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Chapter XIII: Lorne
🕑 Added 2024-11-18 00:35:36 +0000 UTCThe alleys of Flea Bottom twisted like the intestines of a beast, narrow passages shadowed by leaning hovels and sagging balconies. Jeren threaded through them with the ease of a feral cat, his bare feet slapping against the damp cobblestones. The scent of roasted onions and stale ale clung to the air, mingling with less savory odors that rose from the gutters.
Jeren clutched a loaf of hard bread to his chest, a prize pilfered from a distracted baker's cart. His stomach growled—the sound a persistent companion these past few days. He ducked under a low-hanging clothesline, the wet linens brushing against his tangled brown hair.
"Oi! That's mine!" a voice shouted from behind.
He glanced back to see the baker's apprentice, fat red-faced and puffing, struggling to navigate the cluttered street. Jeren smirked, his eyes—a startling shade of green—flashing with mischief. He slipped between a gap in a fence, the wood splintered and worn, and disappeared into a warren of shacks.
The apprentice cursed but gave up the chase like Jeren knew he would. Satisfied, Jeren tore into the bread, teeth sinking into the tough crust. It was stale, but to him, it tasted better than the finest lemon cakes served up in the Red Keep.
He found his usual perch atop a crumbling wall that overlooked the Blackwater Bay. From here, he could see the ships bobbing gently in the harbor, their sails billowing like the wings of distant birds. The waters glistened under the midday sun, a tapestry of shimmering blues and silvers.
"One day," he murmured between bites, "I'll sail away on one of those ships. See places where the streets aren't filled with filth and the air smells like something other than piss and shit."
He didn’t want to live and die pathetically like most did in Flea Bottom. He wanted to make something of himself. He wanted better. He knew he deserved better.
A gull landed nearby, cocking its head at him inquisitively. Jeren tossed it a crumb. "Better make the most of it, friend. Not everyone gets a feast like this."
The gull snatched the morsel and took flight, its wings cutting through the air with grace. Jeren watched it soar, envy stirring in his chest. Freedom seemed as distant as the horizon, an unreachable promise.
‘One day,’ he promised himself, he would be just like the gull, capable of going anywhere he wished to or liked, capable of experiencing more.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the sudden hush, an unnatural one that fell over the bay. The usual clamor of dockworkers and merchants faded, replaced by an eerie stillness. It shouldn’t be silent at all. Jeren frowned, squinting toward the water. The ships had stopped moving, their sails slack despite the absence of wind.
Then he felt it—a tremor beneath him, subtle at first, then growing. The stones of the wall vibrated, sending loose pebbles skittering to the ground. Jeren stood, unease prickling along his spine.
Voices rose in confusion from the streets below. He watched people emerge from their homes, eyes wide with apprehension. Dogs barked nervously, and horses stamped their hooves, nostrils flaring.
"What in the Seven Hells...?" Jeren whispered.
A low rumble echoed across the bay, a sound that resonated deep within his bones. Far on the horizon, the line between sea and sky blurred, a dark shape rising where none should be.
"Is that... a storm?" muttered a man nearby, shading his eyes.
But there were no clouds, no telltale signs of thunder or rain. The shape grew larger, advancing with unnatural speed.
Panic ignited like wildfire. "Wave!" someone screamed.
"A giant wave!" Another shout.
The realization struck Jeren like a physical blow. He stared in disbelief as a towering wall of water surged toward the city, its crest foaming and wild. It was as if the sea itself had risen in fury, intent on swallowing everything in its path. He knew instantaneously that this was more than bad, that he needed to move.
Heart pounding, he leaped from the wall, landing awkwardly but regaining his footing. The streets erupted into chaos around him. Mothers clutched their children, men shouted orders or prayers, and the air filled with a cacophony of terror.
"Run! To higher ground!" voices shouted.
Jeren's mind raced. Higher ground—Aegon's High Hill. But it was too far, and the mass of panicked bodies clogged the streets, turning them into a writhing maze of desperation.
He darted down an alley, seeking escape. The ground shook again, more violently this time, causing buildings to sway and groan. A nearby tavern, one that he knew was older than him, that always seemed to have existed for him collapsed in a cloud of dust and splintered wood, trapping those inside.
A woman sobbed, clutching at his arm as he passed. "Please, help me find my son!"
"I can't," he replied, pulling away. "I'm sorry."
Guilt stabbed at him, but survival overwhelmed all else. The most important was his survival, was to escape the wave. He sprinted toward a stack of crates piled against a warehouse wall, scrambling up them to reach a rooftop. From this vantage point, he could see the enormity of the approaching wave—now less than a mile away, and impossibly high.
The sea had become a monstrous beast, rearing up to consume the city. Ships were tossed like driftwood, masts snapping as they were hurled against one another. The water surged into the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, forcing it to reverse course.
