A God of War in Westeros:
Essos 290 AC-
Meera Shae sighed wearily as she walked alongside her family's cart; around her, dozens more slowly marched along in a long line as they made their way across the plains of Essos toward the free city of Myr. Being part of such a large trading caravan, Meera was used to days of long walks, followed by even longer days of waiting around before they moved to the next city for trade. Barely a week past her twelfth name day, Meera was already well on her way to becoming a beauty one day; she was slim, with bronze sun-kissed skin, bright blue eyes, and long black hair that hung to the middle of her back.
Like most of her family, she was dressed more for practicality than comfort, wearing a simple white V-neck short-sleeve tunic, leather breeches, and a simple pair of traveling shoes. Looking behind at the long caravan behind her, Meera couldn't help the sigh that escaped her as the tedium of her life once again made itself known. Her family had been traders for more generations than could be remembered, and it was expected that she and her twin brother Leon would follow in their families' footsteps one day.
Looking at her twin, Meera couldn't suppress the scowl that crossed her face; though only older than Meera by a half hour, Leon already looked more like a warrior than a trader. He was a whole head taller than Meera, and the constant work of loading and unloading the cart had granted the boy an incredible physique that would one day cause many heartbreaks. Currently, he was strolling lazily behind their family's cart, using the spear that their father had gifted Leon as a walking stick; he was supposed to be keeping a watchful eye on the horizon for bandits or, worse, Dothraki. Still, after days of grassland in every direction, Leon seemed to have grown complacent.
As she thought of the life that was already mapped out for her, Meera released a scornful sigh. It wasn't that Meera was against the idea; being a trader was a respected profession, after all; it was just the idea of spending her life walking from one city to the next bored her to no end and made her want to rip her own hair out. What Meera wanted was adventure, to see the world and have a life worth living; not being another nameless trader whose life could be ended in an instant should a Dothraki horde suddenly decide that her caravan was worth plundering.
As though fate was personally offended at Meera for provoking it, a sudden scream tore through the air at that exact moment, followed by another and another; in mere moments, the area echoed with hundreds of war cries as the ground beneath Meera's feet began to shake as though an earthquake were beginning. As Meera's father pulled up on the reins, causing their horses to stop, a rider blew past them with a look of panic on his face as he screamed out,
"Dothraki! The Dothraki are coming! Run for your lives!"
Instantly, panic set in throughout the caravan as men, women, and children all began to shout and curse. Some attempted to get their panicked pack animals to respond to commands, while others chose to leave the carts to the Dothraki and run as fast as their feet could take them. Turning to where she had last seen Leon, Meera gasped as she saw the boy had already disappeared to who knew where.
Looking up at where her parents sat, Meera could see the horror etched on both their faces as her father pulled and tugged on the reins, desperately trying to get the horses to turn around; around her, other families had decided that their lives were more important than their valuables, and were running from their carts as fast as their legs could take them. A moment later, a calm hand descended on Meera's shoulder, making her turn in alarm at the touch to see her grandmother staring at her with a smile.
"Worry not, Meera," her grandmother said softly, "We will be safe from harm… The pale one is coming…"
Meera swallowed at her grandmother's words and was tempted to roll her eyes, but something about the old woman's words caused Meera to freeze; this wasn't the first time her grandmother had claimed that this supposed 'pale one' was coming, but it was the first time that Meera actually believed the old woman. Meera's grandmother was a follower of an obscure religion that centered around a prophecy made centuries ago, long before Aegon the Conqueror had claimed Westeros for the Targaryen's, that claimed a pale god would one day descend on their world and wipe away the corruption and filth that had polluted it for far too long, bringing an era of peace to their world that would supposedly last for generations.
Meera's father thought his mother mad, like many of the caravan, and had refused to allow her to teach Meera the ways of her obscure religion, though when the two were alone, Meera and her grandmother would talk about this supposed' pale god' who would one day come. Meera had never really believed in the gods, per se; she liked to think that they existed and showed the proper respect when called upon. But after traveling through the free cities where slavery was ubiquitous and seeing the disgusting and horrific things that 'men of god' were allowed to get away with, well, suffice it to say that Meera's belief had begun to wane long ago.
If there were gods, and if they allowed mortals to do such things and receive no justice for their crimes, then they were gods that Meera wanted nothing to do with. But the god from her grandmother's stories was different; if her grandmother were to be believed, this 'pale one' would not only make those 'godly men' pay for the things they'd done but make it so that such things would never happen again.
"Grandmother, you've said that a hundred times," Meera retorted, "And he's never shown up! What makes this time any different!"
Meera's grandmother said nothing and simply gave an eerie smile in response as the screams of the Dothraki began to combine with the cries of terror from their victims as the horde slammed into the caravan, slaughtering all they came across.
"Mother!" Meera's father roared out, "This is no time for your crazed ramblings! We need to get out of here before those fuckers…"
Whatever Meera's father was about to say was lost was an arrow slammed into the back of his head, the point coming out of his mouth as his eyes widened in horror; Meera's mother screamed in horror at the sight as the man clawed at his wife for a moment before tumbling from the driver seat to the ground below. Meera's mother issued another terrified scream before three arrows slammed into her chest in rapid succession, sending her tumbling from the passenger seat to the dry ground, as well.
"Do not look, child!" Meera's grandmother replied, grabbing her and pulling her to the ground before giving her a shove under the cart. "We must wait until he comes!"
"Who?!" Meera shouted from where she lay as she desperately clung to her grandmother, "Who is coming!"
"Our god…" Meera's grandmother replied with a smile as Meera shook with terror; around the pair, the rest of the caravan was being mercilessly slaughtered, and Meera let out a cry of despair as she saw a Dothraki ride past them, dragging the dead body of her brother, an arrow protruding from his proud young heart.
A moment later, something grabbed her ankle and savagely pulled her backward from her hiding place under the cart, causing Meera to scream in terror.
XXXX
Kratos, the former god of war, sighed wearily as he approached his home, dragging the dead body of a large bear behind him, the product of another successful hunt. As Kratos reached his destination, he threw the rope over the limb of the towering tree outside his home and began to heave the bear into the air. Once the body was hanging a good three feet off of the ground, Kratos tied the rope off and dusted off his hands; tomorrow, he would clean and prepare the body, but that was tomorrow's problem.
Kratos was a large, powerfully built man, bald and standing over seven feet tall; his skin was as white as the snow that surrounded his home, a curse from his past to forever remind him of his greatest failure. Hard brown eyes hazed calmly out at the world, the same color as the bushy, thick beard that adorned his face, giving the man a rugged look well-suited for the harsh climate where Kratos had made his home. A faded red tattoo spread along most of his upper body, starting at his shoulder and ending over his left eye, while an old, faded slash scar spread across his right. Old fur-and-leather armor decorated Kratos' body from his midriff down, leaving his chest and abdomen bare; across his abdomen, a significant scar could be seen, a wound from another life that Kratos had fought long and hard to forget.
Across his back, a large axe could be seen, while twin dagger-like swords hung from his shoulders; attached were long chains tightly wrapped around Kratos' forearms.
