Sometime deep amidst the murky depths of antiquity, the silver-skinned Nox ruled the Lands Between.
One of many offshoots of the Numen (the malleability of my new race's flesh lent itself to speciation), they built some things, fought some wars, lived and died, worked and played – scribbled their signature into the annals before their relegation to the dustbin. In the end, their Regimen Stellarum, as it was called – their turn behind the wheel – provedno hasher or kinder, insignificant or consequential, than those myriad that came before and after.
Had the collapse of their empire not been so spectacular, hardly anyone would remember them at all.
You see, the Nox believed that Creation had long surpassed its Creator, and thus rejected the worship of the Greater Will, seeking instead to harness the glittering firmament above. This alone was still perfectly kosher, so to speak (if somewhat risky, as the malformed Astel can attest) – Order was Order was Order, in the Greater Will's eyes, irregardless of whether the mortals paid homage – but the Nox, in their enthusiasm, went a bridge too far:
They started to meddle with the infrastructure.
By means of some appalling ritual, the details blessedly lost to time, their priests wrenched a blackened, twisted blade from the womb of a desecrated maiden – a blade capable of wounding divinity. Brandishing it high, they then set upon the Fingers, the Will's ostensive heralds, envoys, messengers – angels, one might think them – and stormed the consecrated ground where Metyr, the Mother, was said to have communed with her Father; the slaughter lasted from nightfall to sunrise, and, by the end of it, the few surviving attackers – having torn their way through scores of her lesser children – ran the poor creature through to the hilt. The conquering heroes then returned home, dedicating, as per custom, the newly christened Fingerslayer Blade at a Chair-Crypt of the Bona Domina.
Thus the Nox invoked the ire of the Greater Will, and reaped the calamity that their sacrilege had sown.
At least, that's what the histories say.
I myself reserve a fair bit of doubt.
After all, the histories also say that Metyr, her flesh suffused with the Creator's grace, soon made a full recovery, and shortly resumed her exalted duties as mother and medium both – patently absurd, having seen firsthand just how badly her wounds have since necrotized.
Dumb luck, odds are, kept her alive that day: the auguries of the birds and alignment of the stars, the angle of the stab and length of the blade, a slow-acting poison instead of a quick, clean stroke.
Certainly a more plausible explanation than divine intervention, salvation, and/or retribution, at any rate – meddling in the affairs of its lessers just isn't the Greater Will's style; a bit like expecting gravity to stop pushing so hard when you're trying to move some boxes, or the wind and the waves to be so kind as to whisk your ship straight into port.
Besides, the Will had decisively abandoned Metyr for the newer, shinier Elden Beast some few eons before.
(Frankly, for all their pretensions of divine patronage, the Fingers were little more than the crude first stage of a primeval terraforming, an obsolete proof of concept, readily discarded once their use had been served, yet stubbornly refusing to die – shouting into the void for guidance, and gleaning what they wished from the echoes.
In their eldritch inscrutability, they managed to keep this truth tight under wraps, if they themselves even understood it in the first place. Only after centuries of dealing with their nonsense did a thoroughly disillusioned Marika realize that they were essentially God's dumpster preemies.)
Of course, for all we know, it's entirely possible that the shock of the deed resonated upward through some lingering connection, and the Will swatted at the Nox as one would a fly – a momentary fit of what we might equate with irritation; just as it's possible that Metyr herself, brimming with spite, as powerful as she was primitive, retaliated in kind; or that, perhaps, in all the excitement, the Nox's leash on the Moon and Stars slipped, and forces once fettered danced in exultation, much to the misfortune of those below.
With a disaster on this scale? Virtually anything's possible – things go wrong far easier than right.
Nevertheless.
With bolts of flame lancing through blackened skies, the empire's triplet capitals, the Urbes Aeternae, toppled headlong into the ravenous earth, their inhabitants flash-calcified as they screamed for salvation.
A small handful of scattered enclaves managed to escape the worst of it, some persisting long into the age of the Erdtree (Sellia comes chiefly to mind), but the bulk of what remained above the surface – the roads and walls, castles and temples, towns and villages and all the rest – cut off from governance and trade, withered to dereliction; then, eventually, as memory faded, the overgrown ruins were put to use, scavenged or squatted in or otherwise repurposed.
Case in point, the Leyndell sewers.
For the Nox, cleanliness was a matter of national pride (one more thing to hold over the barbarians), so they'd spared no expense, material or manpower, in the construction of their Cloacae Maximae, which thus survived the fall relatively intact.
