Xodarap
Versed in the lewd.
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This is on SB?
Will have to look for it
As for the context posts do what you feel necessary to enhance the story for the readers.
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A Song of Bards and Maso (Asoiaf/Nier)
- Thread starter FireWalkWithMe99
- Start date
Will have to look for it
As for the context posts do what you feel necessary to enhance the story for the readers.
Chapter 9: Forged and Found
FireWalkWithMe99
Making the rounds.
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Gendry II
Gendry stood alone amidst the forge, his rhythmic hammering resonating through the air, blending with the cackle of sparks. Beads of sweat running down his forehead, mingling with the resilient soot that clung to his hardened skin. The forge's searing heat enveloped him, casting a fiery glow upon him as he meticulously molded the molten metal with precision, bringing form to its raw potential.
In the midst of his focus, footsteps were heard walking near, breaking the solitude that had enveloped the workshop. Looking up, dark red hair entered his vision, he quickly recognized the customer approaching as Popola. The atmosphere shifted as she stepped closer, imbuing the air with an electric anticipation. He was curious what task she had for the forge this time it was only two weeks past he last saw her she did not exactly fit the image of a frequent customer, though given her unusual knowledge of smithing perhaps he should've reconsidered that notion.
Gendry's hammering halted momentarily as he wiped sweat from his brow, his calloused hand leaving a smudge of grime behind. He observed Popola's approach, her gaze intently fixed upon the parchment she held.
He looked around verifying that Master Mott was still absent, the absence during this encounter did make him wonder the intent held. Contemplating the reason Popola visited now at such an early hour when Master Mott's usually was still cooped up in his chambers. Farther thoughts of his mentor filled Gendry's consciousness. Over the years, Tobho had held a great professionalism, dedication and unyielding craftsmanship, the soul of the forge in many ways. However, a subtle shift had taken hold in Tobho's demeanor as of late whenever Popola came by It was an unfamiliar behavior, one that Gendry had never witnessed in the presence of other customers. He wondered internally if he fancied her, but he'd never say the words aloud. The Master smith no doubt having his ass for such a question.
Gendry reverently set aside his hammer, the resonant clang of metal against metal slowly fading into the background. He stepped forward, his eyes meeting Popola's.
As he glanced at the diagram, it laid out some kind of eccentric knife with very particular construction. a metal pole with a triangle shaped blade at its end only one end sharp. He couldn't really discern what the purpose of such a piece could be. He looked closer at the measurements and he felt a headache come one, seven hells will it be annoying to make each part. Memories of their previous encounters resurfaced overhearing Popola mentioning her intentions with the people of Flea Bottom to Jon Arryn, a place that held dark memories for him. The suffering and hardships endured in that forsaken district weighed heavily on his heart. In a way, Gendry couldn't help but wonder if anyone could truly make a difference in such a terrible place. He shifted his thoughts to Master Mott, he recognized his smithing potential and guided him getting him out of that fucked place.
Curiosity overcoming him, Gendry finally voiced his question, "Popola, is this… Scappell meant to help the people of Flea Bottom?"
Popola laughed softly then nodded. "It's called a scalpel Gendry, but yes aiding the people of Flea Bottom is part of it. This scalpel is designed to cut into flesh in a safer and more precise way than a sword or knife. It willa allow me to provide better assistance to those who are ailing."
Confusion filled Gendry's mind as he thought on the idea. "But wouldn't cutting into flesh make things worse?"
"Well Maesters seem to employ similar tools for surgery. They have various benefits when it comes to delicate procedures, such as aiding in childbirth, removing embedded objects from the flesh, and treating various illnesses and injuries." Popola said lightly smiling.
Gendry's surprise deepened as Popola clarified her knowledge. How could a woman as soft on the eyes as her possess not only the skill of a blacksmith but also an understanding of the human body and healing akin to that of the maesters. It seemed almost unbelievable to him. "So you're saying you have knowledge of both blacksmithing and the human body, similar to what the maesters know?"
Popola paused for a moment, her eyes briefly looking upwards. "Well, I wouldn't claim to have equivalent knowledge in all aspects. There is still much about Westeros and Essos that I have yet to learn. However, when it comes to human physiology and anatomy, the study of the body and its workings, I have a decent understanding."
Where did she acquire such knowledge though? He couldn't help but ask, "How did you come to learn about these things?"
Popola's gaze seemed to drift into the distance as if lost in memories. "I had a job for a long time, taking care of people in need. Over time, it evolved into organizing records and bookkeeping in our small village. Much of it was library work, but I never forgot what I learned during that process."
