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Trying to laze around in the dance of dragons: chapter XVI: Welcome to my Parlor
🕑 Added 2025-02-23 18:28:22 +0000 UTCI should have been in my bed, buried beneath layers of warm blankets, lost in the comfort of sleep. Instead, I found myself hurtling through the skies, propelled by gravity magic that rendered conventional travel laughably obsolete. Under normal circumstances, a journey from Essos by traditional means would have taken days, weeks, or even months. But I was not bound by such limitations. Wrapped in an amethyst corona, I streaked across the heavens, the sky shifting in mesmerizing hues of violet and gold as I moved at a speed that would have put any fighter jet to shame. Even as I commanded the forces of gravity, a nagging thought clung to me: even though I knew people would kill to be able to do what I was doing right now, I would have traded all this power for the simple pleasure of being asleep, far removed from this absurd errand. I knew that this was stupid and honestly it was more an errand thought than anything else but seriously if I knew the bullshit that would have resulted with the meteor, I would not have helped.
As wind and magic whipped around me, another thought intruded—one I could not ignore no many times I tried to. Despite the exhilaration of flight, a part of me yearned to turn back. Rogar and the rest of this damned world were nothing more than characters in a story written long before I had ever existed. Their fates were sealed, written in the white pages of books written to entertain people, puppets. their lives little more than threads in a tapestry woven by hands and inks.
It would have been logical to dismiss them entirely—these people with their petty ambitions and endless hatreds, dancing like marionettes to a script they could not see and yet, against all reason, a spark of something, something that dangerously felt like care flickered within me. I could not, I didn't want to be the one responsible for the death of Rogar, for the death of the one who called me brother, of a fool who would have died if I did nothing because he did the right thing.
Memories of Rogar’s condition flooded my mind unbidden—his labored breaths, the stench of seawater and rot clinging to his withered frame, his once-strong body reduced to a pale shadow of the man he had been.
Fuck
The taste of dread soured my thoughts, and I cursed under my breath. With a flick of my will, I plunged through the billowing clouds, soaring over teeming cities and skimming the edge of the world itself, if only for a moment.
High above the scarred lands of Essos, I gazed down at the devastation I had unleashed. The once-familiar landscape was now a wasteland of ruptured earth and shattered skylines. The meteor I had summoned had struck with the force of a god’s wrath in the Stormlands and even though Essos was another continent, it had been impacted too leaving behind a scene the people of this world would probably gaze with both awe and horror. Even so far above, I could see it. Ancient stone buildings that seemed on the verge of breaking down, fissures that spidered across the ground like scars carved into flesh. In some places, the destruction was absolute—streets and homes lay in ruins, their broken arches appearing almost as if mocking the hubris of those who had built them.
The reason why I was flying to Essos was because I knew without a doubt, he would die in the coming days if I could not find, make a miracle. I knew that the mundane medicines of this world would never save Rogar. This was after all a land where medieval remedies still held sway, and if I could not rely on them which meant that I needed to find something that could trump the should be A.k.A magic.
I wished that I could heal with magic, that the same way my magic was attuned to gravity, it also was attuned to healing, that healing came as easily as controlling gravity. if it was the case, it would not be in Bumfuck Esso
In the show and the books, the ones being the more reliable when it came to magic were the red priests of Rhyllor with Thoros resurrecting multiple times Beric if I was not wrong.
More than that, if I went to somewhere like Asshai, I was sure that my experience even with my powers would be less than pleasant. Better the devil you know that the one you don’t but that you are sure is worse.
My gravity magic served me well, cloaking me in an invisible shell that shielded me from harm. I landed with precision, my boots crunching on the broken ground. The earth beneath me, once solid and unyielding, was now a fractured mess of craters and spiderweb cracks.
I stepped forward, my gaze drawn to the heart of the city, where a single structure rose defiantly from the debris. If my eyes did not deceive me and if I was not wrong it was the principal temple of R’hllor.
The spider cracks due to my arrival had spread to the doors. A small group of guards stood near the entrance, their faces pale and their eyes wide with terror. I dismissed them with a glance, uninterested in their petty notions of authority. With a pulse of gravity magic, the massive doors of Volantis shuddered and lowered before me, yielding as though they recognized a force far greater than their ancient hinges.
