Briene II

The memory of burnt flesh and scorched earth still lingered in Brienne's mind, haunting her even as the camp tried to move on. Despite the festive atmosphere of the recent feast, she could not shake the sights and smells of that day. The charred remains of their men, the twisted bodies floating in the water, the stench of seared flesh clinging to the back of her throat—it all returned to her in waves, no matter how hard she tried to forget.

But what troubled her most was not the gruesome aftermath, nor the horrific spells she had witnessed from Renna's staff, spells that seemed to tear reality itself asunder. It was the sight of Loras Tyrell, once the proud and confident Lord Commander, now reduced to a shell of the man he had been.

Loras sat by what remained of a tent, his armor still dented and tarnished despite his best efforts to clean it. His hands shook as he wiped the soot and blood from his blade, his eyes vacant and hollow, staring at something only he could see. The grace with which he had once moved, the quick wit that had been his hallmark, were gone. In their place was a man haunted by the horrors he had faced—a dragon, a beast of legend, that had torn through their ranks with terrifying ease. Though Loras himself had not been touched by the dragon's fire, he had witnessed many of his men perish in its flames and certainly felt the unbearable heat searing the air around him. The troubles of this day seemed to have settled deep within him.

Brienne's heart ached for him, but she did not know how to reach him. She had seen men broken by war before, seen them lose themselves in the aftermath of battle. But this was different. This was not just the toll of combat; something inside Loras had shattered, leaving him adrift in a sea of his own despair. He was far from the Lord Commander she had briefly known, the knight who had once stood tall as a leader among Renly's forces. They had never been particularly fond of each other, having had their share of spats during the short time they worked together. Loras had always made it clear that he found her presence unnecessary at best, and their interactions had often been marked by tension. Yet even with their differences, it was troubling to see him in such a state.

Brienne shifted her sight to the new locals who aided in them in their hour of need. Strange as they were in their camp what they offered them could not easily be repaid. Blaidd, the towering wolf-man, was a fearsome sight, his massive frame and lupine features marking him as something out of a nightmare. Yet, there was a certain nobility in his demeanor, a strange sense of honor that seemed to guide his actions. He was a friend of Renna's, or so it appeared, though Brienne found it difficult to fathom how such a creature could form any kind of bond with another being.

Then there was Yura, the other one who had fought along side the witch against the Dragon. He looked human, but his armor and clothing were of a queer style, as if he had come from some far-flung corner of the world, perhaps a place so deep in Essos that even the maesters knew nothing of it. His manner of speech was foreign, he moved in a very intentional way, like a man accustomed to constant battle. Despite his strangeness, he had fought with a skill and determination that marked him as a true warrior, and for that, she was grateful.

As Brienne stood by the edge of the camp, lost in her thoughts, she noticed King Renly and Quenn Margaery engaged in conversation with said locals, listening intently. Curious, she approached them, catching snippets of their discussion.

"...a depraved lot, obsessed with their 'grafting' rituals," Yura was saying, his voice laced with disgust. "They take travelers, cut off their limbs, and stitch them together like some twisted jigsaw. Godrick's men, they call themselves. But there's nothing noble about them."

Blaidd growled low in his throat, his voice a deep rumble. "Aye, heard much the same. That so-called lord hides in his castle, tinkering with his grotesque creations. If half the tales are true, he's more beast than man—though I've known beasts with more honor."

Renly, who had been silent until now, frowned deeply. "And this... Godrick? He rules these lands correct?"

"Ruler? Hmph," Blaidd scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "Hardly fit to be called such. A jumped-up wretch, hiding behind his abominations. His men take what they will, grafting parts of those they capture, turning them into twisted monsters."

Margaery's face paled as she listened, her hand clutching at the edge of her dress. "Is there no one who can stop him? No justice in this land?"

Yura shook his head solemnly. "Indeed, he can be stopped. But not without great cost. Those who face him must be prepared to lose everything, even their own will. Godrick's depravity knows no bounds, and his power should never be underestimated."