Gendry's mind raced with possibilities. He contemplated the idea of a female-only citadel, wondering if Popola had been a part of such a place. He occasionally heard customers mention the citadels grand library and archives. The notion of a citadel filled with knowledge, with beautiful red haired woman, was quite appealing to him. "Were you a part of some female-only citadel, then?"
Popola's surprise was evident in her expression as she quickly shook her head. "No, it wasn't a female-only establishment. Almost anyone was welcome there, as long as they sought peace and knowledge, regardless of their gender, age, or background. It was a place open to all who wanted to learn."
Gendry's astonishment deepened at Popola's explanation. He had never heard of such a place of knowledge that welcomed anyone, regardless of gender or background. It even contrasted with his own occupation as a blacksmith. Despite Tobho's words to Popola, Gendry knew that Tobho would never consider taking on a female apprentice. In fact, when Gendry had first started his own apprenticeship, the oldest apprentice had mentioned that Tobho had only ever trained men and boys. Perhaps things were different in Qohor but in Kings Landing Mott has never strayed from that tradition. The thought lingered in Gendry's mind, admiration for Popola's knowledge and a bit of unease at its lack of precedent.
He was intrigued to learn more about her experiences. "So, is that how you learned about blacksmithing as well through your bookwork?"
Popola nodded in response. "Essentially, yes. I've forged a few things in my life, though it's far from my main occupation."
He felt his initial fascination with Popola as a female smith deplete but nontheless, Gendry inquired, "What did you forge when you had the chance?"
Popola seemed hesitant, her voice repressed. "Not much, truly. I've made a few swords, but the main focus of my time in the forge was fixing up the top piece for a battle staff whenever it got damaged." She paused briefly before continuing, "They were designed and given to us by our... parents when we were very young."
Gendry's skepticism surfaced as he responded, "So, you know how to fight?"
Popola quickly corrected him, her tone serious. "They were only intended for emergencies."
Even so, Gendry expressed his interest. "Even still, I would love to see such a weapon and your hometown."
A darkness seemed to wash over Popola's features as she replied, "So would I… Sadly, they were lost due to circumstances beyond our control."
Gendry was moved by the sadness that clouded Popola's expression. In an attempt to bring some light to her eyes, he offered, "If you'd like, I could make them for you. I'm sure I can recreate them."
Looking down at the scalpel diagram, Gendry flipped the page to a blank one and handed it to Popola. "I'll be right back, wait here just grabbing ink and quill"
Gendry rushed to the inside of Tobhos house and glanced around, his eyes fell upon Tobho's servant girl. She was her usual quiet and reclusive self, sweeping up crumbs that were no doubt leftover from him breaking his fast back before the sun even peaked above the ground. The sound of her gentle sweeping so quiet if he wouldn't have seen the crumbs being moved himself he would've assumed she was wasting time.
"Where is the inkpot and quill?" The girl said nothing as typical and simply stared at a distant shelf, he looked over and confirmed that what he needed was there quickly grabbing the inkpot and quill. He then looked back briefly at the servant girl gave a nod of thanks, and went back out thankful to see Popola hasn't left.
"Here, sketch it here. I can't promise anything until I see it, but maybe I could do a recreation." Gendry held the quil and placed the ink as near to Popola as he could manage.
Popola hesitated for a moment before responding, "Well, it was made with a mix of gold and steel. I doubt it's within my means at the moment. There are still things I have to pick up on my way back to Flea Bottom."
Understanding the limitations, Gendry nodded and said, "Even still, sketch a drawing of it. I can at least tell you if it's feasible." He may have let himself get too excited at the prospect. Master Mott's words "Showing interest is no way to wager" rang in his head.
A hope seemed to light in Popola's previously somber eyes. She accepted the blank page and began sketching. Gendry anticipated a rough outline, assuming it would take more time and deliberation to work out the precise measurements, just as she had done with the wiring and scalpel commissions. However, to his astonishment, Popola was writing specific numbers and adding detailed images of specific parts of the piece.
Gendry admired the drawing for a moment. Though composed of only lines and numbers, it held a certain mystique, resembling an exaggerated crescent moon with a straight extension at the bottom that undoubtedly connected to the staff Popola had mentioned.
Popola's eyes flicked up from her sketching, She paused for a moment, her gaze fixed on Gendry, "What is Jon Arryn like?".
Gendry's brow furrowed as he contemplated the question. Trying to find the right words to capture the essence of a noble like Jon Arryn, he hesitated before responding, "To be honest, I can't say for certain what he's truly like. Nobles are a different breed altogether. But in the few interactions we had, he seemed kind. He asked about my mother... She passed away many years ago in Flea Bottom."
A flicker of sadness washed over Popola's face, her features softening as she empathized with Gendry's loss. Her voice filled with genuine sympathy, she said, "I'm so sorry, Gendry. I truly am. I wish we had been there earlier. Your mother must have been an amazing woman."