I continued forward and like I expected, no one tried to stop me. I advanced further and i if anything, whether it was purposefully or not, the people of Volantis separated the crowd parting like the Red Sea before me. Slaves, soldiers, free men, and nobles alike scattered in all directions, none daring to stand in my path.
Volantis itself was a portrait of devastation. The meteor’s mark was etched into every corner: buildings lay toppled, streets were flooded as if a tsunami had swept through, and the docks—once the pride of the city’s maritime trade—were in shambles. Ships that had once been secure in their anchors now floated aimlessly or crashed against broken piers, their timbers splintered like brittle bones. Narrow alleys that had once bustled with life were now rivers of muddy water and shattered debris, In other words, the places kinda looked as if a mini apocalypse had happened which would not be inaccurate to say I guess.
Before long, I reached the temple of the Lord of Light. Its exterior, though scarred, still commanded a reverence that defied the ruin around it. Ornate carvings and delicate filigree adorned its stone walls, and a sense of sacred purpose kinda as if I was before a Catholic cathedral clung to its façade.
At the top of a set of wide stairs stood a lone figure draped in the vestments of a red priestess. Her features were obscured by a hood. She waited until I was barely a meter away before turning and disappearing into the temple’s darkened entrance. The message was clear: follow me.
Inside, the temple was a realm apart from the devastation outside. The corridors were dimly lit by flickering torches, their light casting strange, shifting shadows that made the place seem almost alive. The air carried a persistent, unsettling blend of blood and ashes, an aroma that I honestly felt very unpleasant. Honestly, something told me that the blood and the ashes I could smell were probably of human origin which honestly made me truly rethink if I wanted to deal with this bullshit.
Rot and seawater.
I dismissed the image and the thought. I was already there. Let's try to make the time assy from a bed not worthless. Whispers echoed from unseen corners, the one that made you wonder if they didn't come from your own mind, barely audible but insistent, as if the very walls held secrets of their own. People in garbled in red priests' clothing recoiled as we passed. They pressed themselves against the wall as if a touch with me would bring catastrophe to them.
I ignored it all, focusing solely on the red priestess’s retreating form.
After what felt like an eternity—though it was likely no more than a few minutes—she stopped before a door richly decorated with intricate designs that hinted at long-forgotten lore. With a silent nod, she gestured for me to enter before bowing her head and disappearing into the depths of the temple. I gave her a final, lingering look before turning to the ornate door. With a skeptical heart, I pushed it open, hoping this endeavor would prove worth the effort.
The room beyond was unlike any I had encountered, seen in this city. As the door closed behind me with a definitive thud, I found myself in a space that resembled a chapel—but one of decadent opulence rather than humble piety. Rich fabrics draped over carved stone, golden accents caught the light at every angle, and enormous stained-glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors across surfaces that seemed too polished to be real. It was a room fit for kings, gods maybe, though its construction reeked of mortal extravagance.
My focus narrowed on the sole other person in the room. A figure clad in the red vestments of a priest stood at a small altar, preparing a candle with deliberate, measured movements. At first glance, he appeared to be an ordinary middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes. Yet there was something about the way he carried himself—a subtle air of gravitas, as though he bore the weight of centuries upon his shoulders. I could not shake the thought that if Melisandre, in all her ageless mystique, had been centuries old, then this man might well be her equal in years.
Without ceremony, he stepped closer then, in a moment I least expected, he bowed deeply—a gesture of homage you would expect to do for a king. His voice, resonant and measured, filled the opulent chamber:
“I salute you, chosen of the divine, chosen of the Lord of Light, Starscourge.”
As his words lingered in the air, an inexplicable heaviness settled around us, thick and suffocating, as though the room itself had grown denser. The flames of the lit candles and torches, which had burned steady and warm, shifted abruptly to an eerie purple glow. The transformation was subtle but undeniable, and despite the strangeness of it, the flames did not revert to their natural state. I kept my expression stoic, though inwardly I seethed with disbelief.
