Allen1996
patreon
Chapter 16: Stoichiometric
🕑 Added 2024-09-21 12:57:58 +0000 UTCLysaeria Delonise had never seen anything like it. She had heard tales, of course—of old Valyria's dragons scorching the skies, of gods striking down mortals from the heavens. But those were tales, the fanciful stories whispered in the pillow houses of Lys as courtesans like her seduced their patrons. This, however—this was not a tale. It was real. And it was terrifying.
The courtesan turned entrepreneur, who had built an empire in the city of Lys with her beauty, wit, and a keen sense of business, found herself frozen in place, her hands trembling as they gripped the silk drapes of her private chamber. Outside her palatial home, nestled in the heart of the pleasure city, the world itself seemed to be unraveling.
She had felt it before she had seen it. The air had shifted, growing heavy with an unnatural weight that seemed to press against her lungs, making it hard to breathe. The sky, which had been a serene blue only moments before, darkened in an instant. It was as if the sun had been swallowed by something—something vast and terrible. And then came the tremors, subtle at first, then building to a crescendo that made the very foundations of her home quake. Furniture toppled, delicate vases imported from Myr shattered on the floor, and her attendants screamed in fear.
Lysaeria did not scream. She couldn’t. Her voice had been stolen by the sight above her—a battle between forces that defied description. She stood transfixed, watching as the heavens themselves split open. From her window, she could only see flashes—blinding light followed by impenetrable darkness, as though day and night were waging war. The horizon, far off above the Dothraki Sea, writhed and boiled, unnatural storms crackling with black lightning, the earth itself groaning as if in agony.
"What in the name of the Fourteen...?" Lysaeria whispered, though she knew this was beyond any gods she had ever prayed to. The Great Shepherd of the Dothraki, the Many-Faced God of Braavos, even the ancient deities of Valyria—none of them could explain this.
There was no rhyme or reason to what she was witnessing. It was power—raw, terrifying, and incomprehensible. She had always prided herself on her ability to read people, to understand their desires and ambitions. But this? This was not human. No ambition, no desire could lead to something like this.
This was destruction for the sake of destruction, power for the sake of power. Whatever forces clashed in the distant skies, they were not of this world.
She clutched her chest as another tremor rocked the city. For a moment, she feared Lys might sink into the sea. Her mind raced. Was it the Doom of Valyria, returned to finish what it had started centuries ago? Had the gods grown weary of the mortal world and decided to tear it asunder? Or was it something else—something older, darker, something beyond her understanding?
Lysaeria had heard whispers over the last month. She dealt with men and women of all kinds, from the richest magisters to the poorest sailors. They came to her pillow houses to forget their troubles, to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, but they also came with stories. Stories of the strange happenings beyond the known world. Of magic stirring in the far corners of Essos, of forgotten twisted things awakening from their slumber. But she had never believed in such things. Magic was for fools, for the desperate. Power, true power, was found in gold, influence, and knowledge.
But now… now she wasn’t so sure.
She tore her gaze from the window and turned toward her closest confidante, a fellow courtesan named Delora, who was standing beside her, pale as death. "What do we do?" Delora's voice was barely a whisper, her eyes wide with fear.
Lysaeria didn't have an answer. She, who had always prided herself on having control, on knowing how to handle any situation, was at a loss. What could one do when the world itself was coming undone?
"We wait," Lysaeria finally said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides. "We wait and see if the world still stands when this is over."
Her words offered little comfort, and Delora’s trembling didn’t stop. Neither did her own. Lysaeria forced herself to sit, her legs barely able to hold her weight anymore. She had dealt with powerful men before, men who thought themselves gods because of their wealth or armies. But now she realized how small they all were. How small she was.
From her window, the light of the distant battle surged once more, brighter than any sun, followed by a wave of darkness so profound it swallowed everything in sight. And then, for a moment, there was nothing. No light. No sound. The world seemed to hold its breath.
It felt like the end.
The people of Lys felt it too. Outside, the streets were in chaos. Lysaeria could hear the shouts, the cries of panic, the desperate prayers to any gods who might listen. Her pillow houses had been abandoned, her workers and patrons alike fleeing into the streets in terror. What use were fleshly pleasures when the world seemed on the verge of destruction?
Lysaeria stood again, moving to the door of her chamber. She needed to see what was happening. She needed to understand.
The courtyard outside her home was filled with people—her attendants, servants, and courtesans, all huddled together, eyes wide with fear. Even the guards, normally so composed, stood rigid, hands on the hilts of their swords as though they expected the sky itself to attack.
Lysaeria walked among them, her posture as regal as she could muster despite the shaking of her hands. She needed to be strong. She was their leader, after all, and leaders did not show fear.
But as she looked into the sky once more, at the swirling maelstrom of light and shadow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was beyond any of them.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
The sky, which had been split in two, slowly mended itself. The darkness receded, and the light, though still unnatural in its brilliance, dimmed to something approaching normalcy. The tremors in the earth ceased, leaving behind only the faintest rumble, as if the ground was exhaling after holding its breath for too long.
Lysaeria stared at the horizon, where the battle had raged. Whatever had fought there, whatever had clashed with such godlike fury, was gone. The air was thick with a strange energy, like the lingering scent of a storm long past, but the world had not ended. Not yet, at least.
The people around her began to murmur, questions and prayers whispered in hushed tones. What had happened? What did it mean? Was it over?
Lysaeria didn't have answers for them. She wasn’t sure anyone did.
But one thing was clear. Whatever had fought above the Dothraki Sea, whatever powers had been unleashed, they were beyond human understanding. Beyond the gods, even. It was a reminder, a cruel and terrifying reminder, that in the grand scheme of things, they were all insignificant. Mere specks of dust in a universe filled with forces far beyond their comprehension.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. The world had not ended today, but it had changed. She could feel it in her bones, in the very air she breathed. Something had shifted, something fundamental. The old ways, the old powers—they were no longer enough.
Lysaeria turned to her people, her voice calm despite the storm still raging in her mind. "We will rebuild," she said, though what had been broken, she couldn’t quite name. "And we will survive. That is all we can do."
As the people around her slowly nodded, their fear giving way to a cautious hope, Lysaeria’s mind drifted back to the sky above the Dothraki Sea, to the clash of light and darkness that had shaken the very world.
Whoever had fought there, whatever forces had been unleashed, they had left their mark on the world. And Lysaeria knew, deep in her heart, that the world would never be the same again.
*scene*
In Yunkai, the evening had settled into an eerie quiet. The day had passed like many others, the hot sun baking the streets and the winds of the Red Waste stirring up the dry, arid air. The slaves of Yunkai, hundreds upon hundreds of them, went about their tasks with the same heavy resignation, their chains clinking softly in rhythm with their labors. Among them was a young man, barely in his twenties, who had long since forgotten his real name. He was known only by the slave designation *Tenth.* His life, like all slaves in Yunkai, was one of drudgery and silence, marked only by the harsh commands of the masters and the occasional brutal punishments. But tonight, something was different.
Tenth was in the midst of cleaning a master’s chamber when he first felt it. A tremor in the ground, faint but unmistakable. He paused, his hand frozen mid-swipe across the dusty floor, his heart pounding in his chest. At first, he thought it was a quake—unusual but not unheard of in these parts. But this was no simple shift of the earth beneath his feet. No, this was something else entirely. A deep, resonating vibration that seemed to come not from the ground, but from the very air itself.