Brienne felt a chill run down her spine. The thought of such barbarity was almost too much to bear. "Is there no way to bring him to justice? To end this madness?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Blaidd's expression darkened, an edge in his eyes. "Stopping him would take more than just strength of arms. It'd take cunning, and a willingness to face a truly crazed man with the power of a great rune."

Yura's gaze hardened as he added, "But it is a perilous path. Those who tread it must be ready for what lies ahead. Godrick is a foul creature, but there are forces darker still in these lands."

Renly seemed to weigh their words carefully, a look of resolve settling on his features. "Then we must be prepared. If this Godrick is as vile and strong as you say, Perhaps we ought to retreat, find a safer place to regroup. Our forces are too few to challenge such a monster, and we've already suffered too much. We need to find a stronghold, somewhere we can fortify until we're ready to face him."

Margaery nodded in agreement, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Yes, somewhere secure, where we can gather our strength and plan our next move. We cannot stay out in the open like this."

Renly allowed a small, wry smile to touch his lips. "I'm already Lord of one keep with 'Storm' in the name. It's a shame this Stormveil does not have a ruler as gracious as I."

Despite the odd glares from the two locals, Brienne felt a pang of nostalgia at his words. For just a moment, she almost forgot they weren't in Westeros. That humor, that lightness from her king, brought her back home. But the illusion faded quickly, the grim reality of their situation sinking back in.

They were far from home, surrounded by forces they barely understood, and the people she had once relied on were faltering. She could only hope that they would find a way to survive this strange land, but as she glanced once more at Loras, she feared that even if they did, they might never truly recover from the horrors they had faced.

Nonetheless Brienne added,"We will survive this my King I am certain."

Margaery, still visibly shaken, nodded. "Yes, whatever it takes, we must survive this."

As the conversation died, the camp settled into an uneasy silence, Brienne knew that their journey was far from over.

Blaidd III

As the moon hung high in the sky, Blaidd found Ranni standing by the edge of limgraves cliffs, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The blue glow of her spirit form casting an ethereal light around her, making her appear serene.

"Lady Ranni," Blaidd greeted her softly, his voice a deep rumble.

Ranni turned her head slightly, acknowledging his presence with a small nod. "Blaidd. How dost thou fare amidst these Westerosi?"

Blaidd huffed, a mix of amusement and disdain in his tone. "They're a strange lot, aren't they? Naive to the dangers of these lands. They wander about as if they're in a dream, unaware of the wolves at their heels." He paused, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. "And to think, they've no clue they're standing amongst high royalty. 'Renna,' was it? Not the most clever alias, but even if they knew your true name, I doubt they'd understand its weight."

Ranni's lips curled into a faint smile. "Aye, they know not the peril they tread. Nor do they recognize the gravity of the path they now walk. I find their ignorance... mildly amusing, though it is not without its dangers."

Blaidd's expression darkened as he recalled the encounter with the knight—Loras, he had heard his name was. "That knight they favor, Loras… How he treated you when we first arrived… If he had known who he was speaking to—" Blaidd's voice tensed with barely restrained anger.

Ranni raised a hand, her voice calm and measured. "Peace, Blaidd. His rudeness was born of fear and confusion. These people know not the true nature of this world, nor do they understand the powers that govern it. 'Tis no fault of theirs, but rather a consequence of their sheltered lives."

Blaidd nodded, though the tension in his body remained. "Still, they could stand to show a bit more respect. They have no idea what they're dealing with. Especially that one… The now addled knight. He's seen too much, too soon. His mind's cracking under it all."

Ranni's gaze softened. "It is as I feared when I saw them arrive. These lands hold truths that many are ill-prepared to face. The Westerosi are fragile, their minds untempered by the harsh realities we've come to know. Yet, I do not believe they are beyond salvation… should they choose to accept the truth."

There was a brief silence between them, the only sound the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. Blaidd then shifted the conversation to a topic that had been weighing on his mind. "About Nokron… I think I've found its location. Only problem is, it's far above where the Siofra River Well leads. I can't see how we're supposed to reach it."