Enjoying the cold air that filled his lungs, Kratos slowly lowered himself into the chair that sat outside his front door as he reveled in the solitude of the forest. How long had it been since Kratos had seen another living human? He could no longer be sure. Kratos had long since lost track of time since his son, Atreus, had left on his own journey; not long after that, Freyja and Mimir had too left, returning to Vanaheim to rebuild the realm after the destruction of Ragnarök. The two gods had even offered Kratos a place among them in Vanaheim, but Kratos had declined, seeking only silence and peace after millennia of war and destruction.
Peace. That was something that Kratos knew very little of; in the millennia of his existence, he had never experienced such stillness as he had found in this quiet place. The storm of anger and rage that had dominated most of his life had been appeased by his solitude in this snow-covered landscape. He was no fool, of course, and he knew that it would not last; beings such as him were not meant for lasting peace, after all. Eventually, there would come a time when he would have to fight and kill once more, and he knew that when the day came, he would once again do what he must; but for now, Kratos reveled in the silence of the forest, a balm to his tired soul.
Slowly shutting his eyes, Kratos' mind wandered back to his last conversation with Mimir and Freyja before they left for Vanaheim.
Flashback:
"Are you sure you won't come with us, brother?" The severed head of Mimir asked in a sad voice, "There is much work to be done in Vanaheim, you could do much good there."
"Mimir is right," Freyja added, "We've stopped Odin, once and for all. You should be a part of what follows, not exiled here on Midgard."
"I am sure," Kratos replied softly, his voice rumbling like stone, "I have seen enough of war… Now I simply desire peace… And solitude."
Mimir and Freyja shared a look as though they wanted to argue, but both knew that it would be pointless to do so; so instead, Freyja simply placed a comforting hand on Kratos' shoulder before turning away. From his place on Freyja's hip, Mimir offered one last word of wisdom,
"Brother… I know you think that war and death are all you are good for, but you are so much more than that. You've always been more than that… Your actions during Ragnarök have more than proved that."
"Perhaps…" Kratos responded, "But for now, I simply wish to be left alone…"
"Well, should the day ever come where you change your mind, brother." Mimir smiled, "We'll be waiting for you."
A moment later, in a flash of light, the two were gone, leaving Kratos alone with his whirring thoughts as he basked in the stillness of the forest.
End Flashback:
"It is time…" A voice suddenly whispered making Kratos' eyes shoot open in alarm and he quickly jumped to his feet, pulling the two dagger-like swords, the Blades of Chaos, into his arms as he prepared to face whatever might be coming. A sudden wind began to rip through his valley as Kratos looked around for the voice's origin, slow at first but gradually growing stronger.
"Who is there?" Kratos demanded, "Come out!"
"Save them…" The voice replied, sounding as though many were speaking as one and making Kratos growl as he looked around and found no one.
As the wind began to grow stronger, Kratos watched with narrowed eyes as the trees surrounding his home were ripped from the ground and hurled through the air, his bear waving wildly as the wind tried to rip it from the branch in which it hung. A moment later, a large rip literally appeared in the middle of the air in front of Kratos, and a blinding white light blazed forth, forcing Kratos to shut his eyes as the wind turned into a violent storm, sucking everything in the vicinity into the rip.
The body of the bear Kratos had hunted, as well as the branch itself, suddenly broke free and was sucked into the tear a moment later, disappearing without a sound. Spinning on his heel, Kratos threw the Blades of Chaos in front of him, embedding them deep into the ground as he tried to anchor himself from being sucked into the rip. This seemed to work for a moment before the wind grew even fiercer in the wake of Kratos' refusal to give in; one blade was ripped free, leaving Kratos to growl angrily as he hung on to the remaining blade with his one hand. A moment later, Kratos' eyes widened as the remaining blade was ripped free, and he tumbled backward, end-over-end, into the rip; as soon as Kratos disappeared, the crack sealed, and the wind died away, leaving a devastated area that was once a seat of calm and solitude.
XXXX
Meera tried not to show how utterly terrified she was as she sat amongst the few survivors of the Dothraki massacre, her hands bound together tightly; seated next to her, Meera's grandmother was sitting with her head bowed, silently praying. Screams, pleas for mercy, and cruel laughter echoed from all around Meera as the Dothraki reveled in their victory, tearing through the caravan for valuables and dragging female captives away to be raped.
The Dothraki had been quite thorough in their slaughter, sparing only the women and the very young; the men had all been killed, their bodies thrown on the bonfire that was blazing out of control not far away.
"As a sudden shadow fell across Meera, she looked up to see a Dothraki warrior leering down at her, blood splattered across his chest and arms; an arakh sword, covered in gore, was held loosely in the warrior's left hand, which he raised at Meera.
"You're next…"
"No!" Meera screeched as she tried to back away from the leering warrior, "Please no!"
"Silence whore!" The Dothraki spat, reaching forward and grabbing Meera by the hair, causing her to cry out in pain as the warrior began to drag her away from the other crying women.
The warrior had only dragged Meera a few feet away when a fierce wind began to blow across the plain, making the Dothraki release his hold on Meera as he tried to cover his face with his arm, his eyes narrowed against the growing dust; from where she sat, Meera's grandmother began to grin, as though having expected this to occur.
A moment later, black clouds began to spread across the once-blue sky as the wind grew ever fiercer; as Meera stared in shock, lightning began to flash above her with such ferocity that it took her breath away.
"He comes…" Meera's grandmother whispered reverently, causing a few of the women to turn to the old woman with looks of confusion.
As the Dothraki struggled to control their panicking horses, the wind blew across the plains with the strength of a hurricane. Black clouds filled with lightning ripped across the sky, and thunder boomed with such strength that it shook the very ground beneath Meera's feet.
A moment later, the group, Dothraki and captives alike, stared in shock as the sky ripped in two, unleashing a blinding light from the heavens that temporarily blinded all who looked at it. As the group continued to stare in shock, debris began to rain down from above; a staring Dothraki warrior was suddenly ripped from the saddle of his horse as an entire tree trunk slammed into his body, impaling him in the ground with a cry of anguish. Meera's grandmother, by this time, had risen to her feet and had her bound hands raised towards the heavens, a look of reverence on her face as everyone else watched in horror at what was occurring.
"What is happening!" A Dothraki warrior screamed as he struggled to control his panicking horse; a moment later, the body of a large bear slammed into the warrior, knocking both him and his horse to the ground. As his fellow warriors stared in shock, unable to believe what they had just seen, the warrior screamed and cursed as he tried to free himself from under the body of the bear, while his horse screamed and kicked in terror as it also tried to free itself.
Just when Meera thought that she could not possibly be more shocked, a man with skin as white as snow fell through the hole in the sky, crashing to the ground in front of the stunned Dothraki with such force that the ground literally shook with the man's impact. As she took in the behemoth of a man, who was slowly rising to his feet, Meera felt as though someone had stolen her voice from her; everything her grandmother had told her was true. The pale god was real. He was real and descended from the heavens, just as her grandmother had promised for years. It was all true.