A moment later, the sky outside the narrow window of the chamber seemed to darken unnaturally. Tenth’s breath caught in his throat as he glanced outside. It was morning. The sun had not yet set and shouldn’t for a long time, and yet the heavens had turned a shade of black so absolute, it seemed to swallow all light. It wasn’t a storm, either—no clouds roiled in the sky, no winds howled in anticipation of rain. This was something beyond nature’s fury, something far more terrifying.
The slaves in the yard below began to stir, murmurs of confusion passing among them. The overseers barked orders, but even their harsh voices held an edge of uncertainty. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Tenth saw fear in their eyes. It was as though the world itself had paused, holding its breath in anticipation of something cataclysmic.
Then came the sound.
A roar, though *roar* seemed too small a word to describe it. It was as if the heavens themselves had split open, unleashing a sound that was not of this world. It was a sound of fury, of power unimaginable, and it reverberated through the city like the tolling of a death bell. The walls of the chamber shook violently, dust falling from the ceiling as the force of the roar rippled outward.
Tenth dropped to his knees, clutching at his chest as he gasped for breath. It felt like something was pressing down on him, something vast and incomprehensible. The air had become thick, oppressive, as if the very essence of the world was being bent and twisted by the power unleashed far beyond the horizon. His thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of what was happening. Some part of him instinctively knew that this was no mere storm, no ordinary quake. This was a clash of forces so immense, so primal, that it defied all reason.
Outside, the slaves were no longer murmuring. They were screaming. The overseers had abandoned their posts, scrambling to find shelter as the sky above continued to darken. A strange light—blinding and red—seemed to pulse from the distance, though the horizon was hidden behind the city’s walls. Tenth’s eyes widened as he watched the spectacle unfold, his mind reeling. It felt as though the world itself was on the brink of collapse, as if the gods themselves had descended to wage war.
He had heard the stories, of course. Who didn’t? Tales of gods and monsters, of sorcerers, maegis and ancient beings that wielded the powers of the heavens. Tales about a boy rising from the deads in Astapor, a boy with divine power, a boy who would free them all. But those were just that—stories. Myths told to children, warnings whispered in the dark. Make believe, stories created by slaves for other slaves to make their lives hopeful. Yet here, now, in this moment, Tenth felt the undeniable weight of something divine at play. He could feel it in his bones, in the very marrow of his existence. Whatever was happening, it was beyond human comprehension, beyond mortal understanding. It was as if the forces of light and darkness had taken form, clashing in a battle that spanned the very fabric of the world.
The light from the sky flickered, alternating between a deep crimson and a black so dark it seemed to absorb the night itself. Each flicker was accompanied by a pulse—a shockwave that rippled through the earth and sky, sending tremors through the stones of Yunkai. Tenth pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor, his body trembling uncontrollably. His heart raced with a mixture of awe and terror.
Others outside were not faring as well. Tenth could hear the panicked cries of men and women, slaves and masters alike, as they stumbled through the streets, searching for safety that would not come. Some spoke of the gods’ wrath, of the world coming to an end. Others screamed for mercy, praying to any deity that would listen. But there was no mercy in the air tonight, only the cold, merciless weight of power beyond mortal reach.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light in the sky intensified. A beam, a lance of crimson light so bright it seared Tenth’s eyes, shot across the heavens. It was followed by a sound—a deep, resounding *crack,* as if the very sky had been rent in two. The air itself seemed to shudder, as if reality was being torn apart at the seams.
Tenth’s hands flew to his ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was futile. The noise penetrated everything—his body, his mind, his soul. It was the sound of gods clashing, of titans battling for supremacy. He knew it instinctively, even though he could not comprehend what forces were at play. And with that realization came a new kind of fear, one that settled deep in his chest like a stone. He was witnessing something he was never meant to see, something no mortal should ever witness.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel it—feel them. The presence of something so vast, so incomprehensible, that it made the world feel small and insignificant in comparison. Darkness and light, clashing in the sky above. Light, golden, sweet comforting light that felt like home, that felt like freedom drowned the sky. Forces beyond human understanding, beyond life and death, waging war with the very fabric of existence.
It felt like an eternity, but in truth, it was over in moments.
The sky, once filled with unimaginable power, began to quiet. The pulses of light and darkness faded, leaving only the faint glow of the setting sun on the horizon. The tremors beneath Tenth’s feet ceased, though the ground still felt unstable, as though the earth itself had not yet recovered from the cataclysm it had endured.
Tenth slowly lifted his head, his body aching from the strain of the encounter. His vision swam, and his limbs felt weak, as though he had run for miles without pause. He blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Around him, the city of Yunkai was in disarray. Buildings had crumbled, walls had cracked, and fires had sprung up in places where lamps had fallen. People wandered the streets in a daze, their faces pale and their eyes wide with fear.
Some knelt in prayer, their voices trembling as they called upon their gods. Others stood frozen, staring up at the sky as if waiting for the end to come. And yet, despite the devastation, despite the fear and confusion that gripped the city, the world had not ended. The gods had clashed, but life—somehow—persisted.
Tenth remained where he was, his mind still reeling. What had he just witnessed? What could possibly wield such power, such unimaginable force? His thoughts raced, trying to piece together the fragments of understanding, trying to make sense of Everything. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t not think about the tales of the others, the tales of a great liberator. He wondered for answers but no answers came. Only questions—endless, spiraling questions.
In the end, he could only conclude one thing: whatever had happened tonight was beyond the scope of human understanding. He had felt the presence of gods, had felt their power shaking the very foundations of the world. He was just a slave, a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things yet it felt like something that concerned him. Whatever battle had been fought, whatever forces had clashed, a part of him screamed no matter how farfetched it seemed that it had been for him, for people like him.
He could still remember the light and the promise that came with it. His gaze fell on the forms of his masters, of his slavers, of people who had seemed completely powerless, as powerless as the rest of them, slaves.
He looked at those daring to call themselves superior, at those forcing people to call them masters, subjugating people like him.
All of this reminded him of something he should have never forgotten so lost in despair, in apathy. They were just men like him and all men died.
He remembered the light and the promise of freedom it gave. Soon, they’ll all be dead, he was sure of it.
Gods existed, human lives, his life didn’t matter, never actually did them why would it be wrong to give it up for something worth it ? Why would it be wrong to give it up for Freedom? Why would it be wrong to give it up for in the end to be more than a number?
*scene*
She remembered.
She remembered the peace of her village. It was a place untouched by violence, a place where the sun bathed golden fields and the people lived with the simplicity of sheep in a vast, unthreatening world. The Lhazareen had always believed in peace. They believed in the Great Shepherd who guided them, who kept them safe. They believed in life without cruelty. Until the Dothraki came.
She remembered the horses first, their thundering hooves cutting through the soft, peaceful hum of the village. She remembered her mother’s voice, soft as a lamb's, breaking into a scream. The Dothraki tore through their village like a storm—no, like a sickness, spreading rot and death to every home.
They came like demons on horseback, eyes full of madness, laughing at the carnage they unleashed. Her friends, her family, those she had known all her life, were cut down like wheat before the harvest. The air, once filled with the smell of fresh bread and blooming flowers, became thick with the stench of blood and burning wood. Her home—her sanctuary—burned. She watched it, helpless, as flames devoured the place where she had grown up, where her mother had cooked their meals, where her father had once carried her on his back, laughing.
And then there was him.
The man she loved. The man she had planned to marry, to grow old with, to have children with. She saw him. She saw his head roll on the ground, severed from his body by a laughing Dothraki warrior. His eyes, once so full of life, stared at her from the dust. Empty. Hollow. She felt the scream tear from her throat, but it made no sound, swallowed by the chaos around her.
They didn’t stop. They never stopped.