It was Marika's good fortune – she didn't know it at the time – that the site chosen for the seat of her Order, the massive impact crater at the northeast corner of Altus, was blessed with one such complex, courtesy of the Eternal City now moldering below. And, in time, as Leyndell thrived and Order spread and the proscription lists grew ever longer, this sewer proved a tremendous utility, good for far more than basic sanitation – in the God-Queen's eyes, it was only good sense that certain undesirables, unseemly things better left unspoken, would be shunted underground with the rest of the muck, and left to rot in the darkness.
If only she could forget them.
Out a winding passage from the palace's cellar, through rusted pipes and neglected service tunnels, the narrow vaulted chamber where muscle memory had taken me was tucked behind an illusory wall near one of the lower sluices.
Its original use remains something of a mystery, though a Mithraeum of sorts would be my guess, weathered inscriptions cluttering the walls, and a small votive niche over at the far end.
Had I the choice, I'd have kept my head buried in the chamber's history – something distant, lifeless, irrelevant; a welcome distraction from the weeping scab that was its lifelong prisoner.
"Come again to taunt me with Mother's visage, have thee?"
Life, unfortunately, is rarely so kind.
Morgott the Omen, jaundiced eyes glistening with gold – an indulgence Marika allowed herself – sat hunched at the foot of his bed.
Credit where it's due, since the original first locked him away, the room had been furnished quite comfortably, or at least about as comfortably asa place like this can be: carpets along the floor, piles of books reaching to the ceiling, proper wooden frames and soft silk cushions.
Were it not for the shackles of grace nailed through his flesh, he might've even thought the place homey.
A grunt, whatever edge it could've had dulled by melancholy.
"'Tis thine prerogative, I suppose."
Halfheartedly straightening, he spread his arms wide in invitation, before smacking them back down onto his thighs.
"Go on, then. Mummer away."
I can't say I'm proud of the way my breath shuddered.
"Must you … "
Eyes downcast, I winced, the rest of the words stuck in my throat.
Morgott's gaze slipped off to the side – a momentary flash of shame.
"Allow me this pettiness."
Silence.
A minute, then two.
Then, as I lingered in the doorway – sitting felt presumptuous – impulse goaded me to pop the bubble.
"They're still fighting over Stormveil."
More disappointed than surprised, Morgott raised an eyebrow.
"Still?"
Politics – another welcome distraction.
"Hmm. Right now, it's a draw between Godiva, Godefroy, and Godescalc." A snort. "I'd never even heard of that last one. 20th generation, apparently."
Nobody expected Godwyn's death, least of all Godwyn himself.
Little surprise, then, that his legions of offspring, absent a will to constrain them, burst forth like wild hogs to each claim their slice of the inheritance– and the crown jewel, the main event, Stormveil Castle and the Lordship of Limgrave, suffered a veritable revolving door of claimants.
"Whatever happened to Godabert?"
Godwyn's thirdborn's daughter's twelfth – be fruitful and multiply, indeed.A reasonably competent spellcaster, he'd been in the running for nearly a decade, no small feat given all the competition.
"An unfortunate hunting accident. Story goes he was mistaken for a boar."
Morgott made a face, more so at the method of the killing than the death itself.
"Disappointing."
"Hmm."
Most reacted much the same.
Frankly, the thinking was, if a scheme that clumsy did you in, then you never deserved power to begin with.
Even now, deep into decadence, the Order was quite Darwinistic like that.
(And ever since that horrible night, when the Black Knives smashed open the floodgates, it simply became a fact of life that even the inviolable Demigods can die.
Few, however, dared to acknowledge the inherent contradiction.)
"Personally, my money's on Godefroy. Utterly ruthless, I tell you, not a scruple in his body."
As the scripture reads, 'The God-Queen stands above. Men's are the earth, and Her's are the heavens.' Blind as they were to their strings, the rabble even believed it.
The demigods, though, knew better, and of them, Morgott knew best – she, I, we trusted him alone (not with the whole truth, mind you, never the whole truth, but with enough to soothe that shriveled husk we called a conscience). Damm cathartic, it was, this rare chance to speak with such candor, no need for courtly polish or godly esotericism.
After all, who could he blab to?
We continued on for a while, flitting from topic to topic, skirting the elephant in the room – until …
"Oh, and Miquella's finally planted his tree. A haven, they're calling it. For outcasts and the like."
I'll admit, it was tasteless of me.
Whatever the excuse – a lapse of judgment, thoughtless honesty, innocent misunderstanding – I must've, on some level, known full well that I'd crossed a line.
"Albinaurics, misbegotten … "
Did I mean it as a gloat? An invitation?
I still don't know myself.
Morgott stilled.
"And this is permitted?"
Of the few temporal laws enshrined within the Order, almost a fourth were racial, targeting quite the motley myriad – the bestial, the horned, the manufactured – the reactions of whom were equally diverse:
Some resisted, of course, by and large fruitlessly.