A mix of emotions swelled within Gendry, his voice muted. "Yeah, she was just a tavern wench, really. I barely remember her, but her singing... It was beautiful."
He felt a wetness he hoped was sweat well up in his eye. He quickly brushed it away.
Popola reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before returning to her side.
"So what do you think about the staff topper ?" Popola asks
Gendry found himself drawn back in the present with Popola's question. He paused studying the diagram. The untraditional shape and the combination of steel and gold presented a unique challenge. He thought on it debating briefly he responded, "I believe it's certainly doable, but given the materials and the… complications involved, it will come at a decent cost. I'll need to consult with Master Mott to provide you with an accurate amount of coin. I can fetch him if you'd like?"
Popola shook her head, "No, Gendry. That won't be necessary. As I mentioned earlier, it's unlikely that I could afford it at the moment. Besides, I still have other items to pay for and collect. I really appreciate your willingness to help though." Popola smiled in a way that seemed to make the sun brigther
Gendry nodded, understanding her circumstances. "Of course, Popola. You're always welcome here, and if you ever change your mind or find yourself in need of something forged."
"Do be careful Gendry." Concern etched on her face, she pointed towards the area he was burned. Gendry couldn't help but feel a fleeting embarrassment, his cheeks turning slightly red. "I'll be careful, I promise," he grumbled.
A reassuring smile spread across Popola's face as she prepared to depart. "Take care, Gendry. I wouldn't want to see you hurt again."
Watching her walk away, a warmth filled Gendry's chest.
When Feryn and Soren made their way out Gendry, took it as a sign to go inside to speak with Master Mott about Popola's new requests. Once he went inside he found Alric busy organizing records, a large bowl of water in the middle of the table to hold a few papers in place. His focus seemed to be on those particular papers.
Gendry's gaze shifted , noticing cloth wrapped around Alric's upper arm he burnt himself as well last night. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Alric's lack of focus and attention to detail explained another reason why he rarely spent time at the forge, leaving the bulk of the work to Gendry. Even working indoors he seemed to frequently injure himself. He had half a mind to mess with the lad a bit, though with the sound of Tobho's door opening he quickly changed his mind.
He approached the door to his chambers, hoping to share the details of his encounter with Popola. As he stood before the master blacksmith, he could sense Tobho's genuine interest in his words firm posture relaxing slightly, shoulders slacking. His gaze held a familiar warmth. Concerned eyes following his every movement, studying his face intently.
His mention of the Scalpel, and the staff topper clearly intrigued him, and he expressed interest in looking at both, though
When Gendry mentioned Popola's mention Jon Arryn. Tobho's brows furrowed in worry. His hand, calloused from years of wielding a hammer, reached out and gently rested on Gendry's shoulder.
"Be cautious, boy," Tobho said, his voice filled with a paternal undertone. "There's more to this than meets the eye. They are not from where they claim, we must tread carefully."
The weight of Tobho's hand on his shoulder grounded him, he recalled Master Mott, has occasionally warned him and the other apprentices about new arrivals and general seedy character before. Though Popola and Devola did not seem to match what was typical, he could not discount their uniqueness though.
"I understand, Tobho," Gendry replied, his voice tinged with determination. "I'll be cautious and trust my instincts. But…" he paused debating if he should continue, " I don't think they mean any harm, she seems to be helping improve the shithole I came out of."
Tobho nodded, his grip on Gendry's shoulder tightening momentarily before he released it. There was a slight smile on his weathered face "You have a strong spirit, Gendry, just like your mother did no doubt," Tobho said voice admirable. "Though remember, strength lies not only in your arm but also in your judgment. If you ever need guidance or support, know that I am here for you."
Although Gendry didn't fully comprehend Tobho's warning, he couldn't help but disagree with his sentiments. Popola was a bit odd and her requests unusual, but she had not seemed harmful or malicious. Though he supposed there was no harm in keeping his guard up around them, eyes open and mind sharp.
A.N. Hope everyone enjoys I know some had issues with the last Gendry POV so would be interested in hearing everyones thoughts.
I will be mildly editing last chapter cause there were some timeline inconsistencies.
Gendry stood alone amidst the forge, his rhythmic hammering resonating through the air, blending with the cackle of sparks. Beads of sweat running down his forehead, mingling with the resilient soot that clung to his hardened skin. The forge's searing heat enveloped him, casting a fiery glow upon him as he meticulously molded the molten metal with precision, bringing form to its raw potential.