Ranni's expression grew contemplative. "The Eternal City lies in the heavens, beyond the reach of mere mortals. Yet there must be a way… something we've yet to uncover. We must continue our search, Blaidd. Nokron holds the key to our quest, and I trust you will find the path."

Blaidd bowed his head slightly. "Aye, My Lady. I'll keep looking."

Just as Ranni was about to respond, the sound of footsteps approaching drew their attention. Renly and Margaery emerged from their tent, their expressions filled with faux smiles.

"Lady Renna, Blaidd," Renly began, his voice tentative. "We've come to inquire about potential locations—safe havens we might seek out, given the… circumstances."

Blaidd straightened, his demeanor shifting to one of wary consideration as he prepared to address their concerns, his thoughts of Nokron and the quest momentarily set aside. But the amusement of the conversation with Ranni still lingered

Even without their fine clothes and regal bearing, their sense of entitlement clung to them like a second skin. They were whispering to each other in low tones, uncertain and no doubt fearful of his presence. The sight almost made Blaidd laugh.

Soft lot, these Westerosi,he thought with a short, dry chuckle. They might command respect in their own world, might inspire loyalty with their titles and their pretty words, but here in the Lands Between, they were nothing more than lost lambs, stumbling about in a world that neither knew nor cared for their lineage. The Lands Between was not a place for the weak of heart; it demanded strength, cunning, and resolve—traits Blaidd had seen little of in these newcomers.

Yet, as much as he found their presence irksome, Blaidd couldn't completely dismiss them. For all their softness, Renly and Margaery had shown a degree of respect toward Mistress Ranni that many others would not have. It wasn't enough to put his mind at ease, not by a long shot, but it was something he could acknowledge. Perhaps, beneath their polished exteriors, there was more to them than met the eye. Or perhaps not. Blaidd wasn't one to make quick judgments, but he also wasn't one to offer blind trust.

He rose to his full height, his presence filling the tent. The movement caught their attention, and the two Westerosi turned to face him. There was a hints of something—hesitation perhaps—before they composed themselves, their expressions smoothing over into practiced calm.But Blaidd was no fool. THe saw the unease in their eyes, the way Margaery's fingers clenched just a bit too tightly around the folds of her dress, the way Renly's jaw tensed as if he were preparing himself for a blow that might come at any moment.

Margaery, ever the diplomat, was the first to speak. Her voice was as smooth as silk, each word carefully measured, carrying that blend of charm and authority that she wielded like a blade. "We need somewhere less open to move our camp, with farther guarantees of safety," she said, her gaze traveling upwards to meeti Blaidd's.

Blaidd tilted his head, a hint of amusement curling his lips. "Safe, ye say?" he replied, his voice a rough growl edged with the hint of mockery. "In the Lands Between, safety's a rare thing, girl. But if it's shelter ye're after, I might know a place."

Margaery didn't flinch at his tone, instead, she stepped forward slightly, her expression softening into what Blaidd recognized as a carefully crafted smile. "We've been through many troubles to reach this point," she said, her voice holding melanc holic, undertones. "Our people rely on us to keep them safe, to find a place where we can regroup and plan our next steps. We've heard of your strength and knowledge of these lands, Ser Blaidd. We would be in your debt if you could guide us."

Blaidd arched an eyebrow at her words. There was a calculated edge to her tone, one that spoke of someone used to getting their way, someone who knew how to wield words as weapons. He wasn't entirely impressed, but he could not deny that the words held wisdom They were for certain out of their depth, but fools they were not

"Debt, is it?" Blaidd echoed, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm no stranger to promises of debts and favors, lass. But here, in these lands, debts have a way of goin' unpaid."

Margaery's smile didn't waver, though Blaidd could see the flicker of tension in her eyes. "We're not in our known lands anymore, that much is clear," she said, her voice steady. "But we've faced dangers before. Perhaps not like this, but we've learned to adapt. We need a chance to repay whatever debt we may owe to Lady Renna who has been most helpful so far with her information and magics despite our initially rocky start."

