Allen1996
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Chapter 18: Pyrosis cardialgia
🕑 Added 2024-10-19 02:32:57 +0000 UTCThe mist swirled around me as I breathed out, watching it take form, curling in the air before it disappeared into nothingness. Snowflakes fell gently, dancing in the soft wind, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of their gazes on me.
I would never not be watched, scrutinized in the future both for the best and the worst, both for what was right and what was wrong.
Where before, maybe at the beginning, I would feel anxiety, tenseness because of said attention, now I don't. You never truly knew what you were capable of adapting to until the time came.
I opened my eyes and saw the glimmering trees of Astapor, their leaves glowing like stars in the night sky, each one humming with magic. The city, my city, the one that had been transformed under my guidance. And now, as I stood upon the wind itself—something that had become as natural to me as walking on solid ground—I saw the world not only as it was but as it could be. I saw what more that I could do to make all of this much perfect.
This new life had taught me, made me understand in a way I had never truly before in my past life how easily suffering could bloom, how harsh and hard the world could be, how it could be so easily cruel.
A little part of me wanted to think that maybe man was problem, that it was because inherently, a human was a threat to another, a vessel of pride, wrath, envy and want.
A greater part of me made sure I didn't believe such. Saying that man wasn’t all of those things would be a lie but saying a human was only those things would be wrong, false.
Humans could be better if given the possibility to be. The Same way that humans could disgust the foulest demons, the same way, I was sure they could be holier than the highest of angel, more radiant and bright than any Saint and divine thing.
Humans weren’t the problem. Mankind wasn’t the problem, wasn’t inherently wrong. No, what was wrong was the world itself.
How could you be kind when doing so signed not only your doom but the doom of your loved ones?
Why wouldn’t you be cruel when it was the only way this world allowed you to survive and thrive?
All of This brought a simple hypothetical, a thesis, my thesis, the one I believed in as much as those people did believe in me.
Humans could be perfect, good, divine in every sense possible, divine in the literal sense, divine in their mortality, divine in their ideals, in their cores, in their hearts if they were allowed, helped to become such.
The memories of the Dothraki campaign surged back. I remembered the chaos of battle, the carnage, the sheer scale of the destruction. And through it all, my soldiers had stood firm. When I had called upon them, even in death, they had returned to fight for me. Without question. Without hesitation.
What had inspired such loyalty? I had never ordered them to die for me. And yet, they did gladly. They fought for me even after death when it would have been their right to not do so. When the Great Stallion’s monstrous army of reanimated husks had swarmed, hundreds of thousands against my soldiers' mere thousands, they had fought without fear. More than that, they had won.
I knew every detail of that battle, had seen it through their eyes, their memories. Each and every soldier—whether a seasoned warrior or one who had never held a weapon before their liberation—had fought like they were born for it. They had destroyed at least seven of the abominations for every one of them.
They had been the true heroes, the true MVPs, the ones truly deserving of praise and respect. They had proven me right.
I had given them the possibility to be more with my essence and they surpassed my expectations, did so much more than I had wished, expected, hoped they would.
It wasn’t just luck, or my leadership, or even magic. It was their strength, their will, and the training Grey Worm and I had implemented.
Months ago, I had laid out the foundation of their training, pushing them to the absolute limits of human capability. I had them endure a brutal regimen, one designed to push their bodies and minds to the breaking point. And when they reached that limit, I gave them my panaceas—miraculous fruits that healed, strengthened, and rejuvenated them. They became stronger, faster, more resilient each time they pushed themselves to the brink. Just like a Saiyan from the anime I had loved in my past life, they grew stronger with every battle, every injury that healed.
It was a concept from Dragon Ball Z—the Zenkai boost—that had inspired this. A saiyan warrior would face a greater challenge, teeter on the edge of defeat, and return even stronger if they survived. I had taken that idea and made it a reality for my soldiers. The panaceas, combined with relentless training, created a process that constantly elevated them beyond what they thought possible. And that was only the beginning.
I didn't want to stop here with my soldiers but I also wanted to do different things in other sectors that would result in things as impressive as my army or maybe more but just in a different way.
I wanted to do more than breaking the chains of the slaves of this world. I was just at the beginning of it yet it didn’t feel enough. Maybe it was the fact that I was still riding the high of my spectacular victory over the Dothraki, of things going so well with my Astapor.
Why should I limit myself to being a chain breaker? I had this essence that made me as close as a god than possible in this world.
Thus, why couldn’t I turn this world into a paradise? Why couldn’t I turn this world in an Elysium so beautiful that the Greek gods if they saw it would be nothing but envious?
A world without chains, without masters, where everyone would be free, a world of good, a world where everyone would be a God in themselves yet able to live in harmony with others.
It sounded like a pipe dream even though I was the one thinking it but all of this, the golden trees in the sky, the voices of those people in the back of my mind praying, thanking me, begging me, my essence, me being in another world, all of those things were already fantastical in themselves.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it would end badly with me being disappointed, with humans proving me that the world wasn’t evil, that it just was and it was indeed human nature to be cruel but maybe it would be the contrary.
More than that, who said I wouldn’t put all the chances on my side and do what's necessary so that it succeed?
I had after all created a very very very poor but still working imitation of the winning button of a fedora wearing lady, imitation that had originally been used to make sure that my letters would create as much problem as possible for Robert.
It didn't have to be like that but guy had for inane reasons believe I am a Targaryen and put a colossal bounty on my head.
He should honestly be directing his hatred on himself. With the way he acted, it would be easy to forget that the guy was due to ancestry almost as Targaryen and Valyryan than Rhaegar who was his literal blood cousin with Aerys and Steffon being German cousins.
I had an inkling, a suspicion that there must have had something, a reason even if nonsensical and inane why he put a bounty on me. My instincts told me that it wasn’t the end at all of my problems with Robert. Well, a future Aegor would deal with that.