"Behold!" Meera's grandmother cried reverently, causing the other women to look at her in shock. "The pale god has come!"
XXXX
Winterfell:
Ned Stark kneeled before the weirwood trees outside his home and stared in shock, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He had been paying his respects to the Old Gods as was his way when suddenly blood-red tears began to pour from the eyes of the face carved into the tree. Ned had always believed in the Old Gods, like all Starks before him; yet, he had never seen any proof of their existence, and nothing like what was happening before him had ever occurred. What did this mean? The answer would not come to Ned for a very long time.
XXXX
Tyrosh:
Melisandre stared in shock at the towering pillar of flame that spread from the floor to the ceiling before her, her mouth open in awe at the magnificent display of power that her god was showing her and all the faithful that were in his Temple at that moment. Mere moments before, she had been kneeling before the sacred flame of R'hllor in her god's Temple, seeking to commune about the future and what her god wished of her; for more years than the woman could remember, Melisandre had done everything in her power to spread the teachings of her god and ensure that all saw the light of R'hllor.
Yet, in all that time, nothing like what was happening before her had ever happened before. As she knelt before the sacred fire in R'hllor's Temple, seeking guidance, Melisandre was suddenly blown onto her back as the fire roared with power, becoming the pillar she now saw before her. A moment later, Melisandre and all within the Temple screamed in agony, their hands clasped tightly over their ears as a voice roared across their minds, as loud as thunder.
"THE PALE ONE HAS COME!"
Who the pale one was and what R'hllor's words meant was something that Melisandre would not discover for many years to come, but it was a message that she would never forget.
XXXX
Kings Landing:
Jon Arryn knelt silently as he prayed to the seven for guidance; since becoming Hand of the King some years ago, Jon had done all he could to try and curb the King's many self-destructive vices, all to no avail. No one could control Robert Baratheon, it seemed; the man's interminable love for alcohol and whores seemed to be all that the man cared about.
The realm could go to the seven hells, for all Robert apparently cared, as long as he had a goblet of wine in his hand and a whore's lips around his cock. At the end of Robert's rebellion, Jon had thought that the days of a mad king sitting on the iron throne were finally at an end; that hope, it seemed, was quickly being dashed as Jon watched the boy he had all but raised, lose himself to his inability to control himself. That was what had brought Jon to the Temple of the Seven; he had come to beg the gods for guidance on how he could save the realm, for if things did not change soon, Jon had no doubt that another rebellion would unfurl in his lifetime, and this time Robert would be the King fighting for his crown.
While Jon was a pious man, a small part of him wondered if the gods even existed or whether he and all who entered this Temple were wasting their time and simply whispering to the wind. As Jon finished his prayer and began to rise to his feet, he looked up at the statue of the mother, who towered above him; hopefully, she would give him a sign of what it was he needed to do. No sooner had the thought entered Jon's mind when suddenly the ground beneath his feet began to violently shake; as the other worshippers in the Temple began to scream in fear and fall to the floor, Jon heard an unmistakable crack. As he was suddenly thrown onto his stomach, Jon looked up at the statue of the mother, his eyes widening in horror as he saw a large crack beginning to form across the statue's face; another loud crack had the Hand of the King looking up to the ceiling in horror as spiderweb cracks began to spread across it.
Realizing what was about to happen, Jon spat out a curse and quickly struggled to his feet as the Temple violently shook around him; shouting out a warning to the other worshippers to run for their lives, Jon sprinted for the door as fast as his old legs would take him. He had just managed to run out of the Temple's doors when it happened; with an almighty groan, the Temple crumpled like a house of cards, crushing everyone behind Jon who had been too slow to heed his warning and blanketing the stunned watchers in a suffocating fog of dust and debris. Jon knelt where he was, a look of horror etched across his face as he stared at the once mighty Temple of the faith, now a ruin, with an uncountable number of victims buried inside of it.
The people were much given to signs and portents, and Jon knew, without a doubt, that this would be considered a terrible one. The Temple of the Faith being ripped apart by an earthquake soon after Robert had taken the crown? The people would no doubt wonder if it was a message from the gods, showing their displeasure with Robert's rule! Jon would need to work fast if he was to head off a possible revolt. Quickly rising to his feet, Jon began to scream for the Gold Cloaks, the city watch of Kings Landing, to begin searching for survivors. Little did Jon know that at this very moment, across Westeros, similar violent earthquakes were destroying nearly every Temple built to honor the faith of the seven. The small folk would speak of the catastrophic destruction of the temples for years to come as the day when the gods truly abandoned their land in fear, but fear of what? That answer would not come for some time yet.
XXXX
The island of Pyke:
Balon Greyjoy glared angrily at the small number of boats that lay at anchor not far from him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he tried to smother the all-consuming rage that burned within him.
Barely a year ago, during the height of his rebellion against the fat bastard, King Robert Baratheon, Balon's fleet had numbered at a hundred ships; for several months, the Ironborn had ruled the waves, taking salt wives and plunder from anyone stupid enough to try and stand up to them. Then King Robert had come and destroyed all of Balon's dreams of conquest, killing his sons in the process and taking his sole heir, Theon, as a hostage and delivering him to the King's pet wolves, the Starks. It was not supposed to be this way; Balon was supposed to be the sword of the Drowned God, delivering his judgment to all those weak bastards who dared to look down on the Ironborn; instead, Balon had been broken, his fleet taken from him and his family left in ruins.
King Robert even humiliated Balon further by showing him mercy and letting him live rather than taking the iron price as Balon had expected. Had the roles been reversed, Balon would have relished in cleaving the King's head from his body, taking the fat bastard's whore of a Queen as his salt wife, the expected fate for a defeated enemy.
So consumed in his internal fury and hatred at the man who had taken everything from him and humiliated him afterwards that Balon failed to notice how quickly the water along the shoreline was receding. The sailors on the boats did, however, and began promptly jumping off their ships, running in a mad dash of panic as they tried to get as far inland as possible.
Finally, the panicked cries and running bodies seemed to register to Balon, and he looked around in confusion at what was happening around him; turning his eyes to the sea, Balon's mouth dropped open in shock as he saw the enormous tidal wave speeding toward him. Spinning on his heel, Balon began running as fast as he could towards his stronghold, not knowing he would never make it. That day, a series of tidal waves would slam into the Iron Islands, decimating them beyond anything they had ever experienced before; the exact number of dead would never truly be known, but it was suspected that the population of the Islands had been cut by more than half. No ships would survive the storm's fury, and it would be many years before the Ironblood could create even a tenth of the ships they once commanded.
XXXX
The Far North:
Leaf and the other children of the forest stared in horror as the man whom they called 'The Three-Eyed-Raven' screamed in absolute despair and agony, violently twisting and struggling to free himself from the confines of his prison. For more years than Leaf could remember, this man had been their advisor, carefully manipulating events worldwide to prepare mankind for the return of the White Walkers. Now, their advisor was sobbing incoherently like a small child as whatever he had foreseen with his gifts completely destroyed him. As Leaf continued to stare in shock, the man seemed to look right at Leaf for a moment before screaming,
"The pale one has come! And his arrival has broken the board against the wall! Find him! Only he can save us now!"