Jeren's breath came in ragged gasps. There was nowhere to go. The wave would engulf even the highest rooftops in Flea Bottom. He looked toward the Red Keep, its towers standing defiantly against the sky. Could he?No, it was too far. He would never make it. Was this how it was going to end?
A child’s cry drew his attention. Below, a girl no older than six stood alone, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks.
"Papa! Where are you?"
A great part of him wanted to ignore the girl or even tell her that it was foolish to search for her father, that after all, he would probably become a bloated corpse like they probably would become too if he wasn’t already yet Jeren’s body moved on its own accord, descending, dropping back into the turmoil of the street. "Hey! Over here!" he called to her.
She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. "I can't find my papa."
He didn't tell her the thoughts that sparked in his mind at her words. No, instead he took her hand like he wished someone would have done for him when he lost his ma.
"We'll find him,” he lied “But we have to move." We have to try to survive he didn't add, your Father would have liked to survive he didn't whisper.
Leading her, he pushed through the crowd, searching for any place that might offer refuge. The rumble of the wave grew louder—a deafening roar that drowned out the screams.
They reached a stone building that seemed sturdier than the rest. The door was locked, but Jeren kicked at it desperately. "Open up! Let us in!"
No answer came. The girl clung to his arm, trembling. He spotted a narrow stairway leading to an upper level. "This way!"
They climbed as the first rush of water slammed into the city walls, shattering them with ease. The force sent a shockwave through the ground, knocking them off balance. Jeren pulled the girl to her feet, urging her onward.
They emerged onto a small rooftop. The sight that met them was one of utter devastation. The wave tore through King's Landing, consuming everything. Buildings crumbled, people vanished beneath the churning waters, their cries silenced in an instant.
The girl sobbed uncontrollably. "I want my papa!"
Jeren wrapped his arms around her, holding tight. "It's okay," he lied. "It'll be okay."
But he knew it wouldn't. He had tried but knew it would not be enough. The wave was upon them, a wall of dark water towering overhead. Time seemed to slow. He thought of his mother, lost to fever years ago, and his father, a man he’d never known. He had always been alone, scraping by in the shadows of grandeur, unseen by the lords and ladies who ruled from their castles.
"At least I'm not alone now," he whispered.
The wave crashed over them with unimaginable force. The world became a whirl of icy water and debris. Jeren held onto the girl as long as he could, but the torrent ripped her from his grasp. He reached out blindly, lungs burning, but there was nothing but the relentless surge.
Disoriented, he was tossed about like a rag doll. His chest screamed for air. A wooden beam struck his shoulder, pain searing through him. Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision.
In that moment between life and death, memories flooded his mind—a warm hearth in winter, the taste of honey cakes stolen from a market stall, the sound of laughter echoing in the alleys at night. Small joys in a hard life.
"If only I had wings," he thought distantly, "I would fly away from this place."
The cold embraced him, a numbing chill that eased his pain. His struggles ceased as he drifted deeper into the abyss. The chaos above faded, replaced by an eerie quiet.
A strange peace settled over him. "Is this what it feels like?" he wondered. "To let go?"
His last conscious thought was of the sky he could no longer see, and the freedom he had always yearned for but never attained. A single bubble escaped his lips, rising toward the surface, carrying with it the final whisper of a life too brief before Amethyst seared itself in the soul of the world.
*scene*
The world must truly loathe me, or perhaps fate, in its twisted schemes, had deemed me cursed. There was no other explanation for the spectacle unfurling before my eyes—a wall of water, not less than a hundred meters high, rising from the churning sea, cresting with the fury of a thousand tempests, and shadowing the entirety of Dragonstone. Its roar, a rumble so profound it resonated through my bones, threatened to split the air itself.
I stood, rooted for a heartbeat, as an amethyst pulse, wild and almost sentient, leaped from my core—no, from the bones of my kin—casting itself outwards, stretching, seeking. The purple shimmer surged outward, touching the unforgiving stone walls, slipping into the cold cracks of the ground, crawling along the arched ceiling, and even brushing against the edges of the wide window I faced. The castle was bathed in a ghostly, defiant glow until the wave met its defiance and stilled.
For one absurd moment, time seemed snared, trapped in the lattice of that violet sheen. Yet the screams—sharp and disbelieving—tearing through the stone halls, the ragged breaths and hurried prayers of the soldiers, and the gasps of the serving women below shattered the illusion. Time had not faltered; only the ocean had obeyed my will.
Turning, I caught sight of the girl—eyes that had been wide with fury and sorrow, now painted over with disbelief—who had moments ago tried to press a dagger against my throat. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. I regarded her, feeling almost detached, almost as if connected to my body only by threads.
“You should probably leave my room while you can, unless you wish to have a very long chat with the guards and my uncle and probably a lot of other people about your presence here.” My voice carried no more weight than the whisper of wind before a gale.
Westeros could be said to be frozen in a time the equivalent of the medieval times from my old world.