The Dothraki dragged her and the other girls from the wreckage of their lives. She was the oldest—seventeen name days—yet still a child. The others were even younger. Just five of them. Five girls left, trembling in the ashes of their village. But being young, being small, it didn’t save them.
They were dragged into the darkness of the night. They screamed, begged, until their voices were raw, until they had no more strength. But there was no mercy in the eyes of their tormentors. No humanity. Only hunger, lust, violence. The pain was beyond anything she could have imagined. A violation so deep it tore at her soul. She lost count of how many of them took her, how many times she was thrown into the dirt, used and discarded like nothing.
She prayed. She begged the Great Shepherd to take her, to end her torment, to give her the peace of death. But the Shepherd did not answer.
Eventually, it was over. At dawn, they came for her with their blades, the same cruel blades that had taken the lives of her loved ones. She felt the steel bite into her flesh, felt the warmth of her blood spill out into the dirt. As her vision faded, she welcomed the darkness. She thought she would finally find peace.
But she was wrong.
What she found was far worse than anything she had endured at the hands of the Dothraki. There was no peace in death. There was only darkness. A living, breathing, consuming darkness that swallowed her whole. It was ancient. It was angry. It was a cruelty she had never known. And it took her. Body and soul.
She had thought the Dothraki had broken her. But the darkness—this thing, this entity—shattered her completely. She felt herself being torn apart, over and over again, in ways that defied explanation. Her soul was ripped, burned, crushed, cut. And then it happened again. And again. And again.
Time lost meaning. She no longer knew if she had been in the darkness for an instant or an eternity. The pain was all there was. It was everything. It became her world, her existence. She had forgotten what it was to be anything but pain. Her mind cracked, her sanity lost beneath the weight of her torment.
T̷͕͆̄̍͆̓̈́̑̚͘̚i̴̪̽m̵̢̢͖̹̳̩̒͌̿̊̑͛͌̎̈́̌̚̚͝ȩ̶̫̻̰̼̞̮͖̰̔͜ ̶͔̝̣͗̓͂͂͒͒̅w̷̜͠ą̵̡̙̳̙̲͔̲̇̈́͐̇̓̂̽̈́̌s̶̨̬̹̹͓̖̏̽̈̕.̶̜̪͈͕̠̜͖͈̣̿̈́̈́̃̄͜͠ͅ.̴͔̮̹̈́̾̔̇̀̇̎̓͗̈́͗͝͝.̸̛̖̺̙̬̅̑͛̃̿͆̎̿͌̅̄̍̚̕ ̶̡̡̛̻͇̭̭̹̹̰͖̓͋̅̎̒̀̀̔̚*̷̜͎͔̩̐̓͛̈́͗̕̕n̶͍͙͖̥͌̑͂̏̐͑̐̍̐̓̒ơ̷̙̠͊́̌̾̈́́͑̚̚t̶̛̯̍̌́̈́̌̏̕ḩ̶̧̡̨̛̪̱̹̜̩̪̻͎̀̊̾͌̑̄͒̎̇̏̇͘͝ͅì̷̤̦̦̺͚͉͔͕͎͙̺̲͆͋̃͐̈̐͂͝͝n̷͎̫͔̞̩͂̾͛͆̀͊͌͑͛̅̃͝͠ǵ̵̯̼̰̎̄͗̌̈͂͆͐̈́́̆̃̚*̴̳̰̜̮͎͉̠͌.̷̡̫̲̦͇͕͌͐̿̓͊͑̈́̋͋̽̀̚͘̚͠