A moment later, blinding light erupted from the man's eyes, burning his eyes from his skull as he screamed in pain; Leaf and the others watching in horrified silence as the man's screams grew into shrieks before finally, he fell limp and silent against the roots that had, for so long, been his prison.
As she stared at the dead body of the Three-Eyed-Raven, Leaf felt herself swallow as her throat grew unbearably dry. Leaf was old, very old indeed, and she remembered the prophecy given millennia ago about the pale one's coming. But, after waiting so long for him to arrive and seeing no sign that he ever would, Leaf had understandably begun to doubt that the prophecy was anything but another lie that the humans had created to satisfy their own greed. If the pale one truly had arrived, then she and the other children would need to find him as quickly as possible, for only he could save them from the wrath of the White Walkers now.
XXXX
Wilding camp:
Several hundred miles from Leaf and the children of the forest, a Wise Woman was applying a healing poultice to an injured warrior when she suddenly froze, causing the warrior to look at her in confusion; when she was still frozen in place, several seconds later, the woman's granddaughter warily approached and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder.
"Grandmother…? Are you alright?"
"Oh yes, child…" The woman replied, tears beginning to run down her face as she reached up and gripped the small omega symbol that hung from around her neck, "I've never felt better… For you see… Our god has finally arrived…"
The girl's eyes widened in shock at her grandmother's words, and she reached up to grab her own necklace, her heart beating like a drum.
"You are sure…?"
"Oh yes, child," the old woman replied, "I feel it in my bones… He has finally come!"
"Who the bloody fuck are you two talking about?" The Wildling warrior demanded, annoyed that the Wise Woman had stopped treating his injury and appeared to have gone mad.
"We must speak to the chieftain," the old woman replied, ignoring the warrior's question, "If the pale one has truly come at last, there are preparations that need to be made!"
Without another word, both women hurried out of the tent, leaving the warrior to curse and yell after them as he stared between the door they had run out of and his half-treated injury.
XXXX
To say that Kratos was annoyed would be an understatement at the moment; he had just been kidnapped from his home and dragged through a portal of unknown origin for unknown reasons. After what felt like an eternity of being dragged behind Helio's chariot, he'd finally fallen free of the portal, crashing to the earth with such force that his arrival created a crater. As he slowly rose to his feet, Kratos quickly took account of his surroundings; he appeared to have landed in some grassland-type area, and judging by the bloody warriors who were staring at him with varying degrees of shock, the destroyed wagons, and the massive bonfire of burning corpses, Kratos suspected he had just arrived in the aftermath of a particularly brutal battle.
A sudden whimper from behind him made Kratos turn to see its origin, only to find a small girl kneeling before him and staring up at him with wide eyes. Not far from her, a group of bound, bloodied, and terrified women and children were all looking at Kratos with various expressions of shock on their faces, save for one bound elder woman in a long brown robe, who was standing in front of the seated group and staring at Kratos with a level of reverence that made him feel uncomfortable.
"Behold!" The elder woman proclaimed for all to hear, "The pale god has come!"
Kratos raised his eyebrow at that and stared imperiously down at the woman for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.
"Where am I, woman?" Kratos demanded; to his surprise, the woman's smile seemed to grow at the question.
"In Essos, my lord," the woman replied at once, "Not far from the city of Myr."
"Essos… Myr…" Kratos repeated thoughtfully, "I do not know these lands…"
The old woman nodded at that as though expecting such a response, her smile still prominently displayed; behind her, the other women and children were staring at Kratos as though they couldn't believe he was real.
Turning back to the still-staring warriors, Kratos could see that their shock at his arrival was beginning to wear off, replaced with growing anger.
"These men, who are they to you?" Kratos demanded of the woman,
"Dothraki, my lord," the old woman replied, making Kratos inwardly groan at the title, "They are raiders who attacked our trading caravan and killed our menfolk, in search of plunder. The women, they like to take for…. Sport."
Kratos' eyes narrowed dangerously at that as a Dothraki warrior suddenly grew tired of waiting and stepped forward, raising his bloody arakh at Kratos.
"I don't know where you came from, you tall fucker, but if you don't want to die screaming, you will step away from our prizes."
Kratos stared at the warrior momentarily, his eyes narrowing angrily as he sized up the Dothraki; they reminded him of the barbarians he had faced so many years before.
"No," Kratos growled, coming to a decision, "These women are now under my protection. Find somewhere else to stick your dick…"
The Dothraki growled angrily at that and took a step forward as his fellow warriors laughed behind him. Kratos could see what was about to happen and sighed wearily, crossing his arms over his chest. Behind him, the kneeling girl had shuffled back to the others and was watching wide-eyed at the spectacle; as Kratos prepared for the inevitable, he heard the girl whisper,
"Grandmother, we must do something! He's going to be killed!"
The older woman laughed at that, and Kratos heard her reply,
"Be calm, Meera. These Dothraki dogs cannot hurt our lord."
The Dothraki took another step forward, violently slashing his weapon through the air as he made various threats against Kratos in his native tongue.
"You do not want this fight… Leave, while you're still able to…"
This final threat seemed to be too much for the warrior to bear, for he swiftly charged forward and jumped into the air, slashing down at Kratos' chest as he landed; a moment later, everyone watching gaped in shock as the Dothraki's weapon bounced harmlessly against Kratos' bare skin, leaving not even a bruise behind.
The Dothraki stared at his opponent for a moment, stunned that his weapon had not even scratched the pale warrior before him, and Kratos watched as the man swallowed nervously. The other Dothraki behind the warrior were likewise stunned, unable to understand how the man's weapon had been so ineffective; from behind him, Kratos heard the older woman softly laugh, as though expecting such a result.
"Leave." Kratos growled, "I will not tell you again."
The Dothraki warrior turned red with humiliation at being talked down to by Kratos and screamed out a war cry before beginning to violently slash as fast as he could at Kratos' body; yet, no matter where the arakh landed, it continuously bounced harmlessly off of Kratos' skin, leaving no wound behind.
Finally, after several moments of this, Kratos finally had enough and snapped his arm forward, grabbing the warrior by the throat and slowly raising him into the air as he violently thrashed to free himself.
"You were warned…" Kratos growled as the warrior in his grip stared back in naked fear, "You should have listened."
With a savage roar that sounded as if it had come from a dragon, Kratos grabbed the warrior's body with his other hand and jerked the arm around the warrior's throat, upwards; a moment later, the Dothraki's head was ripped free of his body, with his spinal cord still attached. With a sneer of contempt, Kratos let the body drop to the ground as he held the warrior's head, a look of agony still etched upon it. The surrounding group, both Dothraki and captive, stared at the aftermath in abject shock, unable to comprehend what they had just seen; this behemoth of a man had suddenly appeared from the sky, had swords bounce harmlessly off of his naked chest, and then ripped a man's head completely free of his body as easily as a girl might rip petals from a flower. Such things were simply not possible!