Catching her in my room, they would either think that her and I were let's say meeting each other in the biblical sense of the world which would probably make her prospects to marry worse if she wanted to in the future.
They could also deduce that she tried to kill me with her background. Those people weren’t wise at all but they weren’t completely dumb and in that case it would mean her death which would also mean that I lost for nothing time I could have gone to sleep after making her go splash.
Anyway, I didn't wait to see her decision. She, a fragment of a moment, faded from my focus as I stepped forward and pushed open the wide window. The cold, biting air sliced through my senses, laced with salt and the metallic tang of dread. Below, the courtyard, the battlements, the terrified faces turned to the heavens—small, insignificant.
I took a step outward, bodily instincts almost expecting the abyss, a fall. Instead, my feet found purchase on the very nothingness. A glimmer of purple was haloing my form as if I were draped in the fabric of some god’s cloak or in that case I guess demigod would be more accurate. I walked into the air, pacing towards the monstrous crest that had dared challenge one of the primordial things to me, my ability to do nothing.
I felt a frown draw itself on my face as I peered at the wave. This shouldn’t be. None of this should be. I knew that the lines on my face deepening as the weight of realization coiled through me. George R.R.R Martin was the kind of author who for the best or the worst depending on who you asked was very meticulous in the way he set up an write his books, the even through them and his characters.
For example, I forgot the reason why I did it but in my past life, a simple research of less than five minutes had been enough to make me realize that Lyanna and Elia meant the same thing, as names at least. Those names in Hebrew are both derivation from the name Eliyanah which means God has answered and this was one thing about thousands of stuff like that.
All of this to say that this wave, one giant enough to literally swallow the entirety of Dragonstone, one I knew was literally more than a hundred meter high would have not be forgotten at all by Martin in Fire and Blood because such a wave would have killed the blacks and destroyed Dragonstone which again meant that this was an anomaly that shouldn't be there, that could only be existing because of the first thing that deviated from Canon, my existence.
.I may be wrong but in my past life, a wave no higher than 30 meters if my vague memories were correct had stuck India either when I was very young or when I wasn’t even born. The wave I think even though it no taller than thirty meters had swept cities into its maw, drowned towns, and stolen hundreds of thousands of lives.
It made me wonder. If thirty meters had wreaked such havoc, what of this? Could it crush the proud peaks of Dragonstone and sweep the legacy of Valyria beneath an indifferent sea? And if I had not been here... what then? Would there be a Dance? Would Rhaenyra’s children have clawed their way to the throne, or would history be a broken path washed away before it began?
I had honestly thought I had been lucky. I mean, a Tsunami should have happened minutes after the meteor, two hours at worst after, not at least 6 hours after. Something was very wrong with this world.
Something was amiss and it made a thread unravelled that made my skin prickle, that sparked a memory of a time once forgotten, an emotion I hadn’t felt since my first life, since before I woke up in this world with power enough to be rightfully called a god, anxiety.
There was something I was missing and I needed to know. I needed to understand It now.
The familiar pulse of gravity, subtle as a heartbeat, surged from within me. I launched myself upwards, defying the world’s hold, cutting through the wind as meters turned to hundreds in a blink. The castle shrank beneath me until it was no larger than a beetle clinging to a crag. Above, the horizon bent—a soft curve that marked the edge of the known world. But I did not look down. No. Instead, I let my eyelids drift shut and seized the power lying coiled in my very marrow, the force that could stall the heavens themselves.
Purple lightning crackled through my vision even though my eyes were close, a pulse sent out so fast it outpaced thought, casting its web across leagues, stretching from the reaches of the Wall to the jagged coastline of Braavos. The response came as a flood—images, movement, voices—an onslaught so fierce it felt as though molten iron had been poured into my skull.
The taste of copper flooded my mouth. Something wet traced its path down my upper lip, hot and searing. Blood. I knew this feeling well enough; it reeked of the old life I had lost, memories wrapped in a thin gauze of pain. I was bleeding. My head pounded, the rhythm like a vicious drumbeat. Still, I What I did should have killed me, reduced me to nothing more than a vessel of melted thoughts and sinew, brain dead in other words, Queen administrator I wasn’t Yet, the pain was an anchor.The interesting thing with pain is not you get use to it or at least this had been my case in my past life. It still hurt as much if not worse than the first time. No, what changed is you bullheaded enough, resilient enough, proud enough, strong enough to continue as if it didn’t exist at all.
Every coast, every kingdom, was marked by waves, towering and venomous, some nearing this monstrous height. This wasn’t natural, wasn’t anything this world had probably known at least in the last ten thousands years. No, it was my doing.
The meteor, the grand, careless gesture of my will, had cracked something fundamental, had made things go Fucked beyond belief and while I might scoff at Westeros and its unending dance of betrayal and idiocy, letting it drown held no appeal. Their stupidity did not warrant obliteration. And despite my indifference, peace, lazing around would be harder if not impossible to grasp if they perished.