Blaidd let the words hang in the air, smirking at the mention of Renna's simple alias. Margaery's expression was surprisingly calm. They were trying to put on a brave front, to show that they could handle whatever came their way, but Blaidd wasn't so easily deceived. He did however appreciate her admitting the flaws of Ranni's early treatment by these westerosi.

"There's a fort," Blaidd continued, his thoughts drifting to Mistwood. "Fort Haight, near the Mistwood. It's got its share of dangers a few dozen monsters rule the place at the moment, but it's defensible enough outer walls mostly granite and limestone, decent sized for your forces as well. Better than standin' around here, waitin' for the next beast or worse, godrick himself to come along."

Renly, who had been silent up until now, nodded slowly, as if turning the name over in his mind. "Fort Haight," he echoed, his tone thoughtful. "A good place to regroup, then." Blaidd could see the wheels turning in Renly's head, the man already trying to plot his next move. There was a sharpness to Renly's eyes now, a glimpse of the man who had the nerve to call himself a king. Blaidd wasn't sure if he admired the audacity or found it irritating.

"Aye," Blaidd said, his tone firm, his gaze never wavering. "I'll lead ye there. But know this: ye'll need to keep yer wits about ye. This land don't take kindly to those who aren't prepared for what's comin'."

Margaery offered him a soft smile, one that might've swayed lesser men, but Blaidd saw the tension in her posture, the slight wariness that lingered in her eyes. They were trying to adapt, to navigate this strange new world they'd been thrust into, but Blaidd wasn't entirely convinced they had what it took to survive here. Still, they had treated Ranni with respect, and for that, he would offer them a chance—nothing more, nothing less.

As the two foreign royals began to collect themselves, Blaidd's thoughts turned to Mistress Ranni. Her concerns about these Westerosi were not unfounded, and Blaidd shared in her wariness. The Lands Between was a place of cycles and peculiar despairs, the arrival of these strangers had already upset the balance in ways he couldn't yet comprehend. But for now, he would do what was asked of him. He would lead them to Fort Haight, and keep a close eye on them while he did. Then he can go right back on his quest to locate Nokrons true entrance.

"Right well then," Blaidd rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Let's get movin' at morning light. Gather your men, women and misbegotten up. Stay close, and don't do anything hasty. This land'll eat ye alive if ye let it."

Renly and Margaery both seemed a bit confused by part of the statement, but quickly went off in opposite directions a man with a yellow cloak falling into step behind him a blue behind her, their confidence evident despite the fear lurking just beneath the surface. Blaidd didn't care. He wasn't here to coddle them—he was here to lead them. For Ranni, for the task ahead. He led them onward, his senses ever alert, his gaze always scanning the horizon. The Lands Between didn't forgive mistakes, and Blaidd intended to make sure they didn't make any.

Loras V

The world had become a haze of pain and confusion, a muddled fog where nothing made sense. Loras lay on the cot, his body aching, his mind a chaotic swirl of half-formed thoughts and vivid, searing memories. The fabric of the tent around him felt like a prison, the air stifling, every breath a struggle against the weight pressing down on his chest. He could still see it—the dragon's fire, the flames that had swallowed Guthry whole.

Guthry's body being scorched echoed across his mind. Armor melting into his skin, becoming one with it. A sight so horrific, it made his stomach turn, yet it was all he could think about. Over and over, the scene played out before him, unbidden, unstoppable. Guthry's face twisted in agony, his mouth open unable to scream as hes incinerated. Loras could still hear the roar, even now, as he lay here in the darkness of the tent.

Why did this happen? He couldn't wrap his mind around it. All he had was tilted and spinning into madness, leaving him behind. Why? The question repeated in his head, never ending only becoming more frantic with each thought.

He tried to push the thoughts away, to clear his mind, but it was impossible. The sight of Guthry burning, the men's armor melding with their flesh, the screams—it was all too vivid, too real. He could smell the charred flesh, feel the searing heat on his face, hear the distant roar of the dragon that had brought such devastation upon them. Why?