Carelessly throwing the severed head toward the watching Dothraki warriors, Kratos watched as they flinched away from the grotesque trophy as it hit the ground and rolled toward them.
"Unless you wish to join him… Leave now."
The Dothraki looked at one another, and for a moment, Kratos hoped that they would heed his advice; that hope disappeared seconds later when the warriors seemed to come to an unspoken agreement and charged at him, causing him to sigh wearily before reaching back and pulling his axe from behind him.
"So be it, then…"
With a deep growl, Kratos brought his arm back and hurled the axe as hard as he could at the charging warriors; faster than should have been possible, the axe left Kratos' hand and sliced through the warriors as easily as a knife through butter. A moment later, six Dothraki warriors fell to the ground, having been cleanly sliced in two; the sight of such an attack caused the other charging warriors to pause as they stared in shock. Kratos then raised his hand, causing those behind him watching to wonder what he was doing; their question was answered seconds later as the axe flew back into his hand, to the shock and awe of those watching, slicing through more warriors as it did so, and leaving a dozen dead in the span of a heartbeat.
Two dozen arrows suddenly slammed into Kratos' body and bounced harmlessly to the ground a second later, causing him to growl in irritation; as a warrior on horseback raced toward him with a drawn bow, Kratos reared back with his free arm and delivered an overpowered punch to the charging warrior's horse, sending it flying backward end-over-end and breaking its back as it came to a stop, its rider trapped under it as the horse screamed in pain. Seeing such savage power seemed to shock the Dothraki beyond anything they had ever experienced, and Kratos took advantage of their shock to the fullest as he slashed, stabbed, and ripped the raiders apart one by one.
XXXX
Meera stared in horror at the gory spectacle going on before her; mere moments ago, she and the other women had been at the Dothraki's mercy. Now, those same savage warriors who had slaughtered hundreds of her people were themselves being slaughtered as easily as a butcher might kill a pig. Moreover, their killer seemed to possess powers that no mortal could claim! Swords and arrows bounced harmlessly off his body as though he were wearing Valyrian armor; his axe continuously flew from his hand to rip Dothraki to pieces, only to return to his open palm as if by magic, and his strength!
No human being could possibly be that strong! Meera's eyes widened even further as she watched the man physically pick up a charging horse over his head and hurl it, horse and rider both, at another group of charging riders, creating a pile of screaming horses and broken men!
A moment later, a charging rider was lifted clear of his saddle as the pale warrior punched the Dothraki in the chest, his arm actually going through the warrior's chest and coming out his back, leaving the Dothraki hanging upon the pale warrior's arm for a moment before the pale warrior flicked his arm and sent the Dothraki crashing to the ground. Spotting a fallen arakh, Meera placed the handle between her feet and began to feverishly saw at the bindings on her wrists.
"Wow…" A small boy whispered as he gazed out at the battle from under his mother's arm, "Look how strong he is, Mommy!"
"Gods save us…" The boy's mother whimpered back as they watched the pale warrior bring his axe down on a Dothraki, splitting him into two vertical halves.
"They have," Meera's grandmother proclaimed happily, "Can you not see him for what he is!"
As her bindings snapped free, Meera passed the weapon to another woman who began to saw at her bindings, just as Meera had. Turning to her grandmother, Meera looked up at the old woman and paused at the expression that Meera saw on her face; Meera's grandmother had a smile of pure reverence adorning her face, even as tears ran freely down her cheeks, as though all of the old woman's prayers had been answered and she could not possibly be happier.
"Grandmother!" Meera cried out, "We must flee while we have the chance!"
The old woman looked down at Meera in confusion at that,
"Why would we flee, child? Our lord will not harm us. See the power he holds! We, his faithful, are perfectly safe from his rage. It's his enemies that need fear his savagery, not us!"
The other women listening began to relax at the old woman's words, though a few still looked unconvinced and horrified at what the pale warrior was doing; several women, however, were beginning to look at the warrior with the same reverence as Meera's grandmother.
"Your father never truly believed…" The old woman continued, gently wiping away her tears, "But I did. I always knew he would come… Knew it in my soul…"
"He's real…" Meera whispered as the truth finally hit her. Her grandmother had been telling the truth, and all these years, Meera thought her mad.
"Oh yes, child…" The old woman replied in an awed whisper, "He's absolutely real… And he's going to change our world forever…"
XXXX
Kratos snarled with fury at the idiocy of the men facing him; Kratos had slaughtered dozens of their fellow warriors, and yet they just kept coming! An intelligent warrior would have seen that their weapons were useless against Kratos and ordered a retreat, but it seemed there was no such warrior among these 'Dothraki.'
Like annoying stinging bugs, these idiotic warriors just came, believing that even though none of their weapons had so much as scratched Kratos, they would still be able to overpower the Spartan through sheer force of numbers alone—an incorrect assessment, as they were quickly learning.
Kratos had lost track of time since this battle began, locked in his dance of death that was quickly seeing the battlefield fill up with fresh corpses of horses and men, who seemed too stupid to realize that they were not going to win this fight or perhaps they were like the Spartans of Kratos' homeland, choosing to die on the battlefield rather than surrender. If that were the case, then Kratos could at least respect their choice to stand and fight rather than flee in dishonor.
Finally, after an interminable amount of time, one lone warrior on a tall black steed screamed out something in his native tongue, causing the other warriors to stop their attack on Kratos and fall back, making Kratos grunt. Perhaps these Dothraki were not as stupid as he had first thought. Those who still had horses quickly turned their mounts from the battlefield and kicked their sides hard, fleeing from the battlefield and from the warrior who had decimated their ranks. Those without horses held out arms to their fellow warriors to be picked up as they rode past, or else were forced to flee on foot, send hateful glares over their shoulders at Kratos as they ran.
Finally, only Kratos and four Dothraki warriors remained, the one who had called a halt to the fighting and three others who sat behind him. As Kratos gazed across the sea of corpses that had been left in his wake, he was once again reminded of the barbarians of his past and of the destruction they had been left in, the day Kratos had made the ultimate mistake.
Kratos' mind was brought back to the present when the Dothraki leader pointed his weapon at him and shouted something at him, causing the Spartan to tightly grip his axe in preparation for another stupid attack. Instead, one of the other Dothraki calmly led his mount forward until he was only a few dozen feet separated them, causing Kratos to raise a brow in confusion.
"The Khal wishes to know the name of such a mighty warrior!" The Dothraki called out, "One who has killed so many of our people deserves to be known!"
For a moment, Kratos considered remaining silent. He had no need to give these people his name, but as he gazed across the battlefield, he felt a smudge of respect for their courage in facing him, even when they knew they could not win.
"I am called Kratos."
The Dothraki warrior turned in his saddle to face his leader and shouted back a response in his native tongue; the leader stared thoughtfully at Kratos for a moment before shouting something back, making the translator nod once.
"Kratos. It is a strange name. He is called Khal Drogo, leader of the Khalasar that you have just destroyed. Where do you come from that breeds such warriors?"