One of the greatest qualities of the human race in my opinion is that we are like cockroaches in the sense that at least one of us is more than likely going to survive through the worst bullshit imaginable. More than that, even if there were no survivors, it didn't mean that they didn't have families or friends just this girl, the one with the dagger who tried to kill me. It was proof enough that not stopping it would kinda make things more troublesome than they needed to be.
Honestly, if that wasn’t the case, probably would have done nothing. After all, it's not as if I care about any of them, about characters of a book, most who were not even worthy to be named.
‘Why did you have to kill my family?’ Her voice replayed in my ears, tinged with that familiar shrill edge I knew personally only grief could hone. I forced it away, shoved it into the chasm within.
I sighed, low, a sound more felt than heard. I shouldn’t have left my bed in Driftmark. “It sucks,” I whispered, tasting the words as they escaped, bitter and sharp.
I reached for the power, letting it unfurl in my veins, saturate every part of me. There was no room for restraint now. The purple light, raw and feral, spilled from my skin, tinging the air, making the world seem as if it had been dipped in amethyst. For the second time in this life, I did not contain it. I let it breathe, let it roam and claim dominion as I had when I felled the meteor, when I had undesirably whispered ruin to the skies over the Stormlands.
Radahn
His name felt like itched in the back of my mind—a demigod who had halted the very movement of stars with nothing but his strength, even when madness gnawed at his essence. I was no demigod, but I knew had enough. Enough to stretch my will, my command, to the ends of the known world.
I understood what needed to be done. The methods, almost instinctual, unfurled in my thoughts.
I firstly needed to draw in the energy, bend it away from destruction. Secondly, I should Raise the ocean with careful command, hold it like a painter poised to dash his canvas. Thirdly, Anchor the seabed, the hidden world beneath, steady the forces that threatened to break loose.
The waves waited, held by invisible fingers of gravity. Honestly The control required was staggering, more than a mortal mind, a mind like mine should ever be able to bear. It demanded all of me, all of my focus and more and the pain grew, stretching my senses thin like parchment. The pain felt like someone who once had been a friend but now only held bitterness and hatred toward me. I welcomed it back and for a moment, this world felt real, for a moment, it felt as if I had never died. It whispered with jagged teeth in my ears, breathed in my heart venous and even though my body screamed at me to stop, to let it it go, I didn't because I the world below, the coasts of Dorne, the arching ports of Braavos, and the bustling docks of Driftmark—fleeting as they were—needed this monstrous effort.
I hadn’t wanted this but I was the one who chose to begin it. I wasn’t forced so at least let’s finish this. I would be too salty if I felt pain for nothing.
With each shift, I felt a slice of myself bleed away, precise and merciless. Control. Adjust. Anchor. Push. A cycle that seared through me, blurring the edges of my sight and reason.
The sensation was brutal, akin to a blade scraping across raw nerve. Control, adjust, anchor, push—every movement of thought was a sharpened knife against the backdrop of agony. Each pulse of my power roared through my body like a drumbeat in some monstrous cadence, relentless, demanding. The world below, distant as the stars used to be, shimmered beneath that relentless violet hue.
Each wave demanded a response. Each one was a beast with fangs of foam and salt, cresting high, suspended in that miraculous stillness that only I could enforce. From the Bay of Crabs to the Iron Islands, from the shattered reaches of the Stepstones to the cold jaws of the Sunset Sea, every monstrous crest that once threatened to claim thousands had met the same fate: halted, defied.
My power flared, almost painfully, a wild and luminous thing, painting my vision in deeper agged flashes of purple. The air quivered, laden with an electric hum that was deafening yet silent. Beneath my feet, the ocean itself felt pliable, bending not to its ancient whims but to the force I wielded. And through the relentless ache in my head, through the blood that dripped warm and metallic from my nose and my eyes, I realized that this was the fine edge where power ceased to be a tool and became a cage. It honestly felt like a prison of my own making.
I reached deeper, casting gravity out like a vast, invisible net, weaving it through each droplet, each molecule suspended in this cruel, liquid colossus. To hold it, to tame it. Threads so fine that one slip would let death rush forth again. Every heartbeat throbbed, each surge of my power fracturing against the limits of reason.
It hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. How could something hurt this much? I felt pain m thrummed through my bones, set my teeth on edge, and lit every synapse aflame.
I needed to focus. Anchor. Absorb. Stabilize. It was mechanical now, almost an echo of some long-forgotten rhythm. My body shook, feeling more like a marionette on strings pulled taut than my flesh, as if at any moment I would shatter beneath the strain yet I could not stop, not when I was almost fucking done. I felt The seas below shimmered with hints of the leviathans they hid, now twisted into sculptures of roaring rage, held mid-scream by my will.