̸̨̲̟̞̘̗͚̬̟̖͈̺̱͇͛̀̽͌H̴̢̡̛͑̾͗͗͌̊͑e̷̢̞̟̮̎̿͌r̸̢̅̌̈́̑̇̒́̄̚̕͝ ̵̨͇̳̪̮̞̹͆̃͌̾̎̃͠s̴̡̤͍̙̭̤̰͔̝̗̄͐̂͝͝o̴̢̩̣̬̯͋͌ǘ̸͔̫̇l̷̜̒̂͌́͑̆͐̔̐͐͑̑.̵̧̹̦̌̅̎̽̎͘̕.̷̛̼̊͊̓̒͑̽͆̀͠͝.̶̪̣̹̦̰̿̎̈́̋̈́̊̆̌̍ ̶̧͚̘̞̜͇̭̫̙̮̩̝̳̭͚̐̓́̑̏*̴͚̜̱̦̪̦̙̭̩͍̼̥̪̼̀ṭ̸̨̢̖̬̱̟̹͎͇̻̝̭̫̍̀͂̐ơ̸͎̻͚̤̠̺̳͕̻͈͎͌̐͛͗̂͒͝r̵̡̨̮͈̩̥̥̦̜̲̜͖̲̯̾͛̇̈̈́̔̓͝ͅn̴̘̩͖͎͆̿̇̅̆́̇̕̚͝*̵̟̱̮̩̱̪̻̻̱̈́̃̉̒͗̈́̊̔̂̈́̇̍̇̏͜.̷̥̩͇͋̋̎̈́̐̒̓̕͘
̶̧͍̜̠̦̱̗̝͓͚̫̖͈̥̏̐̊̆Ṫ̵̜̲̺̫̮͌̋͛̑̅́̈̍̅̔͊̚h̷̻̹͐̈͒̅̃̾̾̑͆̌̆̑̔e̵̡̨̨̛̥͈̪̖̥͎̖̳͂̀͌̾̋̀͋͆͊̎̉̕͜͠ ̷̧̨̡͕̖̖̗̭͓̹̺̄́́̓̃̃̕͜ś̵̝̩̟̗̣̯͈̫͚͖͕͈̮̿̈̽̄̔͗̓͝͝c̷̢̟͖̩͙̹̙̹̹͍͆̂̌̃̔͒̒̈́̅̕͝͝ͅŗ̵̯̱͙̫̟͓̿̍̏́̉͊̄̓̎̀̈͠͝ͅḙ̷̛̯̻͓͇͚̦̙̜͍̤̗͕͎̒̆̏̓͜͝a̶̡̧̝̳̣̠̙͍͉͕̅̆m̴͚͓͓͓͎͎͍̝̖̫̦͉̈́ș̷͙̭̥̜̙͕͎͈̭̪̘̟̥̇̈́̆̓́,̷̠̮͎͂͋̆̐̍̍̈́̿̊̈́̄̕̕͝ ̴̪͓̝͓͈̔̽̒͛͐̕̕͝͝n̷̢̨̜̪͚̯̜̠̤̰̪͕̺̹͋͗̇̊̍͂̾̇̓͠ŏ̷̧̨͖̲̞̟̺̻͎̘̩̳͗̈̀̋̈́̄̔͑͝ͅt̸̺̺̙͎͚͇̫̻͙̯̠̫̠̍̔͜ͅ ̴̡̙̙̬̟̾h̴̢̭̜̝̫̟̜̰͚͇̥̹̳̟́̅̈́̃͐́̽͊̓́̔͠͠͝ë̸̛̜̥̻͍̋̍́̀͒̏͝ŕ̶̡̝̥͈̱̘͚̮̼̙̭͚̥̟̅͐̈́̎̀̕͝s̸̨̡̨̝̗̙̥̪̫̲̒̂̒͠ ̷͈̬̗̪̦̝͋͐̈͊̅̾b̸̩̗̪̪͎̖̯̲͈̘͈̟̘̜̭̀́̂̽́̐u̵̢͚͚͙͖̲͋̆̀̓͒̈́̉͂͆̏̑̐̕͜ţ̸̢͙̲͈̬͕͔͎̰̳̞̎̓̂̈́̔̾̂̏͠ͅ ̸͈̩͚̙̘̋͗̍͂̎̎̌̌͠h̴̛͙͙̠̗̞̱̝̮̙̥͇̖͎̜͛̀͊̈́͌̇̈́ē̸̖̪̻͍̗̙̭͊̈̀͑̈̍͘͜͜r̶̨̨͔̭̺̜̪̰̼͚͈̹̬͚̔̀͐̓͋́͂s̷͉̳̬̺̻̱̜̈́̋͂͒̾̈́͆͛̿̅͝ͅ.̸̨̭̻̺̹̣̯̩̗̙̻͉̃̀̿͆̅́̀̑̅̀̒͒̅͌.̸̮̘̬̂̉̐.̷̤͓̹̂͒̇̃̃̔̓͜ ̸̨̭͓̦͕͎͕̪̞̖̱̩͈͈͊e̵̛̜̠̫̜͍̱͖͇̻̺͒͛̓̎̓͗̏͝v̷̤̬̟͖̩̞̠̭͈̟̂̓̿̅͌͂̚͘͜͝e̸̢̞̰̘̽̑r̸̡̡̼̥̠̦̘̳̱̜̗̯͍̦͐̌̉̐̒̑͜y̸̲̠̰͗̌͆ť̸̢̻̘̘̠̝̹̗͔͎̾̋́̔ḧ̷̘̺̬̱́͂͗͂̈́̂̿͒̐̚i̶̢̢̺͍̭̹̺͊̈́̾̂n̴̖̒̐̔̿̔̽̌̓̉̉̉g̷̨̺̻̤͖͇͍̑̓̇͐̽͊̉̓͐̈.̷̨̜̫͔͕͚̮̬̗̝͔͚̈͒̐̆̏͝ͅ
̷̛̣̫̰̀̽̒̾̾́̍̎͆͛̽̽H̷̨̫̪̼͍̬͚̅̇̈́͌̈́͂̕̕͜e̷̢̛̞̪̻͈͓̪͉͗ŕ̸̢̡̛̯͕̰̞̹̝̭͎͕̱̔̈́̐̀͊͋̽̂̍͋̚̚͠ ̸̳̯̬̣͎̞͐͋͂͛b̶̠͔͐̉̀͝o̶̘͂̌̊͌̈͛̔̐̚͝d̵̛̛̙̍̃̈́̀̈̌͋̂͂̀̃͐̆y̴̜̣͖̺͊̐͑͑͂ ̴̙̺̦̏̃͊̒̉̈́̎̐̔̏̈́̌̓͝͝c̶̨̻͕̺̻̖͉̲̔̐̓̃́̌̄͠ṟ̵̨̛̬̟͔̪̘̰̯͉̈́̈́̊̅̄̋͐̚͝ͅͅu̷̧̢̨͍̪͎͚͓̫̞̒̆̾s̶͕̘͎͇͓̎̒̀̊͛͘h̶̡̨̳̫̻͚͔̜̳̻̏́̋̅̌́͜ͅę̶̛̙͈̖̹̫͇͕͖̌̿͂̆̽͗͆̔̓͑̒͝͠ͅḑ̶̡̙̠̜̙̟̫͖͖̫̪̼̣̇̿̈̈́̋̽̀̌́̽͐̚͝.̸̢̯̞͓͕̑͒̄͋̀͠.̸̢̹̳̣͍̲̬̋̔̅͝.̶̢̦̟͖̞̮̤̖̰͛̄̊̊̈̈́̈́͛͜͜ḅ̵̢̡̢͍̥̬̫̙͈͔͔̑̌͐r̷̛̛̰̠̥̓͑̄̾̑̄̃̋͑̒͆ǒ̸̧̢̡̢͓̩̥̣̹̹̥̼̘̼͇̆͝k̵̲̠͙̦̫̅̅͛́̌̐̓͐̓̕̚͝ė̸͔̤̞̮̲͕̪̫̥̥̤̙̃͋͐̆̑̄̇͘͜ͅn̵̛̗͍̒̉̅̅͋̏̇̐̐͊̃̈́̚̚.̴̲͕̲̉͠.̸̝͒̄̏̂͛́̂̉̆̎̍̅͘͠.̴̡̰̰̳̗̠̯̹͓̬̤̺̳̩̃̈̈́̏͊́̀͋̂͂̕͝ͅs̷̨͔͚͉̈͗̃̐́́̾̂̒̈́̚͠h̶̹̞̒̓̒́̏̇͘͘ǎ̶̧̬͎̰͙͔͓̪̻̹̬͐̃t̸͔̳̠̣̞͎̣̝̼̜͍̲͗̽̍̅͂t̶̢̙̰̤͈̱͚̞͉̖̎̔̓͌̈̏̂͌̿̃̑̀͘͜͜ę̴̰̜͉̼̰̃̄͝ŗ̵̩͚̝̗̗͒̃̎̅̌̚̕ȩ̸̦̤͈̼̥̮͚̠̱̙͇̦͙̂̀͆͋̅͊̈́̈́͋͐͑́͘d̸̗̘̿̅̀̈́̄̆̈̕.̷̣͔̑̀̌̾͒̐̑̏.̴͍͈͍̣͉̰͇̯͒̐̊̀̌.̴̧̳̗̼̇͂͋
̸̧̝͙̖͇̣͈̿͐̏̐̽̇̓͐̾͜ͅ*̸̰͍̭̱̫̖͇̹̤̻̣̔̂̀ļ̷̡̟͇͚̮̗̪̪͕͔̞͔́̈́͌̃͆̂̽̌͘͝͝ͅͅ∞̴̧̧̭͇͔̯̖̭̭̟̮̰̩͂ö̵̢̨͕͍͔̱͇̹̜̹̱̙̺̟̉́̑̔̇̎́̅̈ṡ̸̛̯̇̓́̒t̷̨̛̤̱̣̘̙̝͕̬̙̘̗̔̈́̀̅̊̀̃̈͑̽́̚͜͜͝ͅî̸̡̨̢̱̳͇̩̫̺̤̯̬̜̾̐̄͐͆̉̓͋̄́͘∞̶̡̡͙̻̖̜̰̦̩͚̹̗̩̣̏̑̐̿̈́̿̓̌̅͘̚͠ͅi̷̡̙͖͕̖̲͍̩͆̈̇͆̒̒͗̓͝ṱ̵̦̣̟̭͕̭͕̳̊̈́̚w̵̠͎̳͖̃̃̃͊͋̂͗́͛̐̃̏͒∞̵͔͍́́̀̍̓̋ā̵͉̬͚́̋̓̾̕͝͝s̴͈̝͙͈̹̪͙̤̩̗͉̉͌t̵̗̫̝̟͙͉̞͕̠̘͖̬̻̍̊̂̏̽̉̓̾̈́̋̅h̶̨̲͙͎̳̍͑̾́͒̓͆́ę̶̛͙̥̜̮͈͙̲̰͈̤̎̎̾̄̎̿̂͛̈́̓̿͜͝ͅͅę̵̡̞̹̠̮̦͔̖̉̃͛͐͂͋̈̉͑̓̈̐͘ņ̶̛͉̪͓̣͈͇͇̓̋̇̄̽͊̔̓͌͆͘͠ͅd̵̛̖͉̲͂̐͌̂̌̕b̵͎̥͋̂͌̎͂͗́̓̓͝