In the midst of his focus, footsteps were heard walking near, breaking the solitude that had enveloped the workshop. Looking up, dark red hair entered his vision, he quickly recognized the customer approaching as Popola. The atmosphere shifted as she stepped closer, imbuing the air with an electric anticipation. He was curious what task she had for the forge this time it was only two weeks past he last saw her she did not exactly fit the image of a frequent customer, though given her unusual knowledge of smithing perhaps he should've reconsidered that notion.
Gendry's hammering halted momentarily as he wiped sweat from his brow, his calloused hand leaving a smudge of grime behind. He observed Popola's approach, her gaze intently fixed upon the parchment she held.
He looked around verifying that Master Mott was still absent, the absence during this encounter did make him wonder the intent held. Contemplating the reason Popola visited now at such an early hour when Master Mott's usually was still cooped up in his chambers. Farther thoughts of his mentor filled Gendry's consciousness. Over the years, Tobho had held a great professionalism, dedication and unyielding craftsmanship, the soul of the forge in many ways. However, a subtle shift had taken hold in Tobho's demeanor as of late whenever Popola came by It was an unfamiliar behavior, one that Gendry had never witnessed in the presence of other customers. He wondered internally if he fancied her, but he'd never say the words aloud. The Master smith no doubt having his ass for such a question.
Gendry reverently set aside his hammer, the resonant clang of metal against metal slowly fading into the background. He stepped forward, his eyes meeting Popola's.
As he glanced at the diagram, it laid out some kind of eccentric knife with very particular construction. a metal pole with a triangle shaped blade at its end only one end sharp. He couldn't really discern what the purpose of such a piece could be. He looked closer at the measurements and he felt a headache come one, seven hells will it be annoying to make each part. Memories of their previous encounters resurfaced overhearing Popola mentioning her intentions with the people of Flea Bottom to Jon Arryn, a place that held dark memories for him. The suffering and hardships endured in that forsaken district weighed heavily on his heart. In a way, Gendry couldn't help but wonder if anyone could truly make a difference in such a terrible place. He shifted his thoughts to Master Mott, he recognized his smithing potential and guided him getting him out of that fucked place.
Curiosity overcoming him, Gendry finally voiced his question, "Popola, is this… Scappell meant to help the people of Flea Bottom?"
Popola laughed softly then nodded. "It's called a scalpel Gendry, but yes aiding the people of Flea Bottom is part of it. This scalpel is designed to cut into flesh in a safer and more precise way than a sword or knife. It willa allow me to provide better assistance to those who are ailing."
Confusion filled Gendry's mind as he thought on the idea. "But wouldn't cutting into flesh make things worse?"
"Well Maesters seem to employ similar tools for surgery. They have various benefits when it comes to delicate procedures, such as aiding in childbirth, removing embedded objects from the flesh, and treating various illnesses and injuries." Popola said lightly smiling.
Gendry's surprise deepened as Popola clarified her knowledge. How could a woman as soft on the eyes as her possess not only the skill of a blacksmith but also an understanding of the human body and healing akin to that of the maesters. It seemed almost unbelievable to him. "So you're saying you have knowledge of both blacksmithing and the human body, similar to what the maesters know?"
Popola paused for a moment, her eyes briefly looking upwards. "Well, I wouldn't claim to have equivalent knowledge in all aspects. There is still much about Westeros and Essos that I have yet to learn. However, when it comes to human physiology and anatomy, the study of the body and its workings, I have a decent understanding."
Where did she acquire such knowledge though? He couldn't help but ask, "How did you come to learn about these things?"
Popola's gaze seemed to drift into the distance as if lost in memories. "I had a job for a long time, taking care of people in need. Over time, it evolved into organizing records and bookkeeping in our small village. Much of it was library work, but I never forgot what I learned during that process."
Gendry's mind raced with possibilities. He contemplated the idea of a female-only citadel, wondering if Popola had been a part of such a place. He occasionally heard customers mention the citadels grand library and archives. The notion of a citadel filled with knowledge, with beautiful red haired woman, was quite appealing to him. "Were you a part of some female-only citadel, then?"
Popola's surprise was evident in her expression as she quickly shook her head. "No, it wasn't a female-only establishment. Almost anyone was welcome there, as long as they sought peace and knowledge, regardless of their gender, age, or background. It was a place open to all who wanted to learn."
Gendry's astonishment deepened at Popola's explanation. He had never heard of such a place of knowledge that welcomed anyone, regardless of gender or background. It even contrasted with his own occupation as a blacksmith. Despite Tobho's words to Popola, Gendry knew that Tobho would never consider taking on a female apprentice. In fact, when Gendry had first started his own apprenticeship, the oldest apprentice had mentioned that Tobho had only ever trained men and boys. Perhaps things were different in Qohor but in Kings Landing Mott has never strayed from that tradition. The thought lingered in Gendry's mind, admiration for Popola's knowledge and a bit of unease at its lack of precedent.