I cast out another pulse, gravity rippling from me in shockwaves, too fast to see but real enough to feel, like the beat of a war drum pounding against the earth. Each wave I halted sent back a resonant shudder. The vibration traced its way back to me, vibrating through my bones like some terrible music that only I could hear.
‘Why did you have to kill my family?’
The girl’s words chose that moment to resonate through the corners of my mind again, sharper, more accusatory, as if spoken against the backdrop of a divine tribunal. I dismissed it, the way one pushes away a wasp, yet it lingered, the echo biting deeper. Really, at that time, it was what my mind chose to focus on? Nah, something must have it for me.
I knew without looking with my eyes that the sky above mirrored the violent hues below, the clouds torn and smeared with the light of my making. And then came the push—the final one. A force that strained my every cell, wrung out the last reserves of will I didn’t know I possessed. My vision blurred, the landscape a feverish smear, and for an instant, the world itself seemed to groan under the weight of my defiance as if to deny me so I did the logical thing at that moment which was to give it the middle finger. As if I was going to let something or someone dictate what I wanted to accomplish and with last pulse, I won, everything finally obeyed.
The ocean bowed to my command. The waves that sought to unmake the world, rip apart the shores, ceased their deadly march. Slowly, painfully, the waters lowered, seeping back into the endless expanse of sea, tamed, subdued. The violet glow that had bathed the realm faded, leaving behind the stunned quiet of the aftermath.
The air hung heavy, the only sound a distant rush of water as it settled back into itself. I could feel my in the back of my mind body sway, feeling the world tilt as if gravity itself had been inverted. I opened up my eyes. The sensation of wetness stung at my eyes, from the corners of my eyes as well, trails of crimson painting my face probably like some grotesque war paint.
They fucking be all grateful and leave me alone. I wanted a bath and to sleep. I felt hungry too so maybe eat, bath and sleep or maybe all of them at the same time, should be possible right?
I dropped to my knees, the nothingness beneath me solid and unyielding yet somehow cradling me, faint oozes of purple weakly glowing under me as I felt the tension in my body began unwound in violent shudders. My mind screamed at the silence, at the dull, ringing pain that roared through my skull. Every heartbeat a throb that rattled my bones.
I was kinda already regretting what I did. What the hell did I do that?! I could feel the numb exhaustion seeping into my limbs, making them heavy, sluggish yet even as I sat there, suspended above a sea now placid, the girl’s voice whispered once more, soft as the hiss of retreating tide.
“Why did you have to kill my family?”
I sighed, a ragged, broken thing that tasted of copper and fatigue. They better be fucking grateful. The power in me, that endless, unwelcome force, hummed low in my marrow, no longer raging but content to remind me of its presence. Even in victory, it whispered, its tone a mocking echo of the girl’s question. Because they were worth nothing, because they, because she because all of this but me was nothing but words written and read somewhere in a book, in a forum, on the internet or wherever else.
Why should I care? Why should I care about Driftmark or Hull, or even these people, these characters in an unfinished series of books that sadly with George R.R.R Martin being who he was would probably never end, books that probably only served to fill idle afternoons or nights when unable to sleep or simply when you were bored and wanted to forget the real world?
I glanced at Dragonstone below, its towers jutting up defiantly, the people within moving like ants now freed from their paralysis. And again, the answer pressed against my teeth, empty in every way that mattered, bitter and unwilling.
“All of this sucks,” I whispered again, words lost to the sky as I reached out, once more, for the power embedded in my soul, the gravity that bound me as much as it freed me. I didn't want to deal with any of them at this moment, with Rhaneyra, with my uncle, with whoever the fuck else they were who would want to speak with me for any reason. Right now, I just wanted to forget their exhausting and boring existences and schemes.
This is why I didn't flew down to Dragonstone but to the place where everything was almost perfect before I was sent to Dragonstone by my uncle. I would deal with Targaryens, the people around them and the stupidity and annoyance of them all after. I was going to Driftmark more precisely my room in Driftmark, in the place where nothing wrong would happen to disturb my peace.
*scene*
The sea had turned against them. Jakob could feel it in the salt-slick wind that clawed at his hair, whipping it into his eyes, and in the way the waves had begun to crash harder against the shores, each one louder, angrier than the last. He had lived all his thirty-three years on Dragonstone, from the time he was a scrawny boy running barefoot along the rocky beaches to now, a man with a fisherman’s hands, calloused and scarred. He knew the whispers of the sea, the way it breathed and frothed and sighed. But never had it roared like this in the past.
The world darkened as if night itself had descended early. Jakob looked up, and his breath caught in his throat, a strangled gasp that turned to ash in his mouth. The wave—Mother, have mercy—the wave towered like a god awakened, higher than the castle spires that pierced the sky, higher than any man-made thing. It loomed over them, a wall of water so vast that it swallowed the horizon, shadowing the fortresses and the scatterings of homes that clung to the island’s craggy sides.