As I stood, watching the city below, my thoughts began to shift toward what came next. The Dothraki were gone, wiped out, their god defeated. But that was just one enemy. There would be more—stronger, stranger threats, both mundane and magical. The world was not as simple as I had once imagined. The Undying Ones had attacked me. The Great Stallion had intervened. This wasn’t the world in the books or TV shows or maybe it had always been like that and had never been shown due to D&D literally being dumb and dumber and George Martin who probably would have not published the next book even after my death which was kinda depressing when you thought when some of his books had literally been older than me. Anyway, one thing was sure, This world was one far more dangerous than I originally believe it to be.
I needed to be ready, be prepared for the worst. My people needed to be ready.
Next time, I couldn’t simply rely on being there to save them, to ensure victory by dealing with important magical threats like the soul abominations that had been summoned by Pyat Pree or even the god of the Dothraki, the great stallion. I needed to ensure that, even without me, they could stand against whatever threat came their way. I needed an army that could face gods, monsters, and eldritch horrors on its own and if not, survive them.
But how?
My mind wandered to ideas—concepts I had toyed with. What if I could infuse their armor with magic, making it as much a part of them as their own skin? What if I could combine the physical strength they had developed with magical abilities, turning them into something more than human? Something akin to the hunters from RWBY with weapons that were extensions of themselves, with an aura strengthening them at every level or maybe something like Shinra soldiers like Zack fair or Genesis from Final Fantasy and now that I thought about, probably something more like the Kingsglaive of Lucis with magic on their own bolstered by my own essence, by the belief they had in me a little bit like the sword I had made for Grey Worm.
Aura, true Aura, not the imperfect replica I had created for Nileyah… it was a concept I liked, a form of magical energy that acted as a shield, as an amplifier. It protected the wielder but also enhanced their abilities. If I could create something like that for my soldiers, it would change everything. But the question remained: how? How could I create something that could be said to be in a way the source of an innate personalized ability.
The thought made me smile. In theory, it sounded easy. But reality was always more complicated. Creating the shield part, the reinforcement part was easy. Hell, it would have been easy to create the abilities and stick them to each and every one of my soldiers and people but I didn't want that, I wanted them awaken them personally, for those powers do not come directly from but indirectly more like a seed I had planted and that they had nurtured making it unique instead of something given.
For now, it was still an idea I was working on, but one that I knew I could turn into something real. It kinda felt like Math or coding. You knew you were doing the steps necessary to find the wanted solution but details, formating and other meaningless stuff made it longer than needed.
More than that, I was sure that with Grey Worm's help, we could develop a system—a blend of martial arts, strategy, and magical enhancement, martial arts made to fight stronger than humans beings and for stronger than human soldiers to maximize their use of their ability. Training with Grey Worm had after all shown me that the rules in a fight between someone capable of leaving gashes in the ground by moving and someone capable of pushing back against that was different from a normal one between average humans. It would still probably take time, effort, and a lot of trial and error but honestly, when was it not the case with the things that mattered?
Still, I wasn’t going to rush into this blindly. Experimentation was necessary, but it had to be done carefully. If I moved too fast, if I was reckless, it could lead to accidents. Dangerous accidents. And while I was confident I could fix any physical damage—heal any wounds—there was no reason to subject someone to unnecessary pain.
This was the balance I had to maintain. It would be easy to lose myself in the power, in the idea that because I could heal almost everything, thus it didn't matter if I hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. That's how you became a mad scientist the likes of Orochimaru or Shou Tucker who didn’t care about the suffering they brought, only the realization of their goal.
I wasn’t going to become a mad scientist, experimenting on my soldiers with no regard for their well-being. I could try to say that I'm better, that I'm not a psycho like the two of them but I could see so easily how that path could be taken—innocent enough, with just a few harmless tests. But over time, what seemed unthinkable would begin to feel reasonable, until there was no line left that I wouldn’t cross like an addiction. That was the last thing this world needed—another person with too much power and too little empathy.
I was proud of what I had done so far. I had turned slaves into soldiers, broken people into legends. They had fought for me, died for me, and returned to fight again. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted to do more. I wanted to give them power not just to defend themselves, but to thrive in this world.
I glanced at the horizon, where the stars beyond even though it was a daytime, even though we were under the dominion of Sol and not of Luna seemed to pulse in time with my thoughts. Astapor was not quiet at all and yet it felt like the world itself was listening, almost whispering to my ears what you would do.
So to recapitulate, the first step was enhancing their physical capabilities, and I had already laid the groundwork for that. The panaceas were doing their job, strengthening their bodies beyond what was normally possible. But now, I needed to add magic to the mix. I had experimented with enchanting weapons and armor before, but that had been on a small scale. Now, I needed to think bigger.
What if I could create weapons that responded to their wielder’s will? Swords that could change shape, become shields, spears, or even project magical attacks? What if their armor could repair itself, grow stronger with every blow it took? The possibilities were endless, but I needed to approach it methodically.
I imagined the scene in my mind: soldiers clad in armor that glowed with magic, wielding weapons that were extensions of their own bodies. They would be unstoppable.
I had to start somewhere. Experimentation. I would try it on myself first. I had the Archmage Essence—I could handle whatever came from it, and I wouldn’t risk anyone else in the process. I needed to figure out how to combine physical combat with magical enhancements in a way that was seamless.
First, I would need to see how far I could push my own body. I knew I could channel magic through myself in combat, but the method was one that left much to desire, a lot of roughness with not enough finess. It will have to change.