What kind of Bullshit this was?!
How in the hell did this man know to call me Starscourge? That title belonged to Radahn. It was a title from another world. You're more going to tell me that this guy was able to see other words with magic. It was bullshit, the kind that made me want to leap out of a window and never look back and yet, even though I wanted him to nope the fuck out of here, out of this bullshit, I knew that I would have to deal with this if I wanted Rogar to live.
I cleared my throat, pushing down the rising irritation, and spoke in a low, measured tone:
“I came to you because I know your order is capable of healing and, in the worst case, resurrecting someone.”
The man inclined his head, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Your words are true, my lord,” he said, his voice reverent yet measured. “Not many, even in Essos, believe us capable of such feats yet you, my lord—who hails from Westeros—do so. Is it because you are the chosen of the Lord of Light? Is it because you are one of the last scions of Valyria?”
I felt his gaze linger on the Velaryon heraldry emblazoned on my clothes. That detail, that unmistakable symbol of ancient lineage, was likely how he had pieced together my origins. I said nothing, letting the silence stretch as he took his time before continuing.
“You, my lord, do not seem to bear the wounds of battle,” he observed, his tone thoughtful. “With the might you naturally display to the world just by existing, the might that made sure that upon entering the cityI could sense the moment —I would be surprised if you were the one in need of healing. It must be for someone else—a friend, a woman, perhaps a family member?”
My patience, already frayed from the journey, snapped. I retorted with a sharp edge to my voice, “Stop with the fucking riddles, the mind games, and the posturing. I want something from you. What do you want in return? Tell me so that we get over this.”
For a long moment, his eyes studied me as though searching for a hidden truth, weighing my soul as one might appraise a rare artifact. Finally, he spoke.
“Years ago, around a decade and a half past, something happened that altered the very song of this world. The voices of prophecies, the future, the fates of its people—they became obscured to nearly every sorcerer worthy of the name. In truth, it is more precise to say that those voices were shattered, leaving none of us able to comprehend the why or the how. We knew nothing… until days ago. Only days ago, the world was shaken, forced to bleed, and every soul—whether they bore a spark of magic or not—felt its trembling pulse. I experienced something reminiscent of what I had felt a decade and a half ago. In the flames, my lord, I was granted a title by the divine lord of light—a title that echoed with power, with purpose, Starscourge. The Lord allowed me to see you, to catch a glimpse of your true majesty. In your presence, the vision conveyed the brilliance and raw power that no mortal mind, flawed as it is, could fully fathom. The moment you stepped into the city, a force surged through me—a power I had not felt in my veins for so long. I am convinced that other magic practitioners, whether from my order or otherwise, share in this sensation. You ask what I desire, my lord, so that we may employ our gifts of healing on your behalf. The truth is, we would have bestowed our power upon you even if you had not agreed to grant us something in return. But if we are to act with the goal of something in return, it would be in exchange for two things: first, that we be allowed to follow you, and second, that you shine with such radiance that the night, filled with terror, is banished by holy light.”
“Try again, I don’t believe you,” I told him. “Even when you ask sound too good and I may be in need of you but I am not so stupid that I can’t see that there is more behind your words. More than that, you said you want me to shine as bright as possible but the truth is that I don’t want to. I don’t want to deal with the games nobles and commoners alike want to partake in. I just want a simple but comfortable life without any duties and obligations and efforts and shining bright like you just said would only make that impossible.”
The man gave me a look that made me want to tore his head off his shoulders consequences be damned, to leave now no matter the consequences. He was looking at me with pity.
“Some may say that what happened days ago was the Storm after the calm. I would say the inverse. You're powerful my lord. You're something, someone able to do things that the Valyrians at the height of their glory would not be able to do. You're powerful, strong and power had never not been attractive in all sense of the term. Maegis, monsters, nobles, barbarians, merchants, kings, slaves, they will all come to you no matter if you wish so, no matter where you are. Whether you wish it or not my lord, this life you dream of even with all your power died days ago.”
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ModNsparksPhilo22
Very happy to see you updating this story
Rachel N
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