Some – most – begrudgingly took their lumps.
And some, like Morgott, turned Quisling, justified their treatment, ascribed to it a higher motive than simple prejudice – it's easier to suffer for a good cause.
"Yes."
To my surprise, he started laughing – merrily, at first, hearty and clear; then, decidedly strained, like a fly had gone down his throat; finally, almost painfully, jittery and scratchy and wet.
Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand rested on Morgott's shoulder, and gave him a comforting squeeze.
This sliver of affection smacked him like a thunderbolt – and a starving man clamored for more. Eyes closed, toes curled, he snaked his arms around my waist, and batted his head against my chest.
"Mother … "
Barely a whisper.
For an endless instant, the abandoned child played pretend.
But reality always rears its head.
A frenzied shove; he scrambled away, curled in on himself, twisted horns ripping the bedsheets and scraping the headboard.
"Thou'rt not – " Morgott barked, sputtered, cried. "She'd never … "
I took a step forward; he grit his teeth.
"Leave me."
I swallowed.
His voice trembled.
"Please."
Something shattered within my chest.
"I – "
An apology crouched on the tip of my tongue, begging to pass my lips; but shaking my head, I shoved it down inside, bludgeoned and bound and buried it.
However sincere, it would have only rung hollow.
So with the gentlest nod I could, I left Marika's son to his solitude.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
" – ildren?"
Reality reared its head.
I blinked.
"Sorry?"
Catelyn Stark carried her fourth pregnancy well: straight back, clear skin, fresh and lively and plump, idly rubbing her swollen belly through a billowy, fur-lined gown.
Comfortable with motherhood, in short, but not yet jaded by experience.
Seated between myself and her husband (rather like an ape defending its territory), she made a passable effort at playing the cheerful hostess. I won't describe her gaze as disapproving – that's too strong a word – but she certainly wasn't a good enough actress to entirely mask her distaste.
A corrupter of youth, she probably thought me – a queer golden gadfly come to piss on her Andal sensitivities.
"Your Grace, from what I recall, you are a mother yourself – nine children, was it?"
I very deliberately did not flinch; she took my silence as confirmation.
"It's impressive. Inspirational, even." The Lady clicked her tongue. "I must say, though, it's a shame that you haven't brought them with you." Affecting an impish grin, she leaned in and lowered her voice. "Just between the two of us, mine would've loved the company."
I reached for my cup – the itch needed scratching.
(Nothing exceptional, just some mediocre strongwine, high enough proof to make up for the taste.)
"Their duties keep them."
'And not you?' Catelyn's stare accused, but she'd at least the tact to keep things outwardly cordial: "Ah, such is life," she tittered instead, waggling a finger. "I know my own keep me." Her grin turned a touch softer. "A mother's work is never done."
I suppose she thought that rebuke was subtle.
My gaze started to wander.
Honey-baked chicken and oven-roasted pork, grilled black pudding and fried pink salmon, steak and kidney pie, beef and barley stew, carrots and onions, a haggis or two; flickering torches belching smoke, dripping grease and splashing wine, slurred banter peppered with booming guffaws, pinching fingers assailed by slapping hands; grey stone walls draped with grey direwolf banners, grey pewter cutlery on faded grey hardwood, grey-clothed men with grey-flecked beards and grey-tinged eyes.
Thoros carousing among the guests, his heart not truly in it; Ed flirting with some buxom wench, long past the point of caring; Brynden fuming at the kids' table, all gussied up in ribbons and curls.
You get the idea.
Begrudgingly endearing, I'd call Winterfell, its Starks and their hospitality, in a well-worn, rough-hewn, noble savage sort of way – better than Bear Island, anyhow, but that's a rather low bar.
Catelyn tilted her head.
"Might you tell me about them?"
A swig. "That's a tall order, I'm afraid."
A laugh. "I'd imagine so! Nine …" She shook her head. "Quite the handful, yes?"
' – birth of our dynasty – '
' – reject thine Order – '
' – have never known defeat – '
"Your Grace?"
My smile was a tight, brittle thing.
"Seems you've caught me in an … introspective mood."
I finished off my drink, scoured it for dregs, then huffily tapped my cup against an armrest as I scanned for more.
Drunkenness, true drunkenness, had long managed to elude me (divinity brought with it an inescapable lucidity) – but that didn't mean my body couldn't fake it. A half-life is better than none, and a half-cocked artifice better than life unfiltered.
Catelyn flagged down a servant.
"I apologize for any offense."
Waving her off, I put my weight onto an elbow.
"No, it, um … "
As I took a deep breath, the servant scuttled over and poured me a refill; and as she bowed farewell, I snapped my fingers, motioning her to leave the jug on the table.