People screamed, their voices like the shrieks of gulls in a storm. The children wailed, clutching at mothers and fathers, scrambling over each other in a tangle of limbs. Jakob felt his knees give way, dropping him to the cold, wet stones of the square. His breath came in ragged bursts, heart pounding with the terror that only the sea could command. He heard Old Marla, the fishwife who’d outlived three husbands, calling out prayers to the Seven in a voice already hoarse with desperation. But what god could answer now, when the sea itself had risen to smite them?
A sharp wind cut through the chaos, and Jakob blinked, his vision clearing just enough to see it: a glimmer of purple, faint at first, like the last light of dusk. It pulsed once, twice, then spread, a haze that wrapped around the castle walls and rippled through the ground beneath him. The air itself seemed to shudder, heavy with some unseen force, and for a heartbeat, everything went still. The wave hung in place, suspended mid-crash, water frozen in the act of fury.
Gasps and sobs fell silent as people stared, wide-eyed and trembling. Jakob's mouth moved without sound, lips forming words he did not understand. The wave, the beast that would have devoured them all, had been stopped.
Is this death? he wondered, fear clawing at the edges of his mind. But the cries from the castle—sharp, disbelieving shouts and hurried steps—told him otherwise. Time had not stopped, but the impossible had been done.
He turned his eyes upward, past the walls of Dragonstone, past the dark stone that seemed almost alive under the amethyst glow. And then he saw him.
A figure stood upon the air itself, like a divine being. Purple, the same purple that had dyed the heavens the day before, that had for an instant, one where he thought he had become mad froze the rain from touching the ground, the one who was said to have saved Prince Lucerys, who was said according to whispers to have brought a second doom just like in old Valyria but this time on the Stormlands oozed around his form like a divine cloak.
He walked upon nothing, his long silver hair lifting with the wind’s touch, the sharp novel Valyrian lines of his face set with an expression Jakob could not read. Even from afar, he could not miss, the power that radiated from him, a force that made the air thrum and pressed against the bones in Jakob’s chest.
Whispers rushed through the crowd like wildfire.
“Is he flying?”
“Aye, look at him!”
“The gods save us, he’s stopping it—he’s stopping the wave!”
Jakob’s mouth felt dry as sand, even with the salt spray biting at his skin. His hands, rough and calloused from years of hauling nets, clenched into fists at his sides. What manner of man could wield such power? He had seen dragons, their great wings casting shadows over the sea, their fire painting the sky with a fury that sent men scurrying. But this—this was something else. This was not fire and scale. This was not the rage of beasts bound by men. This was the hand of a god, commanding the sea itself to halt.
The glow intensified, spreading outward in a flash that lit the sky brighter than any star. Jakob's vision blurred, and for a moment, the whole world was purple, a sharp, searing light that pressed against his eyes until he had to look away. When the light dimmed, the wave had stilled, as though time had reconsidered its course.
He dared a glance back up at the author of the act, at the boy some saw as a bad omen, that other saw as sign of the divine. In a movement too quick for him to catch, the boy, the one whose name he had head was Monterys disappeared with a sound akin to the crack of a thunder bolt that made his ears sting.
“Above!” someone shouted so Jakob lifted his head to see what was above. In the heavens, beyond the clouds themselves, his gaze fell on something akin to a distant star but one that shone the same purple amethyst, the same violet shimmer than the magic, then the power of the prince.
He felt the air vibrate. Jakob felt it under his skin, a low hum that resonated with the beat of his heart. It almost hurt, uncomfortable to the extreme, the sheer weight of it, like a storm compressed into a single breath.
Maybe it was a trick of mind but for an instant, he thought he saw thin droplets of crimson that shone in the violet glow before being swept away by the wind.
The wave began to retreat, folding back into itself, defying all sense and reason. Jakob heard the sobs of relief, the whispered prayers shifting from fear to thanks. Some fell to their knees, heads bowed as if before an altar. But Jakob’s eyes stayed on the amethyst star above, on Monterys, chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t name. It was more than awe; it was terror and hope, reverence laced with dread.
The purple light bloomed once more, wrapping around Dragonstone, around the world like a cloak. The wave flattened, crashing down into the sea with a roar that sent tremors through the ground. But it was not a roar of victory. It was defeat, it was the sea, cowed and broken, forced to bend.
Jakob’s legs felt weak, but he stood. Around him, the smallfolk who moments before had wailed and clutched at their children now stared in silence, the kind that spoke of a collective understanding: they had witnessed something that would be told and retold, carved into the memory of generations.
Old Marla’s voice broke through, hoarse but steady. “The boy’s no boy, no noble, no prince. Not like the rest.” Her eyes, lined with the years of hard living, met Jakob’s, glistening with something akin to awe. “What boy commands the sea to yield? What boy makes the very wind hold its breath?”