He thought of Robar, the chest that had swallowed him whole, leaving behind nothing but an empty. Where seconds earlier he stood. One moment Robar was there, beside him, and the next, he was gone. Just…gone. Disappeared as if he had never existed. Loras had reached for him, called out, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to hold onto. Just emptiness. Robar, his friend, his comrade in arms—gone. What was this place?

And the shadow. That cursed shadow. It had come for Renly, just like before. Loras had seen it, hadn't he? Hadn't he felt the cold, creeping dread as it slithered into the tent, its form twisting and unnatural? He saw it again, and again, and again. Each time, its shape shifting, growing more grotesque, more menacing. It would kill Renly—he was sure of it. He had failed before, and he would fail again. He couldn't stop it, could not save him with his strength alone.

He felt he was devouring his own mind. He couldn't think straight, couldn't make sense of anything. The world was a nightmare from which he couldn't wake. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it all again—the fire, the melting armor, Robar disappearing, the shadow creeping closer. It never stopped. It never ended. Why?

Loras tried to move, to shift on the cot, but his body refused to cooperate. His muscles were stiff, his limbs heavy, as if they were no longer his own. He wanted to get up, to leave the tent, to do something, anything, but he couldn't. He was trapped, paralyzed by the weight of his memories, by the fear that clung to him like a second skin. Why? What was happening? Why couldn't he think? Why could he barely move?

It was all splitting apart, fragmenting into a thousand pieces, each one more jagged and painful than the last. He was lost, adrift in a sea of horror and confusion, with no anchor, no way to find his way back.

The question was a constant refrain, why? Why? Why? He didn't know. He didn't know, couldn't know what to do, what to say, how to function. Everything was wrong, everything was broken. He was broken.

Tears welled up in his eyes, unbidden, a release he didn't even realize he needed. They spilled down his cheeks, warm and wet, but even they offered no comfort. Just another reminder of his failure, his inability to protect those he cared about. Guthry was dead, Robar was gone, Renly was in danger, and he…he was useless. Broken.

Loras lay there, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel the crushing weight of his own mind closing in on him. The world outside the tent might as well have been a thousand miles away, unreachable, unknowable. He was trapped in his own head, with nothing but the endless loop of confusion and horror to keep him company. Why? He didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore.

And that terrified him more than anything.

The question "Why?" echoed in his mind, growing fainter as his body succumbed to the exhaustion that had taken hold. His eyelids grew heavy, his breath slowing as he drifted into a restless sleep.

The courtyard of Highgarden stretched out before him, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The sweet scent of roses filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the garden's fertile soil. Loras, One and ten, stood with a wooden sword in hand, the weight of it familiar and comforting. He had skipped out on his studies—yet again—to practice his swordsmanship, knowing that the skills he honed here would serve him better than any dusty old book.

He slashed at the training dummy before him, each swing of the sword fluid and precise. The wooden blade whistled through the air, connecting with the straw-stuffed target with a satisfying thud. The movements came naturally to him now—an instinctive flow that required little thought. But there were still techniques that needed work, motions that felt stiff and awkward. He focused on those, repeating the same slash over and over until it became smoother, more refined. His body hummed with energy, each successful strike bringing a thrill of satisfaction.*

But as he practiced, lost in the rhythm of his training, a voice called out from behind him, sharp and disapproving.

He froze, the wooden sword dropping to his side as he turned to see his grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, approaching. She moved with the brisk, no-nonsense manner she was known for, her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of him.

"Skipping your studies again, I see. And for what? To swing a stick at a pile of straw?" Her voice was cutting like a thorn though there was warmth in her eyes, a reminder that her harsh words were borne of concern. " The Roots need sustenance to grow, boy. You can't build a strong foundation with nothing but swordplay."

Loras lowered his gaze, the thrill of practice fading in the face of her reprimand. He knew she was right, of course. There was more to being a knight—more to being a Tyrell—than just strength of arms. But it was here, in the courtyard, with a sword in his hand, that he felt most alive.