He was intrigued to learn more about her experiences. "So, is that how you learned about blacksmithing as well through your bookwork?"
Popola nodded in response. "Essentially, yes. I've forged a few things in my life, though it's far from my main occupation."
He felt his initial fascination with Popola as a female smith deplete but nontheless, Gendry inquired, "What did you forge when you had the chance?"
Popola seemed hesitant, her voice repressed. "Not much, truly. I've made a few swords, but the main focus of my time in the forge was fixing up the top piece for a battle staff whenever it got damaged." She paused briefly before continuing, "They were designed and given to us by our... parents when we were very young."
Gendry's skepticism surfaced as he responded, "So, you know how to fight?"
Popola quickly corrected him, her tone serious. "They were only intended for emergencies."
Even so, Gendry expressed his interest. "Even still, I would love to see such a weapon and your hometown."
A darkness seemed to wash over Popola's features as she replied, "So would I… Sadly, they were lost due to circumstances beyond our control."
Gendry was moved by the sadness that clouded Popola's expression. In an attempt to bring some light to her eyes, he offered, "If you'd like, I could make them for you. I'm sure I can recreate them."
Looking down at the scalpel diagram, Gendry flipped the page to a blank one and handed it to Popola. "I'll be right back, wait here just grabbing ink and quill"
Gendry rushed to the inside of Tobhos house and glanced around, his eyes fell upon Tobho's servant girl. She was her usual quiet and reclusive self, sweeping up crumbs that were no doubt leftover from him breaking his fast back before the sun even peaked above the ground. The sound of her gentle sweeping so quiet if he wouldn't have seen the crumbs being moved himself he would've assumed she was wasting time.
"Where is the inkpot and quill?" The girl said nothing as typical and simply stared at a distant shelf, he looked over and confirmed that what he needed was there quickly grabbing the inkpot and quill. He then looked back briefly at the servant girl gave a nod of thanks, and went back out thankful to see Popola hasn't left.
"Here, sketch it here. I can't promise anything until I see it, but maybe I could do a recreation." Gendry held the quil and placed the ink as near to Popola as he could manage.
Popola hesitated for a moment before responding, "Well, it was made with a mix of gold and steel. I doubt it's within my means at the moment. There are still things I have to pick up on my way back to Flea Bottom."
Understanding the limitations, Gendry nodded and said, "Even still, sketch a drawing of it. I can at least tell you if it's feasible." He may have let himself get too excited at the prospect. Master Mott's words "Showing interest is no way to wager" rang in his head.
A hope seemed to light in Popola's previously somber eyes. She accepted the blank page and began sketching. Gendry anticipated a rough outline, assuming it would take more time and deliberation to work out the precise measurements, just as she had done with the wiring and scalpel commissions. However, to his astonishment, Popola was writing specific numbers and adding detailed images of specific parts of the piece.
Gendry admired the drawing for a moment. Though composed of only lines and numbers, it held a certain mystique, resembling an exaggerated crescent moon with a straight extension at the bottom that undoubtedly connected to the staff Popola had mentioned.
Popola's eyes flicked up from her sketching, She paused for a moment, her gaze fixed on Gendry, "What is Jon Arryn like?".
Gendry's brow furrowed as he contemplated the question. Trying to find the right words to capture the essence of a noble like Jon Arryn, he hesitated before responding, "To be honest, I can't say for certain what he's truly like. Nobles are a different breed altogether. But in the few interactions we had, he seemed kind. He asked about my mother... She passed away many years ago in Flea Bottom."
A flicker of sadness washed over Popola's face, her features softening as she empathized with Gendry's loss. Her voice filled with genuine sympathy, she said, "I'm so sorry, Gendry. I truly am. I wish we had been there earlier. Your mother must have been an amazing woman."
A mix of emotions swelled within Gendry, his voice muted. "Yeah, she was just a tavern wench, really. I barely remember her, but her singing... It was beautiful."
He felt a wetness he hoped was sweat well up in his eye. He quickly brushed it away.
Popola reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before returning to her side.
"So what do you think about the staff topper ?" Popola asks
Gendry found himself drawn back in the present with Popola's question. He paused studying the diagram. The untraditional shape and the combination of steel and gold presented a unique challenge. He thought on it debating briefly he responded, "I believe it's certainly doable, but given the materials and the… complications involved, it will come at a decent cost. I'll need to consult with Master Mott to provide you with an accurate amount of coin. I can fetch him if you'd like?"