Jakob said nothing, the question twisting in his mind as he watched as the purple glow dimmed, the world settling back into the dull hues of reality, almost as if what had happened in the last minutes were nothing but parts of a nightmare he had been able to wake up from but the memory of that power remained, seared into the backs of their eyes.
As he continued to peer at the dimmed Amethyst star above, the words of the old woman and what he witnessed made a thought wormed its way into Jakob’s heart, a thought that felt almost forbidden, treasonous in its audacity.
Why should Rhaenyra or Aegon rule? he wondered, eyes fixed on the figure that had saved them from the jaws of death. Why should dragon riders rule, when a god walks among men?
*scene*
Rhogar Velaryon stood atop the battlements of High Tide, the sea breeze tugging at his silver hair. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over Driftmark. Below, the harbor bustled with life—sailors unloading cargo, fishermen mending nets, children chasing gulls along the docks. It was a scene he'd witnessed countless times, yet today an unnameable unease gnawed at him.
A distant rumble drew his gaze eastward. The horizon wavered, a thin line trembling like a plucked string. He narrowed his eyes. "Strange," he muttered. The waters of Blackwater Bay were calm, but something stirred beneath the surface.
"Lord Rhogar!" called a voice from below. It was Ser Marston Waters, his sworn sword. The sea snake, his wife and Monterys, oh, how he missed his little brother, he hoped he fared well in the Whore’s den that was Dragonstone were absent, his Uncle Vaemond had been murdered and Rhogar’s remaining cousins had either been maimed or were women which meant that naturally, the person who was the correct choice, the more appropriate to administer Driftmark at the moment was him.
If the world was fair and just, Driftmark would be his to inherit, not a bastard but the last years had shown him that justice and fairness only existed in stories, in tales.
"The men report unusual tremors. Some say the sea is receding."
Rhogar's heart quickened. He was a velaryon, a proper one, a true one not like the…plain featured sons of the whore. The sea was as much as a part of him than fire were to Targaryens. The seas were his foes. They were also his oldest friends. He had studied them. He understood them. The sea due to his nature as a Velaryon was a part of his soul. This was why he knew that the sea receding was much more than an ill omen.
Receding seas were a harbinger of storms—or worse and he hoped of all his heart that it wasn’t the later but something in him told him that hope would prove itself disappointing like it had done most of his life.
"Sound the bells," he ordered. "Gather the smallfolk and bring them to higher ground." He was a true Velaryon and true Velaryon were supposed to be steadfast and always do what was right. Velaryons took care of their people, of their smallfolk, of their subjects, of their families.
It was such a shame that his uncle had forgotten that. Let the see snake forget. Let him sully their house and their name. Rhogar wouldn’t.
As the alarm bells tolled, a murmur of confusion swept through Hull. Faces turned upward, questioning. Rhogar descended the stone steps two at a time, his boots echoing against the ancient rock. Reaching the courtyard, he was met by a throng of anxious villagers.
"What's happening, my lord?" an old woman pleaded, clutching a shawl around her frail shoulders.
"Take shelter on the hill," Rhogar urged. "Quickly now!"
A child with silver hair and blue eyes tugged at his cloak. "Is it pirates?"
He knelt to meet the boy's eyes. He didn't know why but the child reminded him of his
Little brother, of Monterys when he had been younger. He gave a smile that would hopefully be found comforting and reassuring.
"No, lad. But we must hurry."
A low roar grew, like distant thunder. The ground trembled, sending ripples through puddles at their feet. Rhogar looked toward the bay and felt his blood run cold. A colossal wall of water loomed on the horizon, surging toward them with relentless intent.
"Seven save us," he whispered. "It's a wave, a giant wave."
Panic erupted. Screams pierced the air as people scattered, some frozen in fear, others darting toward the hills. Rhogar pushed through the crowd, ignoring the dread blooming in his heart because of the wave. True Velaryons didn't cower before the sea. They looked at it proud, defiant, unbowed.
He began shouting orders. "Stay together! Help those who can't walk!"
He spotted a mother struggling with two small children, their faces pale with terror. Without hesitation, he swept up the younger child, a girl clutching a ragged doll. "This way!" he urged, guiding them toward the slope.
The roar intensified, the tsunami drawing nearer. The wave towered higher than any ship's mast, its crest frothing like the maw of a beast. Debris churned within its depths—splintered wood, barrels, even entire boats lifted as if they were but toys.
They scrambled up the rocky incline, feet slipping on loose stones. The mother stumbled, nearly dropping her son. Another would have left her. Rhogar would not. Rhogar reached out, steadying her. "Hold tight!"
A thunderous crash signaled the wave's impact with the shore. The force shook the earth, knocking them off balance. Rhogar turned in time to see the harbor vanish beneath the onslaught, buildings splintering as the water consumed them.