"Yes, Grandmother," he mumbled, his shoulders sagging as he began to trudge back toward the study.

But as he reached the door, something strange happened. The world around him seemed to blur, the edges of reality softening as a new vision took hold. He saw a woman with light hair standing alone in a quarry, her hands clutching a letter with desperate intensity. The scene shifted abruptly, and suddenly the woman was lying dead, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. A chill ran through him, but before he could react, the vision changed again.

Now, he was looking at a living statue, its skin a mottled gray and green with a rich blue cloak, flailing against the chains that bound it to a wall. The statue's movements were frantic, its struggles growing weaker with each passing moment. Then, the scene shifted once more—it was the living statue again but this time it was unhindered and held a blue transparent glow, A sword slashed through it familiar red rune etched armour came into view., and suddenly it changed again a darkly dressed woman lying across a bed, her posture suggestive, her face obscured by shadows. The images flashed before his eyes, disjointed and nonsensical, but they left a deep, unsettling impression.

Then, as quickly as the vision had come, it was gone. Loras found himself standing before his grandmother again, but something was wrong. Olenna Tyrell's face looked strained, her features tightening as she repeated herself.

"The roots need sustenance," she said, her voice calm but firm. The phrase was familiar, something she had often told him, but there was an odd echo to it this time, a slight distortion that made him uneasy.

She repeated it again, but this time her face seemed to age before his eyes. The lines around her mouth deepened, her skin grew paler, and her voice took on a slower, more deliberate tone. "The roots need sustenance…"

Loras blinked, trying to shake off the growing sense of dread. But with each repetition of the phrase, Olenna's face continued to change. Her eyes darkened, the whites turning a sickly yellow as if tainted by something unnatural. Her skin, once fair, began to crack and harden, resembling the bark of an ancient tree. A branch began to poke out of her left eye, dripping with blood that was tinged with gold.

"The roots need sustenance…" she continued, but her voice was changing too—becoming less like his grandmother's and more like a woman much younger but something slow, and grinding like stone reverberated beneath it.

Loras felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched the transformation. The branch twisted and grew, pushing through her eye, while her face continued to warp, growing older and more grotesque with each passing moment. The words became a twisted chant, echoing in his mind, the voice now completely foreign to him.

"The roots need sustenance… the roots…"

The last vestiges of Olenna's face were gone, replaced by something gnarled and monstrous, her once-familiar features now a grotesque mask of wood and blood. The words droned on, a haunting mantra that sent a shiver down his spine.

Loras woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, his body slick with cold sweat. His breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. But there was no clarity, only a deep sense that something was terribly wrong.

Catelyn IV

Catelyn Stark found herself troubled by the events of the past several hours, her heart weighed down by the grim reality of these foreign lands. The hopelessness of their situation was evident, far from the familiar safety of her home in the riverlands and the North. She had gathered some of her men and Mira, Margaery's handmaiden, to join her in prayer. It was a small solace, but one she desperately needed.

They made their way to a quiet corner of the camp, away from the bustle of soldiers and the strange figures that seemed to haunt every shadow. As they knelt before the seven-pointed star, Catelyn closed her eyes, whispering her own private prayers to the gods. The weight of her worries pressed down as she prayed for the safety of her children, her home, and her people. Hoping that the gods could hear her prayers from this terrible land.

The Septon noticed their gathering and approached, a gentle smile on his face. "Would you like me to lead a structured call to prayer, my lady?" he asked softly, his voice reverent.

Catelyn hesitated for a moment, considering the offer. She had already finished her private worship, but perhaps a formal prayer would bring some comfort to the others—and to herself. She nodded, giving the Septon her consent. The others around her seemed to follow suit, their expressions solemn.

The Septon began the prayer, his voice steady and solemn, carrying an almost eerie resonance in the quiet of the camp. He dedicated the prayer to the well being of the camp and its people.