Popola shook her head, "No, Gendry. That won't be necessary. As I mentioned earlier, it's unlikely that I could afford it at the moment. Besides, I still have other items to pay for and collect. I really appreciate your willingness to help though." Popola smiled in a way that seemed to make the sun brigther
Gendry nodded, understanding her circumstances. "Of course, Popola. You're always welcome here, and if you ever change your mind or find yourself in need of something forged."
"Do be careful Gendry." Concern etched on her face, she pointed towards the area he was burned. Gendry couldn't help but feel a fleeting embarrassment, his cheeks turning slightly red. "I'll be careful, I promise," he grumbled.
A reassuring smile spread across Popola's face as she prepared to depart. "Take care, Gendry. I wouldn't want to see you hurt again."
Watching her walk away, a warmth filled Gendry's chest.
When Feryn and Soren made their way out Gendry, took it as a sign to go inside to speak with Master Mott about Popola's new requests. Once he went inside he found Alric busy organizing records, a large bowl of water in the middle of the table to hold a few papers in place. His focus seemed to be on those particular papers.
Gendry's gaze shifted , noticing cloth wrapped around Alric's upper arm he burnt himself as well last night. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Alric's lack of focus and attention to detail explained another reason why he rarely spent time at the forge, leaving the bulk of the work to Gendry. Even working indoors he seemed to frequently injure himself. He had half a mind to mess with the lad a bit, though with the sound of Tobho's door opening he quickly changed his mind.
He approached the door to his chambers, hoping to share the details of his encounter with Popola. As he stood before the master blacksmith, he could sense Tobho's genuine interest in his words firm posture relaxing slightly, shoulders slacking. His gaze held a familiar warmth. Concerned eyes following his every movement, studying his face intently.
His mention of the Scalpel, and the staff topper clearly intrigued him, and he expressed interest in looking at both, though
When Gendry mentioned Popola's mention Jon Arryn. Tobho's brows furrowed in worry. His hand, calloused from years of wielding a hammer, reached out and gently rested on Gendry's shoulder.
"Be cautious, boy," Tobho said, his voice filled with a paternal undertone. "There's more to this than meets the eye. They are not from where they claim, we must tread carefully."
The weight of Tobho's hand on his shoulder grounded him, he recalled Master Mott, has occasionally warned him and the other apprentices about new arrivals and general seedy character before. Though Popola and Devola did not seem to match what was typical, he could not discount their uniqueness though.
"I understand, Tobho," Gendry replied, his voice tinged with determination. "I'll be cautious and trust my instincts. But…" he paused debating if he should continue, " I don't think they mean any harm, she seems to be helping improve the shithole I came out of."
Tobho nodded, his grip on Gendry's shoulder tightening momentarily before he released it. There was a slight smile on his weathered face "You have a strong spirit, Gendry, just like your mother did no doubt," Tobho said voice admirable. "Though remember, strength lies not only in your arm but also in your judgment. If you ever need guidance or support, know that I am here for you."
Although Gendry didn't fully comprehend Tobho's warning, he couldn't help but disagree with his sentiments. Popola was a bit odd and her requests unusual, but she had not seemed harmful or malicious. Though he supposed there was no harm in keeping his guard up around them, eyes open and mind sharp.
A.N. Hope everyone enjoys I know some had issues with the last Gendry POV so would be interested in hearing everyones thoughts.
I will be mildly editing last chapter cause there were some timeline inconsistencies.
ATP
Well worn.
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Well,it is obvious that they are not from Westeros,and Tobho could knew,that they are not from Essos,too.
But - there are still another lands ,so nobody,even Varys,could knew that they from another world.Well,except melly,if her fire god say so.
About scalpels - stone-age people made them from stone,and used to made operations,which mostly succed.For example treparations in South America.
So,you do not need steel for that.
But - there are still another lands ,so nobody,even Varys,could knew that they from another world.Well,except melly,if her fire god say so.
About scalpels - stone-age people made them from stone,and used to made operations,which mostly succed.For example treparations in South America.
So,you do not need steel for that.
FireWalkWithMe99
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You do understand that popola at no point said she needed steel for the scalpel right? She was talking about the toppers on their staffs they have in the fights in the shadowlords castle.
Also even if theres ways without metal to make a scalpel doesn't mean Popola wouldnt prefer a metal one.
I agree on your thoughts on tobho
Xodarap
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There's always obsidian otherwise known as dragonstone to use as a extremely sharp knife.
It is extremely sharp and perfect for flaying flesh from the body.
Reminds me of house Bolton Our knives are sharp motto with Obsidian perfect to use in Flaying people.
Chapter 10: Imprisoned in Twisting Spells
FireWalkWithMe99
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- 332
Devola IV
In the dim, candle-lit ambiance of the tavern, Devola's gaze wandered, finally halting on Henrik. Shadows danced on his face, echoing the shifting unease in her heart. Their last meeting, marred by his fellow watchmens on that dire night, played in her mind, his unwillingness to aid in the search for Leerah, all served to stroke the mistrust held within.