"Faster!" he urged, his voice strained. The surge raced up the hill, defying all logic. They were so close to safety, but the wave was quicker.
A torrent of water slammed into them, cold as winter's grasp. Rhogar clung to the girl, the mother clutching his arm while holding her son with the other. The sheer power ripped them from the hillside, casting them into the churning abyss.
Tossed like driftwood, Rhogar fought to keep hold of the child. Rhogar needed to continue fighting. Rhogar needed to not let the child go. The world became a whirlpool of chaos—water roaring in his ears, salt stinging his eyes. He caught glimpses of the others amidst the turmoil, their arms flailing as they struggled to stay afloat.
A massive beam hurtled toward them, debris from a shattered home. With a burst of strength, Rhogar twisted, shielding the girl as the wood struck his leg. Pain exploded, sharp and searing. A cry tore from his throat, swallowed instantly by the raging sea.
His leg went numb, a dead weight pulling him down. Blood billowed into the water, a dark cloud mingling with the foam. Desperation surged within him. He couldn't falter—not now.
The last words of his father cut through the pain and the desperation ‘look after Monterys. Show the world what and how a True Velaryon is my son.’
Breaking the surface, he gasped for air, lungs burning. "Over here!" he shouted, spotting the mother clinging to a fragment of wreckage. The boy was with her, eyes wide with fear.
"Help us!" she screamed.
With agonizing effort, Rhogar swam toward them, each movement a battle against the relentless current. His injured leg refused to cooperate, every kick sending jolts of agony through his body. The girl in his arms whimpered, her tiny hands gripping his tunic.
"You're safe," he assured her, though uncertainty gnawed at him.
Reaching the makeshift raft, he hoisted the girl beside her family. "Hold on tight," he commanded. The mother nodded, tears mingling with the seawater on her cheeks.
Another wave surged, threatening to overturn them. Rhogar positioned himself on the side, using his weight to stabilize the debris. His strength waned, the loss of blood sapping his energy.
"Your leg!" the woman exclaimed, noticing the crimson staining the water.
"It's nothing," he lied, forcing a grim smile. "Just a scratch."
But darkness encroached at the edges of his vision. The world tilted, sounds muffled as if he were underwater again. He shook his head, trying to stay alert.
"Look!" the boy pointed upward.
Rhogar followed his gaze. Above the turmoil, a strange glow illuminated the sky—a shimmering hue of violet, like a curtain of amethysts draped across the heavens. It was otherworldly, a moment of surreal beauty amidst the devastation.
"What is it?" the girl whispered.
"Perhaps a sign," Rhogar murmured. Hopefully a good one he thought his minds and body feeling already half dead.
The current shifted violently, and the raft buckled. Unable to maintain his grip, Rhogar was swept away. The cold embraced him, a thousand needles piercing his skin. He struggled to resurface, but his limbs felt heavier, unresponsive.
Underwater, the silence was profound. Bubbles escaped his lips, rising like silver orbs toward the distant light. His chest tightened, the instinct to breathe overwhelming. He resisted, fighting the urge, but his body betrayed him. Water flooded his lungs—a searing intrusion that ignited every nerve.
Panic clawed at his mind. He thrashed weakly, vision blurring. Images flashed before him—the halls of High Tide, his brother Monterys laughing beside the hearth, the banner of House Velaryon billowing in the wind.
"Not like this," he thought. "There's still so much..."
A strange calm descended, the pain dulling. His movements ceased as he drifted deeper. The purple glow filtered through the water, casting ethereal patterns around him.
Memories intertwined with the present. He saw his father teaching him to sail, the feel of the ship beneath his feet, the salt spray on his face, the last conversation with his little brother. The sea had always been his ally, but now it seemed it would claim him.
"Maybe it's where I belong," he mused, the notion bringing a faint smile to his lips. A true Velaryon’s true place dead or alive was after all on the sea.
The light above shimmered, growing brighter. It enveloped him, warm despite the cold depths. For a moment, he felt weightless, free from the burdens of duty and destiny.
Voices echoed faintly—distant calls that he couldn't quite discern. Were they real or mere figments of a fading consciousness? It didn't matter.
His heartbeat slowed, each thump echoing like a distant drum. The world narrowed to a single point of light, the purple radiance drawing him in.
"Rhogar!"
Was that his name? It sounded so far away.
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the embrace of the deep. Thoughts of the mother and her children flickered briefly. He hoped they'd find safety, that his sacrifice hadn't been in vain.
As the final tendrils of awareness slipped away, he felt a peculiar peace. The sea's roar diminished, replaced by a gentle lullaby—a song of tides and whispers.
Maybe it was a dying illusion conjured by his mind but he could have sworn that he heard the voice of Monterys. The purple light pulsed once, twice, then everything faded into darkness.
Comments
allen 1996
Sorry for the absence. Health showed itself shitty like usual. Tried to follow your advices. Hope y’all will like this