I would try to dedicate the next days to research. I had to try to study the various magical systems of this world a little bit more—the great stallion’s black fire magic, the soul manipulation of the undying ones and even the ones I hadn’t able to personally experience but knew existed due to having read the books and watched the show like Euron’s bullshit, the warging of the first men, the shadow magic of Asshaï and even the water magic of the rhyonars. There was knowledge here, waiting to be unearthed, waiting to be used. I just needed to try to do so. I was after all literally an Archmage, a mage amongst mage.
I felt a smile bloom on my face. My shoulders didn't feel weighed with any of my responsibilities. There was a lot to do yet there was a certainty etched in my mind saying that everything would be alright.
I took a step forward, the wind swirling around me as I descended from the sky. My people watched, their faces still filled with awe and wonder even though they had seen me do such so many times. I bore witness to the unhidden adoration in their gazes, in their eyes that screamed that they believed in me, that they believed in the future I was building, that it would probably never change. Without looking in their mind, I knew this smx this was reason enough, reason enough to make sure that I would never let them down.
Well now that I had paid attention, it would be more accurate to say that the adults and the ones who were relatively new to Astapor like the escaped slaves or the Lhazareens that had followed me were the ones doing such. The children that looked as young as I did if not more didn't seem to care that much as if they were getting used to it quickly than the others. I guess it was even in this world still the nature of children to get bored of things quickly.
This world would be reshaped into something better. A world where the strong didn’t trample on the weak, where cruelty wasn’t the currency of power, where freedom was not a privilege but a right. I could see it already, the contours of this new world forming in my mind. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen.
I landed gently on the ground, the soft crunch of snow under the soles of my sandals. I began walking toward my soldiers barracks at the edge of the city mostly ignoring the stares.
The barracks became visible as I reached. My gaze met with the one of Grey Worm who began to approach me. One of the good things I could say had resulted from the campaign against the Dothraki had been how the Ex-unsullie had become to display even more than before human mannerisms and emotions. He was beginning to act more like a human than a machine which was a monumental win in my opinion because it meant that no matter what the good masters had put him through, no matter how much they had broken others and him, that it was possible for an individual to to rebuilt themselves no matter what, that with time, even the worst wound can be completely healed.
I would have called his expression stoic if there wasn’t the slight quirk, the shadow of a smile on his face.
"The soldiers are ready, Aegor," he said. "They’ve been training tirelessly since the battle. Many are asking when the next campaign will be."
It had been weeks, almost a month since we had come back from dealing with the Dothraki. I had given my soldiers the possibility of taking temporary leaves or even leaving the army completely if they wished.
I hadn’t expected to be honest my soldiers to leave. I had seen through their minds after but still, I had thought that they would take some time, maybe some days or weeks to rest or the like.
After all, some of them literally died fighting for me before I redirected them. Most of them had never killed before and even those who had before probably never had to kill as much yet it wasn’t what happened.
No, instead, they felt eager to continue. Reading through their minds, I knew that they wished we had continued toward the other slaver cities.
The fact that they were seen as heroes, legends by the people of Astapor, that I literally resurrected some of them, that I made them strong enough not only to match but to win against at least ten times their numbers, against Dothraki who were feared amongst all of Essos only strengthened that feeling.
Knowing that they were feeling restless, I had asked one week ago to Grey Worm to see if he could help me find volunteers to help me research and fine-tune how I would better my army.
At least a thousand volunteered and the number stopped only at that because too many people would make things longer than they needed to be.
I smiled at his words.
"Good," I replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But we’re not done yet. We’re going to make them stronger. Much stronger."
He raised an eyebrow. "Stronger? They’ve already proven they can fight armies ten times their size."
"Yes," I said, "but that was just the beginning. We need to be ready for what’s coming. Magic is returning to the world, Grey Worm. The creatures, the gods, the horrors that once slept are waking up. The Dothraki were only the start. I want our soldiers to be able to face any threat, no matter how monstrous."
He nodded, understanding immediately. Grey Worm had always been quick to adapt, quick to see the bigger picture. That’s why I trusted him, not just as a soldier but as a leader.
"I want to infuse magic into their very being," I continued. "Their armor, their weapons, even their bodies. Imagine warriors who can not only fight but wield magic as naturally as they breathe. Imagine them moving faster than humanly possible, striking with the force of the gods themselves."
Grey Worm listened, absorbing my words without flinching. He had seen the impossible become possible before his eyes. He had faith in me, in what I was trying to build.
"How do we begin?" he asked, ever practical.
"First, I’ll experiment on myself," I said. "I need to see how magic can be combined with physical combat. I’ll start with aura—an energy shield that strengthens the body, enhances reflexes, and protects against harm. If it works, we’ll train the soldiers in its use. After that, we’ll move on to weapons and armor."
Grey Worm nodded again, already thinking of the logistics. "I’ll gather the soldiers who had volunteered. We’ll need a controlled environment."
"Good," I said, turning to look at the city once more. "And we’ll need to focus on training them in martial arts as well. Not just the usual swordplay, but something more fluid, more adaptive. They’ll need to be able to fight with their bodies as much as with their weapons. Magic and martial skill, combined."
Grey Worm’s lips tightened into a smile, a rare sight. "They’ll be ready."
As he left to make preparations, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander again. The possibilities were endless. If I could successfully create a system of magic-infused combat, it wouldn’t just be my army that would change—it would be the world.
There were still chains to break, still lives to save. Slaver’s Bay was just the start. I wanted to see a world where no one had to suffer the way I had, where no one had to live in fear of a master’s whip. But I couldn’t do it alone. My soldiers, my people—they would have to carry that dream with me.
This was just the beginning. The world could throw its worst at me. In the end, I wouldn’t be the one to buckle.
In the end, my dream, the dream of all those people was what would become truth. The world order, had already changed, changed to the one I wished. To the people who didn’t know this, I'll just have to illuminate them.