u̴̝̞͕̬̎̑͒̓̃̋͐͂̓̂̈̄͘͠ť̸͙̥̩̲̞̮̣͍̗̦̔̈́̌̆̀̒̄͘͜ẅ̸̧̠̦͇̼͍͕̼̻̜̟̩́̋̊̔̾̍ẖ̵͚̳̜̮͕̥̯̼̲̤̲̃͑̒͂͑̒̃̊̏̂͘͜͝ͅȧ̶̡ṭ̴̨̡̪̱̭̪̼͎̪͋̈̐̓̅͆̊͝t̵͕̀̈́̍̓͆̾̏h̴̘̩̹͒̋̂̈́̍̿̈́̿̓́̐̐͒͝͝ė̶̢̧̨̦͎͔̹̣̯̻̈͆̒̓̇̂̇̆̎̿́͜͝ȇ̷̤̠͓͔͊n̵̛͍̲̹̫͊̀́́̅͌̏̽͒̋̓̈́̚͠ͅd̴̻̤̖̗̫̫̲̰̬̭̼̈́̂̒͊̔͒͋́̌̀̔̿̇͝w̷̧̼̹̗̹̠̗̩̪͖͉̲̋͋̈́̅̏a̴͙̙͖̖̮̜̔̀̎̏͐͆̂̅̕͝ś̴̡̰̦͙̤̮̙̏̋̓̾͗̒́̚͠i̴̧̘̩̖͇͓̦͖͓̼̔̌̀́̈́͑̓͑̀̋ͅt̴̨̛̮̟̦͕͌͗́̈́͒ị̷͖̕ṡ̶̢̧̢̝̣͎̮̝̯͖̹͖͚̎̑́̅̾̎̔̅̂͂͘̕͝͠ġ̷̛̺͇̟̟͉͇̺̦͌̽̈̏̏̓̿̚ͅ∞̵͙͔̥͖͔̞̘͗̍̅́́̄͑̎̐̎̚͜ǫ̴̼͈̲̘̫̔̀͒̈̄̇͊̿̍̉̕͜d̷̡̛̳͈̩̥͌͑̄̍͑͋̚̚̚ǹ̵̤̩̈́ợ̸̢̥̪͎͙̩̙̳͇̥͌̎̕∞̵̢̳̮̖̺͎̦͓̟̹͙̺̬̀͑̂̈́̆̍̊͂̔͘͝c̶̢̡̯̗̝̙͔͎͉̲͈̿̇̚o̵̻̮̾ù̸͇̳̟̓̀͜l̶̡̨̪̗̦̯̜̹̫̗̥̮̅͋̅̈̚͠d̸̨̹̞̥̳̪̲͗̓̚ȩ̶̡̤̩͍̞̝̈́̑͐̉̂v̸̛͚̝̅̍̆͗͂̈́͂̾̋̎́͒e̶̢̪̮̹̝͎̪̙͈̊̂̐͘͜n̸̫͛̌̈́̈́̓ͅb̴̢̳͓͙̒́̃̈́̃͋͐̒̈́̈̋́͜e̴̢̡͙̻̖͕͖̼̋̓̍ͅg̸̨͙͕͕͎̣͙͖͇͇̹͇̦͐̋̒̌̽̈̅ͅi̴͎̥̇̾́ñ̶̛͔̠̲̦̮̭͍͕̘̠̙̖̝̼̆͋̈́̐̓͗̋̏̌̈̌́t̷̢̤̗̺̱͚͈̮͍̖̲͔̣̬͑̔̎̿̏̅͜h̶̗͖͊̊̿ẹ̶̉̑͌̀̾ṕ̴͓̮̳̪̲̓͛͝a̷̤͙̲̭̜̣̳̓̆̌͆̎̆̊̀͋͆͒̌̚͘̕i̸̼̙̞̝̗̲̅̅̽̓́̃̅̏̒͐̇̕͝ǹ̴̺̱͎̫̗͜b̵̧͓̱̰̦͓̩̲͚̼̉̅̍͌̑̓͐̂̓̈͘ú̴̧̧̧̻̬̬̩̜̼̗̯̂̈́̊̃͂̈͐̌̆̚͘͠͝r̷͉̼̎̊̊͌͑́n̷̛̜̗̲̭̝̠͙̩̯̦̬̩̪̙͉̉̓͗̇̐̾͂̏c̸̘̟̘̭̦̠̥̥̞̈̎͒̏͒̑̿ͅu̷̩͆̂̊̅͑͒̔̋̽̌͑̌͝͠t̴̢̯̤̰̎̒͂͌̀̔̈̀̄̽͆̚͝͝t̸̳͚̠̭̣̘̯̰̍̓ͅȩ̶͙̖͈̯̮̾̀̈́͝͝ą̶̛͇̙̙͖͚͉͍͇̖̌̓͒̔͘͝r̴̡̗͓͛̇̇͑͘.̴̛̪͉̤̂̓̎.̸͖̝̦̜̬̳̻͈͓̭̫̫̪̲̖͒̉̽̃̾͌̍͌̊̔͌.̵͓̮̞̳̥̪̺̺͙̘̆̄̐̉̏̎̉̋̐̇͘.̷̧̞͇͔͚̰̳͇̺͈̜̳̪͎̤́̅̈̊͋̓͛̅̀̓͆͒̏͠*̶̢̛̳̟̤͂̃̊̓̋́̇̿͐͛ ̵̦̲͇̮͆͐̌́̄̒̏̓̚ͅ*̴̧̬͇͙̥͎̣̜̉̆͠*̸̩̱͈́̑̆͗́͆̇̎̎͗̓̚͝͠_̷̻̬̠̹̯̗͎̓́̾ͅd̶͎̳͎̱͉̻͎̬̀͐́̈̾́͐̍͘@̷̡̨̻͉̲͍̦̞̙̝̭̈́͐r̴̢̡̺͈̼̼͚̠̺͖̻̙̐̍̄̊͐̑͘K̴̡̖̣̭̠͛N̵͓̳̠̘͈̰͉̣̮̦̟̈́͐̌̆̀͋̓͂̔̓̕͜͜͝3̷̬͖͔̟͚̤͉͕͍̻̓̂̉̓͋̚͜͜ͅ$̸̢̧̘͇͇̖͈͌͗̑͑̓͐́͂$̶̻͍͍̠̩͉̙̗̉͌̈́̐̊̅͗͝_̷̧͉͉̠̤͙̠̺͉̖͕̘̙̀̏͆̓̽͑̒̌̒̕͠*̴̨͍̗̺͙̖̤̯̬͓̂̆͋̓́̄̿͌̉̌͗͐̈̍͝*̶̨̞̹̮̟̗͍̬̭͋̂͗̅̽̕ͅ
̴̢̡̯̹̫͓̰̠̱̼͚̜̯̮̑͌͛̆̉̒͘͝
And then, through the darkness, came LIGHT.
It was soft at first, almost imperceptible in the endless black. But as it grew brighter, she remembered. Laughter. Her friends' laughter. Her mother’s smile. The warmth of her father’s arms around her. The peace she had once known in her village.
The darkness recoiled. It screamed. The sound was inhuman, wrong, too old, too evil. But the light—it kept growing. It grew so bright it hurt her eyes, but it wasn’t the cruel pain of the darkness. No. It was warm. Comforting. Like the sun after a long, cold night.
And then she saw him.
The light wasn’t just light. It was a person. A being. No—a god. She knew, in that instant, that what she saw was something beyond anything she could have ever imagined. His eyes were purple, like amethysts, glowing with compassion and divinity. His hair was long, silver, flowing like a halo around him, a crown of thorns resting on his brow. His wings—wings of flaming gold—spread out behind him, casting warmth and light that banished the darkness.