"I am a Spartan. My people are bred for war; tell 'Khal Drogo' that his people were very brave." Kratos replied simply, causing the warrior to turn and translate again; behind him, Kratos could hear the woman and children repeating his name and land in hushed whispers.
Khal Drogo shouted out one last time in his native language before turning his steed away from the battlefield and kicking in his heels, quickly speeding away, followed by the three others behind him.
"Khal Drogo says he will remember you, Kratos of Sparta! You are a great warrior, worthy of his respect! The caravan is yours to do with as you see fit, a worthy prize for a battle well fought!"
Without another word, the warrior turned his mount and followed Khal Drogo; a moment later, Kratos stood alone on the battlefield, save for the captives who were still seated behind him.
Kratos stared out at where the warriors had vanished for a moment more, making sure that they were actually gone, and not just circling back to attack once his back was turned; such a tactic would not work, of course, merely piss Kratos off, and Kratos doubted that someone like this 'Khal Drogo' would actually use such a tactic. Kratos had taken the measure of the man, and the Dothraki leader did not seem the type for such dishonorable tactics. Yet, more than one warrior had been felled due to his own carelessness after thinking victory was assured. After several moments of inactivity, Kratos returned his axe to its spot on his back before turning back to the captives, who were all watching him with differing expressions. Some were staring at him with naked terror, no doubt thinking that they would be next to feel the wrath of his rage.
Others were staring at him with relief as though he were their hero and had been sent by the gods to save them from an unspeakable fate. A small number, however, were staring at Kratos with reverence and devotion that made him feel uncomfortable; Kratos was not used to people looking at him like that. Fear, hate, anger, those he could understand as they had been the expression that many had viewed him with for most of his life. But reverence and respect? Those were entirely new, and he didn't know how to respond to such looks.
After several moments of silence, the old woman from earlier approached him and knelt in front of him as Kratos gazed down at her imperiously,
"My lord, Kratos… I have waited a long time for this day…"
"Rise to your feet, woman," Kratos growled, "I have no need for your sycophantry!"
"Of course, my lord," the woman smiled happily as she slowly climbed back to her feet.
"You claimed to have been waiting for this day… What did you mean?" Kratos demanded,
"It is just as I said, my lord," the old woman replied, "Centuries ago, a prophecy was made that proclaimed your arrival! The arrival of the pale god who would one day descend from the heavens and save our world, sweeping away the corruption and filth that has long polluted it! He will lead his people in battle against the cold ones and bring about a golden age of peace! The Targaryen's perverted our people's prophecy and made it seem like they were the ones destined to stop the cold ones, but our people always knew the truth, my lord."
Kratos felt his temper rising with every word the woman spoke; even centuries after their death, the fates STILL couldn't stop themselves from dragging Kratos into things that the Spartan had no interest in being a part of!
"I am no hero…" Kratos growled, "And you are not my people. Your prophecy is wrong. You should salvage what you can and be on your way."
"No, my lord," the old woman declared at once. "You ARE my way. We follow you now, as all will one day, whether they know it or not."
Kratos growled again at the woman's words, causing the captives behind her to shuffle back nervously, yet the old woman stood firm, smiling up at him as though his anger was immaterial to her.
Gazing down imperiously at the old woman, Kratos felt as though he was looking at a mirror image of his mother from ages past; the woman's age was impossible to know, but she appeared to be reaching her seventieth year, if he was any judge. Her hair was as white as his skin, and age had ripped her once youthful features away, leaving a hunched old crone behind; only her eyes still held any strength to them, and as Kratos gazed into the bluest eyes he had ever seen, he could feel the strength of his devotion to him. It unnerved him, to say the least. As Kratos continued to stare at the old woman, his gaze zeroed in on the small iron symbol that hung from around her neck, a symbol that he knew very well; his symbol. The symbol of war.
"Where did you get that?" Kratos demanded, pointing at the small iron omega hanging from the woman's neck, causing her to look down at it momentarily.
"It is the symbol of my order, my lord Kratos… We have worn it since my people first heard the prophecy of you…"
Kratos glared hatefully at the symbol for a moment more, causing the woman to smile knowingly as she gently caressed the iron omega.
"It is your symbol, my lord. Is it not?"
Kratos said nothing and simply continued to stare at the iron omega, as though he would have liked nothing better than to rip it from the woman's throat and hurl it as far away from him as he could; yet, despite Kratos's obvious anger, the woman continued to caress the symbol as though it were the greatest gift she had ever received.
"Are you really a god, mister?" A small boy suddenly asked, causing his mother to quickly grab him, pull him into her arms, and such him as Kratos' attention turned from the old woman to the child.
"Yes," Kratos stated, seeing no reason to lie. These people meant nothing to him, and telling the truth cost him nothing; the captives began to whisper excitedly at Kratos' reply, and the boy's eyes widened to a comical degree.
"But I am not the god you are waiting for…" Kratos growled. "I did not come here to save you. My arrival was not by choice."
"You are, my lord Kratos…" The old woman replied firmly, "You are destined to save us. You just don't know it yet…"
Kratos growled in annoyance. The old woman's devotion to him and refusal to be dissuaded that he was not who she thought he was were beginning to grind on Kratos' nerves.
"You said that your so-called 'prophecy' proclaimed that I would defeat the cold ones… Explain."
"The cold ones are the enemies of all mankind, my lord," the woman replied quickly, her eyes growing dark, "They seek only to kill every living thing on earth and leave it in a state of perpetual winter, where nothing living will ever grow again. For now, they reside beyond the Great Wall of Westeros, but one day soon, they will come through it, and the final battle will begin.
"Great Wall?" Kratos repeated thoughtfully, "What is this Wall?"
"The Wall is an incredibly massive structure of ice and stone, built thousands of years ago by Bran the Builder for reasons that have been lost to time. Some say that Bran knew of the cold ones, having encountered them before, and built the wall to keep them out. It's several hundred feet high and over three hundred miles long, reaching from coast to coast."
Only the small tick of Kratos' eyebrow showed how impressed he was with the Wall as his mind raged at how such a thing could have possibly been built.
"And who defends such an impressive defense?" Kratos asked, after a moment of quiet contemplation, "Why not have them fight these 'cold ones' you speak of?"
The old woman's face twisted into an ugly scowl at that before she spat out hatefully,
"Perhaps once, they could have, my lord! But that time has long since passed… The Wall is guarded by members of the Night's Watch, an order of brothers who swore off children, lands, and titles to spend the remainder of their lives protecting 'The realms of men.' In times past, that did mean keeping a watchful eye out for the cold ones, and the order was filled with thousands of honorable warriors who swore to do so.
These days, however, the Night's Watch has become a shadow of its former self; they barely have enough warriors to man three of its nineteen castles, and the few they do have are mostly made up of rapists and murderers sent to the Wall as punishment, not for any sort of honor. When the cold ones do come, the Night's Watch will be easily consumed in their fury. Only you will be able to stand against them, my lord Kratos. You and those who follow you."