*scene*
The smell was the first thing the smallfolk noticed—the stench of the sea, but worse, like a bloated corpse washed ashore after too many days in the sun. It clung to Breakwater Keep like a sickness, like something you couldn’t wash away no matter how many times you scrubbed. But that wasn’t all. No, that wasn’t all. The Borell family had always been a strange lot, queer in their ways, but over the last two moons, something had changed. Something worse.
Lord Godric Borell and his kin had always kept to themselves, but there was an oddness about them that every servant whispered about when they thought no one was listening. They were a proud family, to be sure, but more than that, they were secretive. That in itself wasn’t so strange—not in the world of lords and castles—but this? This was something different.
Old Jeyne, who had served the Borells for over thirty years, was the first to notice it. “Their skin,” she’d whispered to the others one night while they cleaned the great hall, “It’s changin’. Goin’ pale like the fish in the nets. Mark my words, somethin’ ain’t right.” At first, no one paid her much mind. Old Jeyne was known to speak nonsense from time to time, her mind not as sharp as it once was. But then others started noticing too. The youngest Borells, the children, their eyes had grown large, almost bulging, and their fingers, always webbed, seemed to stretch unnaturally long. The servants spoke of it in hushed tones, fearful that the Borells might overhear.
The servant wiping down the table, Bannen, had felt it in his bones for weeks now, an unease he couldn’t shake. The sea had always been his friend—a companion as much as the land—but recently it had begun to feel... wrong. Rotten. Like something terrible lay just beneath the waves, waiting to rise. He had heard it, too—heard things moving in the water when there shouldn’t have been anything there. Strange sounds in the night, strange lights beneath the waves. And Breakwater Keep itself seemed to pulse with it, like the stones were breathing, like the sea was creeping in.
But it wasn’t until two moons past that the real horror began.
The noises, the strange noises, had started first. At night, when the wind howled and the waves crashed against the shore, there were other sounds, sounds no man should ever hear. Horrid, gurgling sounds, like something alive was slithering through the walls, crawling under the floorboards. It was worst in the deepest parts of the night when the moon hid behind the clouds and only the sound of the sea could be heard. And sometimes—just sometimes—Bannen could swear he saw shadows moving where there should be none. Lurking in the corners, clinging to the edges of his vision, gone the moment he turned his head.
He had tried to tell himself it was the wind, the waves playing tricks on his mind, but he knew better. Breakwater had always been an eerie place, but it was getting worse, far worse. The servants were on edge, the smallfolk kept to themselves more, and the sea—the sea had become their enemy. The fishing had gone bad. Nets came back empty more often than not, or worse, full of creatures no one had seen before—fish with too many eyes, slick things that squirmed unnervingly, and once, a monstrous thing that had tangled itself in the lines, half rotting and half alive.
And then there were the Borells themselves.
Lord Godric, the head of the family, had always been an imposing figure, but he had changed too. His skin had grown paler, more slick, and when he spoke, his voice had taken on a strange, wet quality. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, now glistened unnaturally, bulging slightly, as though they were too big for his skull. The others—the Lady Selyse and the children and grandchildren—were no better. They had taken to spending more time near the water, down by the cliffs, or in the ancient stone halls beneath the keep, where no servant dared to go.
Bannen had overheard whispers among the older servants that the Borell family was cursed. There were old stories, passed down from generation to generation, about the Borells’ connection to the sea. Some said they were descended from merlings, the mythical creatures that haunted the depths of the ocean. Others claimed that the Borells had made some dark pact long ago with creatures far worse than merlings—things that dwelled in the blackest parts of the deep. Bannen had laughed it off at first, but now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He had seen the webbing between their fingers, more pronounced than it had ever been. He had seen the way their skin glistened with a strange sheen, as though they were always damp. And he had smelled the stench—the stench of rot, of decay, that seemed to seep from the very stones of the keep.
One night, two moons ago, everything had changed. Bannen had been woken from his sleep by a sound unlike any he had ever heard before—a deep, guttural wail that seemed to come from the very earth itself. It had reverberated through the keep, shaking the walls and rattling the windows. He had stumbled out of bed, heart pounding, and rushed to the door, only to find the other servants already gathered in the hallway, pale and trembling.
"Did you hear that?" Jeyne had whispered, her voice quivering with fear.
Bannen had nodded, too shaken to speak. They had all heard it. The sound had come from the direction of the cliffs, where the Borells often went late at night. But none of them had dared go near. Not then. Not ever.
Since that night, the keep had grown darker. The sea had grown darker. And the Borells... they were no longer quite human.
Bannen could still hear the terrible wails sometimes, deep in the night, accompanied by strange chants in a language he did not know, a language no man should know. He had seen the shadows—great, hulking shapes that slithered and writhed in the darkness, just beyond the edge of sight. And the smell—the stench of the sea, of rot—grew worse with each passing day.
The servants had tried to leave, but none had succeeded. Those who tried found themselves turned back by the waves, as though the sea itself was holding them prisoner. The smallfolk in the nearby villages whispered of strange things happening at night, of figures moving through the mist, of ships that sailed the waters without crew or captain, of lights beneath the waves that no one could explain.
And Breakwater Keep? It had become a prison. Bannen could feel it, deep in his bones, a suffocating weight that pressed down on him day and night. The Borells were changing, becoming something... other. Something monstrous. And there was no escape.
One night, while Bannen was sweeping the great hall, he heard it again—the wail, low and mournful, like the cry of a dying beast. It was closer this time, much closer. He dropped the broom and ran to the window, peering out into the mist-covered night.
There, by the cliffs, he saw them—the Borells, all of them, standing in a circle, their pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. They were chanting in that same, horrible language, their voices rising and falling in an unnatural rhythm. And in the center of the circle, something was rising from the water—something massive, something ancient.