She'd come from a world where humans stood shoulder to shoulder against the Legion's menace Japan and America, overcoming their differences for the shared goal of saving all, safeguarding Project Gestalt. Yet, in this city, with its cobblestone streets and looming stone walls, that solidarity seemed but a distant memory. The clinking of ale mugs and hushed conversations around her only deepened her sense of alienation.
Absorbed in these musings, Devola barely registered Henrik's voice. "How have you been, Devola?"
Jolted, she looked up, her red hair catching the lantern light. "As well as one can be," she answered cautiously, her voice cooler than intended. She hesitated a moment before adding, "But it's been trying, especially with Meg constantly on our backs. She's been threatening the children, claiming she'll report them to the Watch."
Henrik's gaze, observant and piercing, drifted to Meg, the persistent bowl of brown peddler. The memories of Meg's insistence and their countless confrontations over money, resources, or minor favors felt like a weight in Devola's chest.
Catching her eye, Henrik began, "Meg hasn't always been alone, you know. She had a husband." His tone held a hint of sadness. "Back in the day, their was a welcoming air but then…."
Devola leaned forward, intrigued. "The Rebellion?"
Henrik shook his head. "Nay though it played its role in a sense. Heralding new oppurtunity for many including them, for some, it was the beginning of the end."
Henrik sighed deeply, taking a moment as if gathering his thoughts, before he began, "When I first donned the gold cloak of the City Watch, it was here, in Flea Bottom, that I began my duty. The place was, and still is, a maze of narrow alleys and hidden corners, but there was a particular corner, not far from here, that held a certain warmth."
He took a sip of his ale, his gaze distant. "A stand, run by a couple. Meg and her husband. They had carved out a modest existence here, earning respect in a place where it's quite hard to come by. Her husband was a proud Stormlander, once a footsoldier in the Rebellion. A man with stories of battles and camaraderie, and always a hearty laugh ready to escape his lips. You'd think a man with war scars would be hardened, but he had a heart that seemed too big for this cruel part of the city."
Henrik's eyes held a touch of admiration as he continued, "He would often assist us, the City Watch. Not by wielding a blade or drawing blood, but by being our eyes and ears. With his stand at the heart of Flea Bottom, he'd catch whispers, notice the odd behaviors, and more than once, he'd helped us collar some rogue or prevent a squabble from escalating into chaos. His presence brought a semblance of order to the stretch of street where he sold his wares."
There was a weight in Henrik's voice when he added, "But then, as life in Flea Bottom often reminds us, tragedy has a way of sneaking up. One day, he just... didn't wake up. No fight, no grand exit. He simply slipped away in the night."
Henrik paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. "After that, Meg... she changed. The vibrant woman, who once laughed alongside her husband, turned inwards. The stand became less a place of community and more a shield, a barrier she put up against the world. Her trust in others dwindled, and she stopped reaching out. It's as if a part of her passed on with him."
He took another long drink, setting down his mug with a thud. "Life in Flea Bottom is never easy, but sometimes, it's the quiet tragedies that wound us the most."
For a moment, the din of the tavern faded as Devola processed this revelation. Behind Meg's persistent demeanor lay a story of loss, perseverance, and heartbreak. It was a cruel reminder that every face in Flea Bottom, every soul in this city, held a tale yet to be told.
Henrik glanced up, meeting Devola's gaze with an earnest look. "I've caught wind of what she's been putting you and your sister through," he began. "Those threats of hers, her insinuations about reporting some of the children to the Watch."
He gave a small, rueful smile, shaking his head slightly. "Meg's bark is worse than her bite. She's been wounded by life, but deep down, she's harmless. I genuinely believe she wouldn't bring harm to those kids. Her threats are more a desperate plea for attention, a cry for some semblance of the control she once had when her husband was around."
Henrik leaned in, his voice a shade softer. "But I understand the pressure it can place on both of you. If you'd like, I can step in. Have a word with her, see if I can ease some of that tension. Maybe even help her find a more constructive way to channel her grief and frustrations."
His eyes searched Devola's for a moment, a genuine offer of assistance hanging in the balance. "Sometimes, all we need is someone to truly listen, to acknowledge our pain. And perhaps, in her case, to gently remind her of the person she once was before sorrow took its toll."
Henrik cleared his throat, glancing around the room momentarily before his gaze settled back on Devola. "You know, Devola," he began cautiously, "it's not easy for women in this city, especially those without a husband. Flea Bottom can be unforgiving to those who find themselves alone." There was a slight warmth in his eyes, a subtle softening of his usual stern demeanor.