"O gentle Mother," the Septon began, his voice a low, melodic chant, "who watches over us with eyes of mercy and arms of compassion, we beg thee to shelter us in these dark and cursed lands. These lands, where dragons scorch the earth and the Stranger's servants lurk in every shadow. We pray that your kindness will guide us past any perils we face, your love shield us from the horrors that threaten to consume us. Guard our bloodlines, sacred Mother, protect our kin, and keep our children safe from harm."

He paused, taking on a more fervent tone. "For the Mother's embrace is gentle, yet firm. Her love is tender, yet protection fierce. She shields us from the pain that would break our spirits, yet she is not blind to the darkness that encroaches upon us. She sees the shadows that creep into our hearts, and it is through her grace that we may find the strength to persevere."

The Septon's words echoed in the air, like an ancient whisper. His prayer continued, touching upon the other aspects of the Seven.

"O Warrior, lend us your strength to face the battles ahead. O Father, grant us the strength to lead our people through the trials of these lands. O Crone, light our path with your lantern and grant us wisdom, so that we do not stumble in the dark. O Smith, give us the resilience to endure and the skill to rebuild what is broken."

Catelyn felt compared to the detail provided for the mother alone these invocations seemed an afterthought though Catelyn was not bothered by it. She felt the mother is whos help she needed most now.

"Mother, we beseech thee," he intoned, his voice lowering to a near whisper, "guide us with your gentle hand, but do not let us forget that even the softest touch can leave a cut. Let your love be our shield, but let it also be our reminder that life is fragile, that we walk upon a thread, and that without your grace, we are but lost souls in a land of nightmares. Protect us, Mother, from the terrors that seek to devour us, and hold us close to your heart, that we might find peace in your embrace."

As the Septon's words filled the air, Catelyn found herself drawn to the second invocation of the Mother. It resonated with her more deeply than the others, perhaps because she herself was a mother of five. The prayer was unsettling in its intensity, invoking a greater understanding of motherhood than she thought most men had. The pain and fear that came with, longing to hold any of her children in her arms at that moment was almost unbearable, the ache in her heart a constant reminder of the distance between them.

The Septon finished his prayer, the final words hanging in the air like a benediction as though the Mother had indeed heard their plea. The others around her seemed similarly affected, their expressions somber as they rose from their knees.

When the service concluded, Catelyn lingered for a moment, lost in her thoughts. It was then that Lady Margaery found her, her steps light as she approached.

"Lady Stark," Margaery began, her voice gentle yet firm, "how are you faring?"

Catelyn, still burdened by the weight of her thoughts, responded more sharply than she intended. "How does one fare in a land where the very ground seems cursed, where dragons roam freely, and where the Stranger's hand touches everything?"

Margaery did not flinch at the sharpness in Catelyn's tone. Instead, she offered a compassionate smile, her eyes full of understanding. "It is a trial, to be sure. But I find solace in the Seven, especially in times like these. The Mother's care, the Warrior's strength—they are what we must hold onto, even in lands as bleak as these."

There was a pause as Catelyn studied Margaery. The young woman's cleverness and devotion was evident in her words. But there was also genuine compassion, something that Catelyn had not expected to find so easily in her.

"Do you pray often?" Catelyn asked, her tone softening as she allowed herself to engage more earnestly.

"Every day," Margaery replied, her voice sincere. "Especially now. I pray for my brothers both here and back home, for my family… for all of us. I worry for them, as you worry for yours."

Catelyn felt a pang of empathy at Margaery's words. They both carried the burden of family even if in a different form. "I fear for my children every day," Catelyn admitted. "I fear for Robb, for Bran and Rickon, for Sansa and Arya. This war has taken so much from us already, and now we find ourselves in a land that defies all reason."

Margaery nodded, her expression somber. "I worry for my brothers as well. We are all scattered, each of us fighting our own battles. But we must hold onto hope, Lady Stark. It is all we have."

There was a brief silence as the two women shared a moment of mutual understanding. Then, Margaery gently steered the conversation towards a topic that had clearly been weighing on her mind. "We will be moving the camp soon," she said, her tone cautious.