Kratos growled in annoyance at that, turning away from the captives to view the battlefield. He had no wish to be part of another quest to save the world, nor did he wish to be a leader to these people. He had been a leader once, and it had cost him everything he cared about, including his soul. He had learned well from his past mistakes and had no wish to repeat them. As his thoughts raged with all he had learned, Kratos gazed across the battlefield at the aftermath of not only his own slaughter but also that of the Dothraki who had come before him. Perhaps a hundred dead Dothraki littered the ground, and another hundred bodies that were obviously the captives' friends and families. Not far away, a huge bonfire was blazing out of control, the dead bodies of the Dothraki's victims used as kindling.
"Come, there is work to be done," Kratos rumbled, turning back to the whispering crowd, "The bodies of your kin do not deserve to be left here to rot. We will give them the rites they are due to ensure their spirits reach their final resting place."
"You heard our lord!" The old woman cried out, clapping her hands together, "On your feet and get to work!"
The captives quickly rose to their feet and strode through the sea of corpses, looking for friends and loved ones. Kratos watched, annoyed by what the woman had once again called him; with a tried sigh, Kratos wearily shook his head and strode forward as well, to help however he could.
XXXX
Meera stifled a sob as she stared at the three wrapped bodies that were burning before her; around her, dozens of similar pyres were burning, sending smoke into the night sky as the women and children all sobbed and said their last goodbyes to loved ones. Next to her, Meera's grandmother was silently praying, tears running down her cheeks as she whispered a final goodbye to her son, daughter-in-law, and grandson.
So caught up in her own grief, Meera failed to notice as Kratos stepped up behind her, it wasn't until his rumbling voice spoke that she realized he was there, jumping in alarm at his voice.
"Do not weep for them, girl."
"What?" Meera asked in confusion as she spun around to face the god, "How can I not? They were all I had! And now, I'll never see them again!"
"Sorrow is to be expected," Kratos nodded. "But tell me this: Did they die well?"
"As well as can be expected, my lord," Meera's grandmother replied sadly, "I saw my grandson spear one of those Dothraki dogs in the side before an arrow killed him; based on the wound, I don't believe the bastard will survive the night."
Kratos nodded in approval at that, seemingly pleased with the old woman's words,
"Then he has earned his place in Elysium."
"Elysium, my lord…?" Meera asked in a small voice, staring up at the god, with wide eyes,
"It is the reward for all warriors of honor," Kratos replied, staring off into the distance at a place none but he could see, "A place of peace and beauty… The beautiful afterlife…"
Unbeknownst to Kratos, a great many of the former captives were standing nearby listening to his words and took great peace from them. Elysium. The beautiful afterlife. Those words would be planted in the minds of every person present, and one day soon, they would spread far beyond this place of death and sorrow; the beautiful afterlife, a place reserved for all the followers of Kratos, all the faithful.
Turning back to the still-crying girl, Kratos placed a warm hand on her shoulder and spoke again. His rumbling voice was still as strong as before, but it had a small measure of softness to it.
"Do not dishonor their courage with needless tears, girl. Instead, honor their memory by living every day that you are given, every day that they were denied, and perhaps one day you too will be worthy of Elysium.
Kratos' words profoundly impacted Meera as she stared up at him in awe; beside her, Meera's grandmother smiled proudly and gave a quick nod at Kratos' words.
Quickly wiping away her tears, Meera stood straight as an arrow and looked back into Kratos' eyes with a newfound determination that made the god nod in approval at her. She would do exactly what her god had told her to do, honor her family's sacrifice by living every single day as though it were her last, and one day, earn her place in Elysium and see them again.
Seeing that his words had done their work, Kratos nodded once more before removing his hand from Meera's shoulder and turning to the old woman,
"Come, woman. We must talk."
"Of course, my lord," Meera's grandmother replied at once, following behind Kratos at a respectful distance; Meera turned back to the burning pyre one last time, whispering a soft goodbye before quickly following the pair.
XXXX
Kratos sighed wearily as he led the old woman away from the multitude of burning bodies; throughout the day, he had watched with a careful eye as the women and children sorrowfully performed the rituals that would see their families to whatever afterlife awaited them. And the longer he watched, the more agitated Kratos became as an unarguable truth descended upon him: these people would all be dead in a matter of days if he left them to fend for themselves. There was not a warrior left among them, the Dothraki had seen to that; what was left were traders, mothers, and children barely old enough to learn how to swing a sword.
"What is your name, woman?" Kratos demanded as he finally stopped, staring out into the grasslands' darkness, yet knowing she was behind him without looking.
"I am called Kara, lord Kratos," the old woman replied happily as Kratos rumbled her name over his tongue.
"Kara… Tell me, should I abandon you and the rest of your people here, will you continue to follow me despite my repeated declarations that I am not the one you seek?"
"Of course, lord Kratos," Kara replied with a cocky grin as Meera gasped at the thought of Kratos leaving them, "Because you ARE the one we are meant to follow."
Kratos sighed wearily at that, and lowered his head in thought as he crossed his bulging arms over his chest.
"The land you came from," Kara said softly, "The land called Sparta… Is it the realm of the gods?"
"No," Kratos replied in a monotone, "It was a kingdom in a country called Greece. Every kingdom in Greece was known for one thing or another; some were known for their philosophy, others for their art or culture. However, Sparta was known and revered for its warriors; its children bred to be soldiers first and men second. From the moment we can stand, Spartans are baptized in the fires of combat, taught never to retreat, never to surrender, and taught to make sword and shield as much of themselves as their own beating heart. Each man protected the man next to him, killed for him, and would willingly die for him; a brotherhood like no other…"
"You speak of them as though there are no more of them, my lord…" Kara offered, noting the sadness in her god's voice as he gazed up into the night sky at a past only he could see.
"There aren't," Kratos rumbled back, "I am the last. As their military might grew, so did their hubris; they were my people once, and I was their god of war, the most important deity in their pantheon, but that was long ago and they are all gone, now…"
"I disagree, my lord. Respectfully, of course…" Kara replied softly, causing Kratos to turn back to her, "Sparta and her people may be gone from this land called Greece, but that does not mean that your people must disappear as well. No matter where you take us, my lord, we will follow you. And if you would allow us to carry the name of your people, we would make Sparta rise again to glory."
"Being a Spartan is not an easy life…" Kratos rumbled back, "And it is not something that can be freely given, it must be earned." Turning to the girl standing beside Kara, Kratos glared at her imperiously for a moment, "And you, girl? Do you wish to be a Spartan? To fight? To kill?"
"I do, my lord," the girl instantly replied, dropping to her knees before him. Unbeknownst to Kratos, a large group had followed him and Kara and likewise knelt before him as they declared their wish to be Spartans.
Kratos gazed down at the dozens of women and children before him who were proclaiming their loyalty to him, declaring themselves his people. His people. Such a strange and foreign concept. How long had it been since Kratos had people to call his own? To follow him. Fight for him. He had been a captain, a general, and eventually even a worshipped god, but those titles all felt the same, like leading armies.