And he was looking at her. Not with pity. Not with judgment. But with compassion.
He extended a hand toward her, his face serene, and she knew—*knew*—that everything would be okay. That her torment was over. That she was safe.
She reached for him. Her hand, trembling, rose toward the light. And she realized, as she looked around, that she was not alone. There were hundreds, thousands of hands rising with hers, reaching for the god before them, reaching for the light that promised salvation.
The darkness screeched one last time, a final, desperate cry of agony, and then it was gone, consumed by the light.
When she opened her eyes again, it was not to the barren desert where she had died. It was to a place of beauty, of life. Green fields stretched out before her, rivers glistening under the warm sun, flowers of every color—colors she had never seen before—blooming around her. She looked, and there, standing before her, were her friends, her family, the people she had loved and lost. They were alive. They were *here*.
And above them, descending like a star, was the god.
He was even more beautiful, more divine, up close. His presence filled the air with warmth, with peace. And as he landed, his wings folding behind him, he smiled at them all.
“My name is Aegor,” he said, his voice gentle but powerful. “I am a man, just like you.”
She knew that wasn’t true. None of them believed it. But they didn’t speak. They only watched in awe as this being—a god in human form—looked upon them with kindness.
And then he did something she had never thought a god would do.
He knelt.
He knelt before them, lowering himself to the ground, and his eyes, those radiant purple eyes, filled with sorrow.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “I should have been faster. I should have stopped the Dothraki sooner.”
A god. A being of such power, who had banished the darkness and resurrected them all, who had turned the desert into a paradise, knelt before them and apologized.
The girl was stunned. They all were.
And yet, it felt right. It felt...just. This being, this god, was not like any god she had ever imagined. He was more. He was something beyond their understanding, but in that moment, he was also *theirs*.
Without thinking, she stepped forward. She moved past the others, past the shocked and silent crowd, until she stood before him.
And then she knelt.
She knelt lower than he had, her head touching the ground in reverence, in gratitude, in devotion.
Behind her, she heard the others follow. One by one, they all knelt before the god who had saved them, who had brought them back from the abyss.
In that moment, there was no doubt in her mind—no doubt in any of their minds.
They would follow him, this god who knelt before mortals, to the ends of the earth. They would do anything in his name. Because he was worthy.
For the first time, she thought that maybe—just maybe—goodness did exist after all.
And she should have believed in it more. In the Great Shepherd, in Aegor.
*scene*
The air in the black cells was thick and oppressive, a weight that pressed on Jaime's chest, making it hard to breathe. Damp stone walls loomed close, the darkness gnawing at the edges of his vision, making it hard to tell where the cell ended and the gloom began. He shifted, the cold, slick floor of the cell seeping into his bones, his golden hair matted with sweat and dirt. His wrists were shackled, raw from the steel that bit into them, and his back ached from the rough hands that had thrown him into the cell.
He clenched his jaw, thinking back to those moments—the way Robert had looked at him. It wasn't rage, not at first. Disbelief. A King's laughter stopped short. The other members of the Kingsguard, their faces a blur of white and steel, had stared at him not with anger, but something far worse. Pity. Disgust. Jaime had seen it before, in their eyes, that unspoken judgment. But this? This was different. It was as if they were looking at something broken, something that could never be mended.
Jaime's thoughts snapped back to the cell as the door creaked open. A sliver of torchlight cut through the gloom, and the silhouette of a man filled the space. Ser Barristan Selmy stepped inside, his white cloak brushing the floor. Even in the dim light, his age was evident, but so was his strength. There was a weariness in his eyes as they met Jaime's, though no kindness came with it.
"It’s true then," Barristan said softly. There was no question in his voice, only grim acceptance.
Jaime didn’t answer. What was there to say? The weight of the accusations—no, the truth—was suffocating him. That letter, the reason why they had been caught, the letter the worst absurdity an insult that could have been given to him, the one that seemingly had been sent to every lord and lady in the realm or at least to all lords and ladies in kingslanding, had torn apart whatever fragile peace remained. He had heard the whispers, the rumours as he was dragged to his cell.
The rumors of Aerys and Joanna, the whispers in the dark corners of court, all suddenly flaring to life like wildfire. The letter had named them both—Cersei and Jaime—as the Mad King’s children. Bastards.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, to shrug it off as slander. But the looks on their faces had told him otherwise. His kiss with Cersei, the very thing he had once reveled in as their secret, had now condemned them. He had damned himself. And her. It’s as if the gods were conspiring against him. He knew who he was. He knew he was the son of Tywin and Joanna Lannister, twin brother of Cersei and older brother of Tyrion. Everything else was superfluous at best. Even then, a part of him couldn’t even against all logic fear that this was true.
“Do you think it true?” Jaime’s voice rasped, sounding foreign to his own ears. He needed Barristan to deny it, to tell him it was madness, lies from a traitor’s mouth. But the way the old knight was looking at him, he knew the answer before it came.
“I had hoped it wasn’t,” Barristan said, his voice steady but cold. “But the way you… with your sister…” He trailed off, the words too foul to finish. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if collecting his thoughts. “There’s no denying it.”
Jaime’s heart thudded in his chest, a slow, dull drumbeat. The silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable. “Aerys’ son,” Jaime muttered, tasting the bitterness of the words. “A Targaryen’s bastard.” He shook his head, a harsh bark of laughter escaping his lips. “Is this the gods’ punishment, then? I killed my king, and now I find he was my father too. Don’t be ridiculous,” he hissed.
Ser Barristan didn’t flinch, but his gaze hardened. “You broke your vows, Jaime. Now it seems you’ve broken more than that. You’ve broken the very blood of your house.”
Vows he thought bitterly. Vows were what allowed Aerys’s madness to run rampant. Vows were the reasons why innocents were burnt alive without him doing anything. Vows, oaths, honour, what point was there to them other than self-sanctimony as the world around you went to shit because you did nothing.
Vows he thought bitterly. If he had kept his vows, hundreds of thousands of innocents at least would have died, would have burnt in the mad king’s pyre!
He wanted to scream it! He was their saviour and they wouldn’t care he knew if he told them. They wouldn't see him as a hero. They would still see him as an oathbreaker.
Aerys? His father? Instead of instantaneously dismiss the thought, he tried to allow it to fester in his mind.
Jaime slumped back against the wall, the cold of the stone biting through his tunic. His mind raced, darting from memory to memory. He thought of Tywin, of his cold, imperious father, and how he had never once shown weakness. Tywin, the lion of Lannister, whose pride was his children. Had he ever thought that they weren’t his? Had Tywin suspected that his golden twins, his golden lions were not truly his? Would this god's forsaken letter and the fact that Cersei and him had been caught together act as a confirmation in his mind?
The thought gnawed at him, the idea that the man who had raised him might look at him in the future as if he was nothing more than a sick joke. Aerys' bastard, his pride twisted into mockery.
Could Aerys have known? The Mad King, who had always watched him with that gleam in his eye, had accepted Jaimie in the Kingsguard with a smirk that Jaime had never fully understood. Was this the reason why he didn't respect Tywin? Because in his mind, he has succeeded in bedding the lion of the west’s ladywife and making him raise bastards as his true borns? Could it have been more than madness? Did the Mad King know his legitimate son was knighting his own illegitimate one, the golden lion who would one day plunge a sword into his back?
Jaime's stomach churned. "You think my father, Tywin?” he needed to be precise “would believe it?" he asked, his voice trembling despite himself.