I frowned.
"Well, no sense dredging up what's best left buried."
Then, some more wine – it really was a shit vintage.
Catelyn furrowed her brow, affable veneer discarded for genuine concern.
"They are your children."
I couldn't meet her eyes.
"They don't need me."
"And your husband?" Catelyn seemed to have surprised herself with this – as if the words had just coalesced from the aether, or she'd suddenly been possessed by a spirit of indelicacy – but forged ahead anyway. "What of him?" she pressed.
The question hung heavy in the air.
My fingers drummed against the cup.
"Irreconcilable differences."
The look she gave me in reply dripped with something tender, pensive, sullen – I refuse to believe it was pity.
Willfully ignoring her, drowning out my thoughts with another toss of wine, I quietly set to work on my food.
Another bloody feast.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
Bathed in moonlight, the heart tree wept.
In the reciprocative dance of hospitality that the Westerosi took such pride in, a banquet such as this had no definitive end – rather, the host would serve until his larders ran empty, and a guest would stop eating once he'd had his fill; anything less or anything more was derided as bad taste.
Thus, two or three hours past midnight, the hall gradually began to empty – guests retired to their rooms, or spilled out into the surrounding courtyards, or wandered to a nearby brothel for a 'nightcap.'
I, for one, enjoyed a drunken stroll through the godswood, before slouching on the bank of a small, shallow pool of cold, black water.
It didn't take long for Eddard Stark to find me.
He motioned to scrape and bow; I cut him off with a snort.
"None of that." Resting my head on a moss-covered stone, I lazily batted a hand. "Go on, sit down."
He stayed where he was, arms held stiff at his sides.
Neck twisting backward, craning over the rock, I eyed him with a raised brow – then, a shrug.
"Your loss."
We loitered in relative silence: chirping crickets, rustling leaves, the low drone of distant chatter. I'd no pressing engagements – quite the opposite – and Eddard, by the look of things, needed a moment to gather his thoughts.
They always did.
"Has Winterfell been to your liking, Your Grace?"
Rolling onto my side, I propped my cheek against my palm.
"Yes."
When it became clear I hadn't anything more to say, Eddard gave a feeble nod – "Good," he all but rasped – and went back to twiddling his thumbs.
I watched him sweat for a bit.
"Lord Stark, I assume you're here for a reason."
He stilled, then dithered, then started fidgeting again, before closing his eyes and sharply inhaling and meeting my gaze head-on.
"How much longer do you plan to stay?"
Kudos to the quiet wolf, he knew how to cut the knot.
I chuckled. "When'll I fuck off, you mean." Ned swallowed, but didn't bother denying it; absently drumming my stomach, I shot him a not unkind smirk. "A day, two at most. Won't hang around, if that's what worries you. Casterly Madhouse put me off lodging."
Sitting up Indian-style, I turned around to face him properly.
"Besides, I've business down south. Been too long since I last saw Robert" – a flash of my brow – "or had a go at his 'hammer.'"
King's Landing, of course, was also the continent's biggest port, far and away the simplest route to Essos, but such logistical talk made for poor conversation.
"His Grace is married."
I chuckled some more.
"Nominally. No sooner did he spout his vows than break them."
At this, Eddard actually looked offended; it took me quite a lot not to roll my eyes again.
"Oh please, I don't blame him – hard to do worse than Cersei Lannister. Safer to have a viper in your bed, at least then there's no pretense."
I was prettier than her, anyways.
"They swore an oath," the lord asserted, trying just as hard to convince himself as me.
He wasn't an idiot, he knew full well his friend's predilections – hell, he'd practically a front-row seat to our marathon at Pyke – but his kinship for the man, and fealty to his liege, obliged him to at least make an effort (however plainly asinine that effort may be).
Rising to my full height, I stared down my nose at him, perhaps a touch more snidely than intended.
"You swore an oath to Robert, yeah?"
He pursed his lips, and took a half-step backward.
"I don't – "
"Promise me, Ned."
Like a bucket of ice water, or hydrogen bomb.
"How do you think your king would feel, if he discovered Lyanna's little dragonspawn?"
For a moment there, I felt quite smug for having won our 'duel.' But as I opened my mouth to rub it in, I looked at him – really looked at him: his tight jaw, wide eyes, ashen face.
He was trembling.
My heart skipped a beat.
"I wouldn't … "
Tongue heavy, breathing shallow, I blindly croaked the first thing that came to mind.
"You have a beautiful family."
For a time, neither of us spoke – really, what more was there to say?
Finally, Eddard bowed – "Your Grace" – and marched back towards the hall.
Watching him leave, I felt the strangest ache in my chest.
The roast mustn't have agreed with me.