Battles were the only place that people knew his name, and in his youth, when rage and violence were as close to Kratos as his own kin, he had reveled in the adoration he received for bringing destruction upon his enemies. But these people were not warriors; they did not need him to bless them with rage and fury. What they looked to him for was strength and stability; they wanted his blessings for their children, so that they would grow beyond the few short years that life had taught them to expect in this savage land. They wanted guidance and patience so they could learn to survive and not just survive but thrive!
These people claimed that they wanted to be Spartans, but Kratos was unsure if the old Spartan mentality was something he wanted to impart upon them; his people had been the greatest warriors that the world had ever seen, it was true, but their greatness had eventually led to hubris, and from there to their own destruction.
As Kratos glared down imperiously at the kneeling people before him, Mimir's words rang in his ear again, loud as thunder:
"Brother… I know that war and death are all you feel that you are capable of, but you are more than that… You have always been more than that…"
Perhaps the severed head had spoken true, after all. Perhaps he could aspire to be more than just an instrument of destruction and rage; even now, Kratos felt it; with every whispered prayer and word of gratitude from the crowd in front of him, Kratos felt himself growing stronger.
It felt different than when he was the god of war of his father's pantheon; he was already a god, but the genuine worship he was now receiving from these people seemed to amplify his already impressive power, transforming him into a true God. He felt connected to these people through their worship, and could clearly make out every invocation, every prayer, every supplication and offering.
Slowly, he looked down at the glowing blue veins that ran under the mark he had gotten so long ago in memory of his brother, Deimos. A symbol of his chosen path, or rather a path he thought he had chosen, only to later discover that there had been no choice at all. A long-forgotten spark of hope reignited within him, a goal Kratos had long thought unattainable, even when others hoped it for him. To be more than the monster he had become, more than the lone warrior fighting against everyone and everything that dared to cross his path.
Such an ambition still seemed utterly impossible to Kratos, how could he, 'The Ghost of Sparta,' be anything but a savage animal. But as he looked back out into the crowd, Mimir's words once again thundered in his skull; perhaps he had finally found a place to call home in this strange place that Kratos had found himself in. A home and a people to call his own, and who would call him their own in return; his new Spartans, but less an instrument of war and more a nation. Here was an opportunity to be for them what so many gods had failed to do for the mortals of his own world; protect them and teach them to be better. The only question that remained was, would he accept?
Gripping his hand into a fist so tight that it could have strangled the Nemean Lion effortlessly, Kratos reached his answer: yes.
He knew not what strange events had led him to this land or what this so-called 'prophecy' said about his being one day forced to fight again; such things no longer concerned him; all that mattered to Kratos, at that moment, was that he had found a new way to remake himself, to be better, and perhaps finally find redemption for the sins of his past.
"You are not Spartans…" Kratos growled, causing more than one person to look down in sadness at his rejection, "But you will be."
A dozen heads shot up in shock at those words; moments later, smiles began to break out amongst the group as they realized what had just happened. Their god was not turning them away, after all!
"To be Spartan is to embrace discipline, struggle, perhaps even death…" Kratos continued, "You must be willing to give your life for the person next to you, and know that they will do the same at a moment's notice. I will show you how to act as one, to be an unstoppable wall of shields and spears that will not break, no matter how large the force you face is! I will make you into Spartans!"
Dozens of conversations began at once as the crowd took in Kratos' words, filling the night with hushed whispers of excitement; slowly raising his hand, Kratos brought the noise to an end as he spoke again.
"Now, rise to your feet and take heed of your first lesson, and learn it well! If you wish to bear my people's name, then you must also bear the one truth that all Spartans have embraced since their founding: Spartans kneel to no one."
The crowd looked at one another for a moment as they registered their god's words; Kara's granddaughter was the first to heed his words, rising to her feet slowly but standing straight as an arrow once she had a look of fierce pride shining in her eyes at the prospect of earning the right to call herself a Spartan.
Others quickly followed the girl, slow at first but quickly gaining in number until, at last, the entire group was standing before Kratos and staring at him with a look of complete devotion and loyalty. They were his now, fully and completely, and he would ensure they learned quickly how to survive in this savage land; never again would his people need fear for their lives from raiders, bandits, and monsters seeking only slaughter and sport.
"Rest tonight," Kratos rumbled, "Tomorrow, we will gather what supplies are unspoiled and plan accordingly. If I am to turn you from a rabble into true Spartans, you will need weapons and to be taught how to properly use them."
Turning back to Kara, who had been watching the entire process with a gigantic smile, Kratos inwardly sighed.
"You said we were near a city. What is its name?"
"Myr, lord Kratos. It is but a few short hours from us," Kara replied quickly, "But it would be better if we kept our distance."
"Explain."
"Myr is heavily involved in the slave trade that dominates the Free Cities of Essos," Kara explained, making a dark look cross Kratos' face, "And if we attempt to reach the city, such as we are, there is a very real chance that we will be taken by the city lords and sold. Such a thing has happened many times before, and with no men folk to protect them, many women and children have suffered such fates in the aftermath of a Dothraki raid."
Kratos was quiet for a moment, his thoughts racing with what he had learned. He was no stranger to slavery. Growing up in Sparta, Kratos had been surrounded by the Helots, whom Sparta had enslaved long before Kratos' birth. Yet, since the day Kratos had become a slave to Ares and then to the gods of Olympus, Kratos had fostered an almost all-consuming hatred for the trade.
"How many slaves does Myr 'proudly' claim?" Kratos growled, venom creeping into his tone at the word 'proudly.'
"No one knows, my lord," Kara replied sadly, "But it is said that there are three slaves for every freeborn, and Myr calls hundreds of thousands home."
Kratos growled at that, his hands clenching into fists as his snarl rolled like thunder through the watching crowd, all who were watching their lord with worried looks.
"Tonight, we will clean and prepare the bear that arrived with me," Kratos rumbled. "It will serve as our meal for tonight and tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will gather what supplies are still useful and make our way to Myr."
"And once we reach the city, my lord?" Kara asked as a cruel grin began to spread across her face, having already suspected her lord's plan.
"Then, YOU and the others will wait outside Myr's gates while I increase our numbers," Kratos replied simply, "Myr will be but the first city we take. And once taken, Myr's slave population will join us. Myr will die, and Sparta will be born…"
Perhaps it was her imagination, but as Kratos' words washed over her, Kara felt as though she had suddenly deaged by decades as a strength all but unknown began to fill her very core. She knew at that moment that she had been correct about who Kratos was; he was the god she had been waiting for and would truly change the world forever. Tonight was a beginning, and the ground upon which she tread was sacred soil. It might take years for him to teach her people, HIS PEOPLE, all that he knew, but one day, she and all the others standing here tonight would be called Spartans, and the world would never be the same.
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Author's Note:
This story was commissioned by Kaos-lover97.
Don't expect regular updates on it because I don't like to make promises that I cannot keep; if more ideas for this story come to me, I'll periodically drop a new chapter or two, but other than that, I promise nothing.
I've already got four other stories that I am currently working on. I don't have time to take on a new one, especially when it's hard enough to update the ones I'm already writing; I only accepted this commission because this story is an entirely new frontier for me, and I was curious if I could do it. That and the idea sounded frigging awesome! I hope you like what I've created so far.