Barristan hesitated, but only for a moment. "Tywin would never let the world believe it. Whether he knew or not, whether he had suspicions or not it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that the truth is out or what the realm will see as the truth and no one, even him can change that. The realm will believe what it sees. You and your sister..." He shook his head, his expression tightening. "It doesn’t matter what Tywin will think, will try to do. The world will see the truth in your actions, in your blood."
Jaime’s fists clenched, the chains rattling softly as he strained against them. His mind churned, reeling from the weight of it all. He thought of Cersei, his sister, his lover—his twin. They had been inseparable since birth, two halves of the same whole. They had loved each other in a way that no one else could understand. But now… now that love was poison. Targaryen poison. Fire and blood.
Could it be true? Could it really be true? He wondered again. Jaime had always prided himself on his Lannister blood, on being the golden son of Casterly Rock. He had become the youngest knight of the Kingsguard. He had been and still was one of the best swordsmen in the entire realm worthy, capable of standing at the side or against legends like the sword of the morning, Barristan the bold without faltering.
But now, it felt as though the very ground beneath his feet had crumbled away, leaving him adrift in a sea of doubt.
“I am no Targaryen,” he spat, though the words felt hollow. “I am Jaime Lannister. I am the son of Tywin.”
Barristan’s gaze did not waver. “Then why do you wear your father’s shame like a cloak?”
The words hit Jaime like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He wanted to argue, to lash out, but the truth had already burrowed deep into his heart, planting the seeds of doubt. He thought of Cersei again, of their shared laughter, their whispered secrets. She had always been so sure of herself, so certain of their bond. But had she known all along? Had a part of her in her soul, in her blood knew that?
He felt his hands shake, the chains clinking softly in the stillness of the cell. He hoped with all his heart, with everything true that remained to him that it was false because if not, it would mean his entire life had been built on lies, on half-truths and shadows.
He could almost hear the whispers of the realm, the sneers and jeers of the lords and ladies. Kingslayer. Kinslayer. Targaryen Bastard. He feared not what it would mean for him but what it would mean for Cersei, for their children.
Everyone in western knew of Robert’s hatred for the Targaryens. Jaimie could still remember the corpses of the children of his prince, of the one who had knighted him, one of his greatest failures, one of his greatest regrets.
Would the gods punish him by inflicting to them similar fates? Was that his punishment because he broke his oaths?
“I may have killed my own father,” Jaime whispered, the words barely audible. He looked up at Barristan, his face pale. “I killed him and I don’t feel regret. Ser Barristan. I possibly killed my own father”
Barristan’s lips tightened into a thin line. “The realm will see it that way, yes.”
Jaime squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of everything crushing him. He had always justified his actions, told himself that killing Aerys was the right thing to do, that he had saved King’s Landing from the fire. But now, that act, his finest act, was tainted with the blood of possibly his own kin. The blood of a Targaryen.
The door creaked open again, and two more members of the Kingsguard entered. They stood in silence, their faces unreadable behind their helms. But Jaime could feel their eyes on him, burning with contempt and disgust. He saw something else that was worse, pity. He was no longer their brother in arms. He was something else now—something monstrous In every way.
“I am Jaime Lannister,” he whispered again, but the words felt meaningless now. “I am Jaimie Lannister, son of Tywin and Joanna,” he spoke. He didn't think that he even succeeded in convincing himself.
*scene*
Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker, servant of the Yellow Emperor, loomed over the echoes of the battle with an ancient malevolence. He watched as the memory of the Great Stallion's defeat unraveled before him, the air still thick with the remnants of eldritch power and the stench of divine blood. The dragon, the so-called Great Stallion worshipped by the Dothraki, had fallen. Not just to Aegor's strength, but to a scheme that stretched far beyond the stallion’s understanding.
"A fool," Ithaqua mused, his voice a whisper carried by the frozen winds that seemed to breathe through dimensions older than time itself. "A beast, blind to its fate, unable to see the hand that held its leash."
The Great Stallion had been powerful, once. A dragon whose wings could blot out the sun, whose breath could scorch mountains. But it had been far too arrogant, far too ignorant. Ithaqua remembered when he had first found the remnants of the dragon's spirit, a thing of lingering fear and shattered pride. It had been long after the dragon’s first flight, long after it had been broken in a conflict that stretched back to the dawn of existence.
Yet, Ithaqua had not destroyed him then. No, the dragon had been left to fester in its weakness, to grow into something else, something different. It had been a conscious decision, one woven into the schemes of his master. He had seen it as beneath him to annihilate the creature when it had been on the verge of death. That would have been too merciful. No, he had something far worse in store.
"The Great Stallion thought itself the apex, the ultimate," Ithaqua sneered. "But it was nothing more than a pawn in a game it could never comprehend."
Ithaqua did not pretend to understand the entirety of his master's plans. The Yellow Emperor's mind was a labyrinth of madness and divine intent, an enigma even to those who served him. But through the cracks in the fabric of existence, Ithaqua had gleaned something. The resurrection of the dragon, the Great Stallion, and its subsequent defeat at the hands of Aegor had left echoes, powerful reverberations that rippled through the very essence of the world.
The stallion's return and fall had not been just a simple act of war or vengeance. It had been a catalyst. The world had begun to stir. The old things, the primordial horrors that had slumbered beneath the seas and mountains, were awakening. The stallion’s defeat had accelerated the shift, the stirring that Aegor’s birth had initiated. The dragon’s blood spilled upon the earth had sent shockwaves through the weft of reality itself.
"The echoes grow louder," Ithaqua murmured, his voice as cold and eternal as the void between stars. "The birth of the divine child set the wheel in motion, but the fall of the dragon... it has quickened it. The world trembles with anticipation."
Magic was returning, not just in the form of spells and rituals, but in the very essence of the world itself. The power of old gods, the creatures that predated even the mortal concept of divinity, was resurfacing. It wasn’t just a reawakening—it was a resurgence, stronger, more primal. The barriers that held back the true nightmares of the cosmos were weakening.
"No," Ithaqua thought, a cruel smile spreading across his featureless face, "magic is not simply coming back. It returns with a vengeance. It returns as something far greater than it ever was."
The dragon had never stood a chance. Not against Aegor. Not against the tides of fate that had been set in motion long before the first star had ever burned in the sky. The Great Stallion had been reborn into a world it could not understand, a world reshaped by the designs of powers beyond its comprehension. It had been a fool, and it had paid the price.
Ithaqua’s essence swirled through the landscape, his presence warping reality itself. The winds around him howled with a frigid fury, the very air seeming to scream in pain at his proximity. The ground beneath his unseen feet withered, frost spreading in jagged patterns, like cracks in the surface of a frozen lake.
"The dragon thought itself eternal," he mused, remembering the days of its reign, "but all things must bow before the true lords of the cosmos."
The echoes continued to ripple, growing stronger, more chaotic. Each pulse sent a shiver through the world's foundations. The return of magic had stirred the Old Ones, those who had watched from the shadows as men and gods played their futile games. And now, with each death, each sacrifice, the world edged closer to something far darker than any could imagine.
Ithaqua didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough. The fall of the dragon had been a necessary step, one that had sent ripples through reality itself. The world was changing, and soon, very soon, the rules that had governed it for eons would be shattered.
The air grew colder, the winds sharper, as Ithaqua considered his next move. He had been content to watch for so long, to let the pieces move according to his master’s will. But now, now things were accelerating. Now, the time was approaching when the Old Ones would walk the earth once more, when the veil between worlds would tear, and the true masters of creation would reclaim their dominion.
With the slightest effort, Ithaqua moved a finger. He moved a finger under its seals that should have stopped such.
And the world screamed.