Bannen’s blood ran cold as he watched the thing emerge from the sea, its slick, black form towering over the Borells. It had no eyes, but Bannen could feel it staring at him, feel its presence pressing down on him like a weight too heavy to bear. He wanted to scream, to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was frozen, trapped by the thing’s gaze, unable to tear his eyes away.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. The Borells, too, were gone, vanished into the mist like phantoms.
Bannen staggered back from the window, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t stay here any longer. He had to leave, had to get away from this place, from whatever it was that had taken hold of Breakwater Keep.
But as he turned to flee, he heard a voice behind him, low and wet, like the sound of water gurgling through a drain.
"Going somewhere?"
Bannen spun around, his blood turning to ice. There, standing in the doorway, was Lord Godric Borell. His skin was slick, glistening in the dim light, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—were black as the depths of the ocean.
"You can’t leave," Lord Godric said, his voice slithering into Bannen’s ears like a serpent. "You belong to the sea now. We all do."
Bannen stumbled back, his hands grasping for anything to defend himself with, but there was nothing. Lord Godric took a step forward, his mouth twisting into a grotesque smile, revealing sharp, jagged teeth.
"You’ll see," Lord Godric whispered. "Soon, you’ll see."
And then, darkness.
Bannen didn’t remember hitting the floor, didn’t remember falling into unconsciousness. But when he woke, he was no longer in the great hall. He was on the cliffs, staring out at the endless sea. And beside him, he felt the cold, slick touch of something unholy. Bannen jolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest as his eyes darted around. The sky above was a sickly gray, the sun hidden behind a dense layer of clouds. The cliffs stretched out before him, jagged and sharp, dropping off into the churning sea below. But it was what stood beside him that nearly stopped his heart.
Lord Godrick was there, his skin pale and glistening like fish scales, his eyes black and depthless, like two pits that swallowed the light. And there were others too—Lady Selyse, the Borell children, and more of the household—each of them standing in eerie silence, their faces void of any emotion, their eyes blank and hollow.
They weren’t alone.
Something massive stirred in the water below, a hulking, monstrous shape that Bannen could barely comprehend. Its form was obscured by the mist and the crashing waves, but he could see enough to know that it was no creature of the natural world. It rose from the depths slowly, like a great beast awakening from a long slumber, its slick, oily body glistening with seawater. Its limbs, if they could be called that, writhed and twisted in ways that defied nature, and the sounds it made—guttural, otherworldly—sent a shiver down his spine.
Bannen wanted to run, to scream, to do anything, but his body wouldn’t obey him. It was as if the very air around him had turned thick and suffocating, weighing him down, freezing him in place. His eyes darted to the others, but none of them moved. They all stood still, their heads slightly bowed, as if in reverence to the thing rising from the sea.
Lord Godric turned his gaze to Bannen, his voice low and rasping as he spoke. "The sea calls to you, Bannen. It has always called to you. You just didn’t hear it until now."
Bannen shook his head, his mind racing. "No… no, I don’t belong here. I need to leave. Please…"
"You can’t leave," Lady Selyse whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. "None of us can. We are bound to the sea. To it."
As she spoke, the thing in the water drew closer, its form becoming more distinct. It was vast, far larger than any ship or sea creature Bannen had ever seen, and its presence was suffocating, as if the very air around it was being drawn into its gaping maw. Bannen could feel its eyes—or what passed for eyes—on him, watching him, judging him.
The Borell children moved then, their small hands reaching out to Bannen, their faces still eerily blank. "You’ll join us," one of them whispered. "You’ll see. It’s better this way. You won’t be alone anymore."
Bannen recoiled, terror gripping his heart. "No! Stay away from me!" But his voice came out weak, barely a whisper, swallowed by the roar of the sea.
The children’s faces twisted into something grotesque, their mouths opening wider than should have been possible, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Bannen stumbled back, his foot slipping on the wet stone of the cliffs, but before he could fall, Lord Godric grabbed him by the arm, his grip cold and slimy.
"You cannot escape," Lord Godric hissed. "You are bound to the sea now, just as we are. There is no running from it."
Bannen thrashed, trying to free himself from Lord Godric’s grip, but the man’s strength was inhuman, his fingers digging into Bannen’s flesh like claws. Panic surged through him as the thing in the water drew closer, its monstrous form looming over the cliffs.
"I… I don’t belong here!" Bannen gasped, his breath coming in ragged, panicked bursts. "I’m just a servant! I don’t—"
"You were chosen," Lady Selyse interrupted, her eyes glinting with a strange, unearthly light. "The sea chose you, just as it chose us. There is no escaping its call."
As she spoke, the water below churned violently, and the thing began to rise higher, its massive, glistening body emerging fully from the waves. Bannen could barely comprehend what he was seeing. The creature was a nightmare made flesh, its body a writhing mass of limbs and tentacles, its eyes—if it had any—glowing faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light.
Bannen’s mind raced, desperately searching for some way to escape, but there was none. The Borells had him. The sea had him. There was no escape from this nightmare. His legs felt like lead, his body frozen in place as the creature loomed closer, its presence overwhelming.
And then, without warning, Lord Godric shoved Bannen forward, toward the edge of the cliffs.
Bannen stumbled, his feet sliding on the slick stone, and for a moment, he thought he might fall. But something caught him—something cold and slimy, something that coiled around his legs and waist. He looked down in horror to see tendrils of the creature wrapping around him, pulling him toward the water.
"No!" Bannen screamed, his hands clawing at the ground, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto. But it was no use. The creature’s grip was too strong, too relentless. It was pulling him into the sea, pulling him into the depths, into the darkness.
As the tendrils tightened around him, Bannen’s mind filled with a thousand horrors—images of things he couldn’t comprehend, voices whispering in languages he didn’t understand. The world around him grew cold, the sky darkening, the sea churning with malevolent force.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
Bannen was yanked into the water, the cold ocean swallowing him whole. He thrashed and struggled, but the creature’s grip was unbreakable, dragging him deeper and deeper into the abyss. The water was dark, so dark that he could see nothing, only feel the pressure building around him, crushing him.
