite Popola and Devola getting some special notice, didnt mean they would know any sooner than the rest of the public.