The winds roared in response, howling across what had once been a barren landscape, tearing at the sky. The ground cracked, as if recoiling from the mere act of his movement. The echoes of the Great Stallion’s fall were swallowed in the greater tremors that followed, reverberating through the cosmos, shaking the very bones of the earth.
Ithaqua did not need to speak, for the world itself was his voice. His will was now a part of it, embedded deep within the very fabric of existence. He had been content to watch, but no longer. The winds were moving, and with them, so too would the horrors of old.
The Wind-Walker smiled, though it was not a thing that could be called a smile in any mortal sense. It was an expression of cruelty, of eternal malice. The time of gods and men was drawing to a close. Soon, the true horrors would be unleashed.
And it had all begun with a dragon’s foolishness.
"Let them tremble," Ithaqua thought. "For the world is not theirs to claim."
And in the distant skies, the stars themselves seemed to flicker, as though in anticipation of the darkness yet to come.
*scene*
Days had passed since Aegor had left, but to Nileyah, it felt like an eternity. Time stretched unnaturally in his absence, as if each hour lingered, unwilling to move forward. She couldn't stop thinking about him. A boy, she thought bitterly, a boy with an army at his back. A boy who, by all rights, should have never been the one to spill blood. He shouldn’t be the one to carry the weight of the world’s brokenness on his shoulders. He was only proof of how deeply shattered everything was.
The world was supposed to be made better by adults, those who had lived long enough to understand the intricacies of power, wisdom, and kindness. But no. It was a child—a godlike one, perhaps, but a child nonetheless—who had to do what no adult had dared, or cared, to attempt. How could it be that someone so young, so pure, was the one changing everything? Nileyah’s heart twisted with anger, not at Aegor, but at the world itself. It was unfair that they were all—she was—so weak that Aegor had to be strong in ways no child should ever have to be.
She stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the city of Astapor. The warm, dry air of the city hit her face, and she squinted against the bright sun. Below, the masses moved about their day, mingling freely, walking with heads held high, smiling in ways that they had never been able to before. It was a far cry from the days of slavery, before Aegor had shattered their chains, before he had made this place something entirely new.
But among those liberated people, she saw them—the effigies. A comely boy with silver hair and broken shackles around his wrists. Thousands of these effigies, clutched by so many hands. She hated them. Hated what they represented. Hated how they deified Aegor.
Nileyah leaned against the stone railing, her gaze narrowing as she watched. Everyone knew Aegor was extraordinary. It was impossible not to see it. He was closer to a god than any mortal she had ever known. Yet that didn’t change the fact that they couldn’t see what they should. They didn’t see the boy. In their eyes, was he Aegor because he was powerful? Or was he powerful because he was Aegor? She clenched her hands into fists. She loathed the way they saw him, not for who he was, but for what he could do. They were blind, every last one of them.
If only they could see him the way she did. If only they could see the human side of him—the way his laugh was soft and beautiful, the way he absentmindedly played with his curls when he was deep in thought. They didn’t see how often he frowned, how hard he scrutinized every corner of Astapor with eyes that silently screamed he needed to be better. That he wasn’t doing enough.
No myths, no legends, no stories could ever describe a god or a hero as kind as he was.
Nileyah’s heart ached as she thought about how much she had wanted to follow him. To fight by his side, if necessary. She would have risked death if it meant he wouldn’t be alone, if it meant that while he was away from Astapor, his heart wouldn’t grow cold from cruelty, violence, or whatever horrors he might face. Grey Worm would do his best, she knew. He would give his life to protect Aegor. But Grey Worm, for all his loyalty, couldn’t protect Aegor’s heart. Couldn’t shield him from the toll his burdens would take on his soul.
That’s why she had wanted to go with him. But she hadn’t, and it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. Aegor had asked her, with that quiet, pleading gaze of his, to stay behind. He might not have been aware of it, but there were few things Nileyah could refuse him when he gave her that look—not the one he gave the masses, the one that came with his titles, his names as savior and great liberator. But the gaze that made him look like a child who’d been caught misbehaving, hoping to avoid punishment. In those moments, he reminded her of a kitten—silver-haired with purple eyes, but still a kitten.
He had asked her to stay because he needed someone he could trust without question. Someone to watch over Astapor and help guide the representatives in his absence. She had wanted to refuse. She had thought—and still thought—that she wasn’t competent enough. She was a woman, and more than that, she had been a slave. She hadn’t been born free, nor had she ever been prized for her intellect. What did she know of governance?
But Aegor had insisted, and more than that, he had trusted her.
She remembered the strange magic he had used on her before he left. Aegor had spoken in a language she had never heard before, his voice clear and melodic. She had felt his presence, not only on her skin but in her soul, his power digging deep until it filled her veins with warmth. A purple barrier had formed around her, protecting her from any physical threat. He had called it aura. He had given her strength. Then, to her shock, he had cut a silver lock of his own hair. Before she could protest, the lock shimmered and transformed into a collar, which he placed around her neck. It would allow her to use his magic, he had said. If she ever needed it.
She hadn’t wanted this. She hadn’t asked for it. But Aegor had trusted her, and that trust was heavier than any weight she had ever carried. And despite her fears, she wanted to help him. More than anything, she wanted to protect him, even if it meant staying behind, ensuring that when he returned, Astapor would be the place he dreamed it could be.
So she had stayed, throwing herself into the tasks he had given her. She listened to grievances from the freed slaves, handled disputes between them and the newcomers arriving in Astapor. Some of the original freedmen were beginning to grow unhappy with the influx of refugees, uneasy with the changes to their city. But the food and housing Aegor had provided so far had kept tensions from boiling over. Still, she had to monitor them carefully.
And then there were the worshipers. More and more, she saw people turning from mere admiration to outright worship of Aegor. They were popular, much more than she liked, but at least they were not the ones causing trouble. For all their fanaticism, they wouldn’t purposely hinder Aegor’s vision. That much, at least, gave her some relief.
It wasn’t easy. There were so many things to juggle, and even with Missandei and others’ help, Nileyah often felt ragged and worn. Yet Aegor had done all of this on his own from the beginning. That thought alone made her want to work harder, to find a way for him to have fewer responsibilities, maybe even none at all.
The days blurred together in a whirlwind of tasks until one evening, a week after Aegor had left, the collar around her neck grew warm. The sky beyond Astapor seemed to swirl with light and darkness, and the earth trembled as if monsters were about to emerge from its depths. Nileyah knew without a doubt that Aegor was fighting somewhere out there, fighting for their dream.
But unlike the masses, she didn’t fall to her knees in prayer. She didn’t feel fear. She believed in Aegor—the boy, not the god. She believed that he would come back, because even though she hated that he had to be, she knew he was strong in every way that mattered.
So she waited. Waited for him to return.
And when, more than a week later, she saw a column of people approaching Astapor from the distance, Aegor at the front, she ran. Ran to meet him, to see him, her boy with too much power and too heavy a burden. From far away, she saw his eyes widen in surprise, then soften as she drew closer. She ignored the people behind him, the crowd of newcomers. All that mattered was him.
When she reached him, she hugged him fiercely, as if it were the last time, as if it were the first time. Aegor’s arms wrapped around her, and for a moment, it felt like he melted into her embrace.
“I’m back,” he whispered.
“Welcome back home,” she murmured, her voice soft, like a mother greeting her child.
Comments
allen 1996
Thank you for reading❤️
Rachel N
Honestly, I felt wonderful cruel glee at Jaime's suffering! MUAHAHAHA 😈😈😈
Rachel N
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ Loved every word of this!!! Thank you so much!!!!!