In his final moments, as the water filled his lungs and the darkness closed in, Bannen heard one last, terrible sound—the wail of the creature, echoing through the depths, reverberating through his very soul.
Then there was silence.
***
Back on the cliffs, the Borells stood in silence, watching as the sea swallowed Bannen whole. Lord Godric turned to his family, his black, soulless eyes gleaming in the fading light.
"The sea has claimed him," he said quietly. "As it will claim us all."
Lady Selyse nodded, her face expressionless. "The time is coming. Soon, we will return to the depths."
The Borell children, their faces pale and inhuman, said nothing, but their eyes gleamed with a strange, hungry light.
Far below, in the dark waters of the sea, something stirred. Something ancient. Something that had been waiting for far too long.
And the Borells? They would be ready.
***
Bannen’s body was never found. The smallfolk whispered of strange things in the night, of shadows moving beneath the waves, of the Borell family’s strange, otherworldly behavior. Some claimed that Breakwater Keep was cursed, that the Borells had made some dark pact with the sea.
But none dared speak of it openly. None dared question the Borells.
For they knew that the sea had its own secrets. And it was better to leave those secrets buried beneath the waves, where they belonged.
*scene*
Viserys stared out of the carriage window, his fingers tracing the edges of the rich velvet curtain, feeling the weight of thoughts that clung to him like iron chains. The world outside seemed too bright for his mood. The skies, far clearer than they had any right to be, stretched endlessly across the horizon, with no clouds to block the suffocating light. Beneath that light, the green fields stretched on, dotted with vibrant flowers and thick, luscious grass. The place that had once been the Dothraki Sea was now a strange paradise, a living testament to the rumors that plagued his mind.
Aegor.
No. Aegon.
Could it truly be?
Aegon, the son of Rhaegar, his brother. Viserys clung to that thought like a man on the edge of a cliff, hands bleeding as he gripped the sharp rocks to avoid falling into the abyss below. It was a desperate hope, one that he both cherished and feared in equal measure. The stories that had reached him in Pentos, the strange tales of a boy with powers of a god, who had killed with sorcery the good masters of Astapor, who made fire fall from the heavens it was said, a boy who had turned the desert into a green paradise—how could it not be his nephew?
How could it not be blood of his blood?
And yet, another part of him—darker, more cynical—whispered incessantly at the back of his mind, planting seeds of doubt. What if the boy wasn’t Aegon? What if these miracles weren’t Rhaegar’s son doing, what if they didn't have their origins in Valyrian magic but some other sorcery? What if he and Daenerys were, in fact, the last of the Targaryens? What then? What was left for them if all the others were dead, if this magical figure was nothing more than a pretender? Viserys had probably given everything up, the help of Illyrio for an army, for a golden crown of his own just for the chance of confirming his nephew’s survival. Maybe he had gone mad.
But no—he could not think that way. Not now. He had made up his mind to travel to Astapor, to see the truth with his own eyes, to know in his heart whether his blood still lived. It had to be him. It *had* to be Aegon.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a voice, smooth and sharp, as though it were forged in the fires of a smith's furnace. "A penny for your thoughts, Prince Viserys?"
The words broke the reverie of his inner turmoil, snapping him back to the present, where the soft sway of the carriage reminded him that he was still here, still bound by the weight of reality. He turned his gaze from the window, blinking as his focus shifted to Boros N'Kharad, the man who had become his unwanted but necessary companion. The Norvosi noble sat across from him, his pale eyes sparkling with a glint that made Viserys’ skin crawl.
Boros was a tall, broad-shouldered man, seemingly in his early fifties. His skin had the slight olive undertone typical of those who hailed from the northern parts of Norvos, his features sharp and regal, his dark brown hair streaked with silver and pulled into a low bun. He was dressed in flowing robes embroidered with intricate Norvosi symbols, deep maroon and gold, the fabric of his attire screaming wealth and status. Around his waist was a broad, metal belt studded with jewels, each precious enough to beggar a minor lord in Westeros. And around his neck, always, was an amulet that bore queer and disturbing designs that Viserys could never quite place.
But it was Boros’ eyes that unnerved him the most—light blue and sharp, always watching, always assessing. There was something about his gaze that felt wrong, as if something was crawling just beneath the surface, writhing in his skin. Viserys tried to ignore the sensation, but it was always there, lurking in the back of his mind whenever Boros was near.
“Your thoughts seemed troubled,” Boros continued, his voice smooth, calculated. “Is it the journey? Or the destination?”
Viserys clenched his jaw and shook his head, unwilling to indulge the man’s probing questions. He knew better than to trust anyone in Essos, especially those who had offered help so freely. He had learned that painful lesson before and with Illyrio. The wealth, the comforts—it had all been an illusion. None of it had been his. He had lived like a king in Pentos, but only because Illyrio had allowed it. The magister had provided for them, given them the appearance of royalty, but it had always been under his terms. Viserys had never been truly free.
What wasn’t truly yours could always be taken away. And Illyrio had made that abundantly clear when Viserys had asked for aid to journey to Astapor. He had laughed—mocked him, even, though not openly. The Targaryen prince had seen it in his eyes, the disdain lurking beneath the surface.
"Aegon is dead," Illyrio had told him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "His skull was dashed against a wall by one of Robert Baratheon’s dogs. This Aegor—this so-called ‘god-king’ of Astapor—is nothing more than a figment of your hopes, a lie spun by those who would seek to use you."