Catelyn's brow furrowed in concern. "Moving the camp? To where? And why?"

Margaery sighed, the weight of her words heavy on her shoulders. "We cannot stay here, Lady Stark. The dangers we've already faced—the horseback rider, the witch, the dragon—they are only the beginning. We spoke with Yura and Blaidd in more depth, and what they revealed about the nature of the 'lord' who rules these lands, Godrick the Grafted, was deeply troubling."

Catelyn felt a chill run through her at the name. "Godrick the Grafted… What did they say?"

Margaery's voice lowered, her tone grave. "He is said to be a madman, crazed and cruel. He experiments on people, tortures weary travelers who pass through his lands. He is not someone we can simply negotiate with or hope to avoid. Even if we were to strike some kind of deal with him, how long before he turns his twisted machinations onto us? It is a price we cannot afford to pay, not with our numbers already so scarce."

The information startled Catelyn further, her mind racing with the implications. "But to move the camp… it would look like retreating. What of the soldiers Renly promised his aid to? How will this affect them?"

Margaery's expression softened, her empathy clear. "You are right to be concerned. It will not look good for the soldiers. But what choice do we have all of them serve Godrick? If we stay, we risk facing a man who cares nothing for human life, who would see us all twisted into his grotesque creations. We must find a place to regroup, gather our strength, and prepare for what is to come. It is the only way to ensure our survival."

Catelyn wanted to argue, to protest the idea of retreating, but the logic in Margaery's words was undeniable. The horrors they had already faced were only a prelude to what awaited them if they remained in these cursed lands. The thought of subjecting the few men she brought and herself to the whims of such a madman was unthinkable.

With a heavy heart, Catelyn nodded, accepting the reality of their situation. "Then we must move, and quickly. But we must do so with caution, and we must not lose sight of the promises made."

Margaery smiled, despite the warm gesture it did little to ease the tension in Catelyn's chest. "We will do what we must, Lady Stark. Together, we will find a way through this."

As Margaery took her leave, Catelyn lingered for a moment longer, her thoughts returning to her children. She prayed that they would stay safe, that the Mother's care would watch over them. And she prayed that, in time, they would all be reunited.

But for now, there was only the path ahead, uncertain and fraught with danger. And in these lands, where even the gods seemed distant, Catelyn knew that they would need more than prayers to survive nonetheless she said a soft prayer under her breath.

A.N. Well its been quite awhile and I did not intend to take so long to update. Part of it was writer block and being more invested in other works. Though also rereading previous chapters I feel they need work. I have a rewritten draft of chapter one and part of two. So I do plan to eventually gradually release rewrites of previous chapters. But I also do not wish to keep readers waiting for updates. Certainly not for over a year again.

Ive recently developed a new writing technique of writing daily or bidaily, when im hitting a block for one story work on another. This has allowed me to release updates for most my stories on hiatus in the last two months. I intend to keep with this philosophy. My goal is to update this story, my nier/asoiaf and worm/lost fanfics monthly and my other stories hopefully monthly as well but bimonthly at worst.

I will probably start sticking to one pov per chapter in the future with this story as ive found it makes it easier to write a chapter, and also allows me to get in the head to better understand a character and give them more depth. I understand this story has always had multiple povs per chapter. Though I feel looking back on it at times that has decreased the quality of the writing.

Anyways sorry for the long wait hope this was enjoyed expect another update within the month or sooner.

NOTE ON DLC: I loved the dlc got every talisman and did every boss I could besides one npc encounter i missed by accident. Really liked the map layout reminded me of older souls games how it connected like ds1.

The DLC actually worked pretty well with what I had planned for the future of the story anyways. Though there will be some adjustments and additions. These won't be super relevant for a little bit but not too long from now in truth

Story Recommendation: I wanted to recommend another Elden Ring/Asoiaf crossover A Thousand Year Voyage (Elden RingASOIAF), by Penmil on Fanfiction. Net a fun crossover with dlc characters included, that takes place a good while before roberts rebellion