Viserys had wanted to scream, to lash out at the magister, but he hadn’t. He had simply nodded and thanked him for his counsel, knowing full well that Illyrio’s generosity had reached its end. That night, while the manor slept, Viserys had packed what little they had left, taken the remaining coin he had managed to save—or steal—and fled Pentos with Daenerys.
They had barely made it to Norvos before their funds ran dry. The sight of the green paradise that had once been the Dothraki Sea had spooked the mercenaries he had hired, leaving him with nothing but empty promises and dwindling resources. It had been humiliating, spending days in Norvos, practically begging for protection, searching the city from dawn until dusk for someone—anyone—who would accept to take them to Astapor in return of his meagre funds.
He had felt like a beggar.
The rightful king of Westeros reduced to begging for scraps. It burned that it had felt familiar.
If it had only been him, he would have continued on alone, but Daenerys… Daenerys needed protection. She was his responsibility. His sister. The one he loved and hated in equal measure. The one who had killed their mother in childbirth, the one for whom he had sold their mother’s crown—the last thing he had of her—to buy bread. The one he had sacrificed everything for. His pride. His body. A starved Valyrian-looking child in Essos with no money, no home and a sister who was too young that he had to take care of even though he hated it.
The memories made him sick, but they were as real as the air he breathed. How many times had he allowed himself to be violated, to ensure Daenerys’ safety? Too many to count. But what choice had he been given? In Essos, there was no room for pride. Not when you were a starving Valyrian child with a sister to protect.
“Something weighs heavy on your heart, my prince,” Boros said again, his tone light, almost teasing.
Viserys turned to look at him, his expression dark. “What do you want from us, Boros?” he asked, his voice tight. “You didn’t offer your help out of the kindness of your heart.”
Boros smiled, leaning back in his seat, his fingers tapping idly on the serpent-shaped bracelet that curled around his left wrist. “You wound me, Prince Viserys,” he said, his tone light, but there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes. “I have no ulterior motives, beyond seeing you safely to Astapor. I am a man who seizes opportunities, yes, but I also value alliances. And a Targaryen is always a valuable ally.”
“An ally,” Viserys muttered, though the word felt hollow. He had heard it all before—from Illyrio, from the other magisters who had crossed their paths. They all wanted something. They all saw him and Daenerys as pawns to be used for their own ends or they simply humour them to laugh, mock them, mock him, mock how low the Targaryens had fallen.
“An ally indeed,” Boros repeated. “You will need much Viserys Targaryen for a throne, you will need allies. Powerful ones. I can provide that. I have influence in Norvos, connections that could serve you well in your quest to reclaim the Iron Throne.”
Viserys’ lip curled at the mention of the throne. The Iron Throne. The thing he had been chasing all his life, the thing that had been promised to him by right of birth. But now… now it felt like a distant dream, a fading memory of something he had once cared about, but no longer did. His focus was on family now. If Aegor truly was Aegon, then the throne didn’t matter at least not as urgently. The throne was still rightfully the one of house Targaryen of course and he wouldn’t stop until it became reality again but family came first.
But Boros wouldn’t understand that. No one would. Even Daenerys. They all thought he wanted a throne because of pride when it was in truth for his dead kin. In a better world, it would have been Rhaegar and not the usurper on the throne, his sweet, honourable and kind brother on the throne and not the Whoremonger who had murdered him at the Trident, who had murdered his brother.
“What do you get out of it?” Viserys asked, his tone sharp. “What do you stand to gain?”
Boros’ smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. “What every man wants, my prince. Power. Influence. And perhaps… a place in history.”
Viserys said nothing, his gaze shifting back to the window. The green paradise of the Dothraki Sea stretched on endlessly, its beauty a stark contrast to the darkness that twisted in his heart. He knew Boros was using them, just as Illyrio had. But at least Boros needed them alive. At least for now.
A sudden jolt of the carriage startled him, and he glanced over to see Daenerys stir from her seat beside him. She blinked up at him, her violet eyes soft and full of curiosity.
“Are we stopping?” she asked, her voice light.
Viserys nodded, forcing a smile and trying to hide the turmoil that still churned within him. "Yes," he said, "it seems we're stopping for a short while."
Daenerys’ face brightened, her innocence breaking through the layers of the world’s cruelty that had shaped them both. "May I go outside? I want to see the flowers again," she asked, her tone almost childlike, full of wonder.
Viserys hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Boros. The Norvosi noble simply nodded, offering a reassuring smile that made Viserys’ skin crawl. "Of course, Your Grace," Boros said smoothly. "Our guards and servants will be watching closely. They will die before allowing anything wrong to happen. You have nothing to fear."
There was certainty in the voice of the Norvosi, a confidence that was complete as if he had seen the future and knew without a doubt what would come.
Viserys clenched his jaw but forced himself to nod in agreement. "Stay close to the caravan," he instructed Daenerys, his voice firmer than it needed to be. "Don’t stray too far."
Daenerys nodded eagerly, already halfway out the carriage door, her silvery hair catching the sunlight as she slipped outside. Viserys watched her go, her laughter filling the air as she ran across the green fields, her fingers brushing the petals of the vibrant flowers that had transformed the once barren land.
For a moment, Viserys felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest. She looked so happy, so free, and for a fleeting second, he could almost imagine her as she might have been in another life—a princess playing in the gardens of the Red Keep, laughing with Rhaenys, while Rhaegar’s music played softly in the background like he once had.
But that life was gone. The Red Keep wasn’t theirs anymore. Rhaenys was gone. His mother, his father, Elia—all gone, all murdered.
Viserys closed his eyes, banishing the thought before it could take root. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past. Not now. Not when they were so close to finding out the truth about Aegon. He had to focus. He had to protect Daenerys, had to guide her, had to—
"You seem as if lost in a memory, in your mind again my prince," Boros’ voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, smooth and calculated as ever.
Viserys opened his eyes and turned to the man, his expression hardening. "You think you know me, Boros," he said quietly, "but you don’t. You’re using us. Don’t try to appear or seem as something you are not."
Boros leaned back in his seat, his eyes never leaving Viserys’. "Perhaps," he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "But you’re still here, aren’t you? You still accepted my help. And you’ll continue to accept it because you have no other choice."
Viserys’ fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. The truth in Boros’ words stung more than he cared to admit. He had no other choice. Not if he wanted to keep Daenerys safe. Not if he wanted to reach Astapor and find out the truth about Aegon.
Boros’ eyes flickered to the window, where Daenerys could be seen twirling in the fields on the gaze of guards and servants, her laughter carried on the wind. "She’s a beautiful girl," Boros said softly. "Innocent. Full of life. You’ve done well to protect her, my prince."
The words made Viserys’ stomach churn with a mixture of pride and resentment. He had protected her. He had sacrificed everything for her. And yet… there was still a darkness within him, a voice that whispered of the things he had lost because of her.
*Would she have done the same for you?* the voice whispered.
Viserys shook his head, trying to push the thought away. "Of course, she would," he muttered under his breath, though the doubt still lingered, like a shadow at the edge of his mind.
"Perhaps," Boros said, as if he had heard the words. His voice was smooth, gentle even, but there was an underlying malice in his tone that Viserys couldn’t ignore. "But you should be careful, Prince Viserys. The world is a dangerous place, and it only takes and takes. Family mean a lot more and less than most think it does. Family sometimes could be the
Cause of your fall."
Viserys’ eyes snapped to Boros, his heart racing with a sudden surge of anger. "What are you saying?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Boros raised his hands in a gesture of innocence, the smile still playing on his lips. "I’m merely offering some friendly advice," he said. "You should always be mindful of those you trust. Even family can be… unpredictable."
Viserys felt a chill run down his spine at the words, but he forced himself to stay calm. He couldn’t let Boros get to him. Not now. Not when they were so close.
“Speak plainly,” Viserys hissed to the man.
Cold Silver eyes clashed against deep amethysts “I had wondered to be frank to understand at first why, you would try to cross a continent, try to make a journey in a world growing even more dangerous and unpredictable. I had wondered why until I remembered a little something I had heard, the Stag kin-”
“He's no king!” Viserys shouted.
Boros continued as if he hadn’t heard him, as if he hadn’t been interrupted “had put a bounty big enough to make or even u make a kingdom, a bounty on the head of the sorcerer king of Astapor, a bounty it was said on the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.”
“It sounds to be honest far fetched but even it wasn’t, queerer things had after all had happened in the past,” the Norvosi continued “what I don’t understand is why you would risk so much, leave a comfortable life in one of the manors of a magister in Pentos, possible means to improve your situation for the possibility of encountering someone who could be said to have a stronger claim to the iron throne than you, the son of the man who was the cause of the fall of your house, the son of the man who was the cause of the death of all of your relatives.”
Viserys felt like in a haze. There was a disconnect but at the same time he was aware. In truth, it wasn’t that at that moment Viserys Targaryen wasn’t feeling enough, it was worse because instead at that moment, Viserys Targaryen felt too much.
Viserys Targaryen felt as if he was on fire from the inside. The tones of his words that came out of his mouth didn't match what he felt inside.
“One more word, one more breath,” the Targaryen vowed “and I'll kill you.”
Viserys Targaryen wasn’t making a promise, he was saying a fact. Water was wet, the sun hot and Viserys Targaryen will kill Boros at his next word or breath
The gaze of the Norvosi noble had changed. Where before there was a quiet confidence, a certainty that you only had when knowing that things would without a doubt go your ways, now there were cautions and fear. Boros had even stopped breathing.
Boros was looking at Viserys as if he was a dangerous beast he was trapped with and where Viserys Targaryen’s heart would have normally relished at said sight, now the Valyrian only felt anger edging and clawing at the edge of his sanity screaming at him, reminding him that he was a dragon, that he was fire and Allowing the worm before him to speak of his dead family, of his beloved brother couldn’t be allowed to stand yet he was stopping himself he didn't know why of doing so by a thin thread.
The voice that came out of the Targaryen’s throat was a inhuman thing, reminiscent of the hiss of a snake, no, of something reptilian but bigger and worse “Don’t forget what I am Boros N'Kharad. I am Fire. I am a dragon. I am a Targaryen. You are but a fool who seemed to have forgotten his station.”
Kill him the voice in the back of his mind whispered, burn him it said, tear his heart out with your claws it hissed. He could feel his body shaking, shaking because he was stooping himself to do so.
He heard Daenerys’ voice calling for him from outside, and for a moment, his heart softened at the sound. This more than anything was what saved the Norvosi.
“Don’t forget that,” the dragon lord warned. The Norvosi gave him a shaky nod. They both knew this was the last warning that would ever be given.
Viserys stood and made his way to the carriage door. As he stepped outside, the cool breeze hit his face, and the scent of the green fields filled his lungs. He could see Daenerys not far off, playing with the flowers, her smile bright and carefree.
He gave a last look at the norvosi Noble
“You are now allowed to breathe,” Viserys spoke before closing the door behind him.
Comments
allen 1996
I am just going to say that many races other than the children of the forest, the white walkers and the giants existed in Westeros in the past and some of them mated with humans. This with brief searches should be enough to make you decipher things a little more
Arte
Noooooo not Bannen! Oh gosh the Lovecraftian stuff from the sea is terrifying as heck, now I am morbidly curious about the history behind the Borells. What even happened here? What did they and their ancestors do? And from how the wife is cursed too, how did she get cursed? Is it just by marrying into the Borells, or something else?
Rachel N
Okay, I can't believe I'm saying this... but Viserys deserves all the love and happiness. ALL! Thank you for the amazing chapter!!!!