Devola, intuitive and sharp, immediately caught the implication. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly as she carefully chose her words. "I appreciate the concern, Henrik," she responded with a hint of frost in her tone, "But we've managed well enough on our own so far. And, as you've just shared, sometimes even having a partner can't shield you from the challenges of life."
Henrik seemed momentarily taken aback, but he quickly regained his composure. "Of course," he said, nodding. "I meant no offense. It's just... I've seen many fall prey to the hardships of the city, and I'd hate to see the same happen to you and your sister."
Devola softened slightly, sensing the genuine care in his words, even if they were a tad misplaced. "We're survivors, Henrik. We've faced greater threats than the alleys of Flea Bottom. But," she added with a small smile, "I do appreciate the sentiment."
The two shared a brief moment of understanding, both acknowledging the unsaid words between them. Henrik cleared his throat, taking another sip of his ale, the conversation shifting to the more neutral grounds of quiet.
The silence between Devola and Henrik grew more pronounced, filled only by the distant murmur of tavern conversations and the occasional outburst of laughter. Henrik took another long drink from his mug, his gaze somewhat distant.
"Devola," he started, hesitating slightly, "I hope you don't take my words amiss. It's just... in these uncertain times, it's rare to find genuine connections. People you can trust."
She nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "It's the nature of the world we live in. Trust has to be earned, not freely given."
He gave a rueful chuckle. "A lesson I've learned the hard way, believe me. But, if ever you find yourself in need, remember that there are still a few good souls in this city."
With that, Henrik stood, leaving a few coins on the table. "Take care, Devola," he said, his voice sincere, before turning and disappearing out the exit of the tavern.
Shortly after Henrik's leave Devola followed suit and again wandered the streets of Flea Bottom, the familiar sounds and scents painting a picture that was becoming more and more familiar to her. Children played in the narrow alleys, their laughter echoing amidst the hum of chatter and the distant cries of peddlers. As she walked, her boots occasionally splashed through the shallow runlets of water, a testament to the recent improvements she and Popola had ushered in.
Looking over to her left, she could see the newest addition to the district - a modest drainage system. It was a far cry from the sophisticated aqueducts and sewer systems of some cities (both here and back on earth), but for Flea Bottom, it was a start. Her sister had enlisted locals for the job. The result was a series of ditches and a humble stream designed to redirect much of the waste and water, at least offering a semblance of sanitation. The both of them hoped this would only be a first step the goal was to amalgamate with the pipe system and have the majority of waste diverted in the blackwater, she did not like needlessly dirtying a natural source of water, but it seemed in was in a bad spot as is. Ultimately human life took priority.
As she continued her stroll, her thoughts shifted to her music. She'd been approached yesterday to perform at Chatayaya's brothel on the Street of Silk yet again. She recalled the opulence of that place being a stark contrast to the gritty reality of Flea Bottom. Though it seems it held a different manner of grime, if Barra's plight, and some of the clientele of Chataya's brothel were anything to go by.
Yet, there was no denying the allure of the coin it brought in. The sum she'd earned in a single night was almost what she would make in weeks performing in the taverns of Flea Bottom and the Street of Seeds. Without this money the livelihood here in flea bottom would still be what it was a month passed, which was a scarce few fixed buildings and a few extra meals, though there was no denying that there was a desperate need for more. So thus she would go yet again tonight regardless.
Devola had to admit, though, there was some positive encounters from her last performance there. Alayaya, despite initial rocky starts, ultimately she and most other courtesans had shown her kindness, engaging her in genuine conversation, even some of the customers seemed to be capable of appreciating her in a healthy manner even if interest no doubt played a part. They'd shared stories and found common ground, reminding Devola that beneath the veneers people wore, genuine souls still thrived.
She paused, taking a moment to absorb the revelation. She quickened her pace, heading towards their house.
Devola found her sister hunched over her work desk, the harsh red glow of maso illuminating her space, the focus in her eyes as her hands deftly maneuvered needle and thread through the spine of a book. Now shelves lined two of the corners in their living space, some filled with completed projects, others with works in progress, each book being a testament of her sister to seed knowledge in the inhabitants of flea bottom.
Approaching quietly, Devola watched for a moment, admiring the meticulous care with which Popola preserved each page, each word. "How are the current bindings coming along sister?" she asked, her voice a gentle intrusion into the silence.
Popola looked up, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'm just finishing up 'A Tale of Two Cities.' It seems particularly resonant with this place and time," she said, gesturing to the book before her. "And 'Gulliver's Travels' is up next. I thought a little farther exploration into the absurd might be well-received here. Would be good books for some of the kids once they reach more advanced levels, I think Lommy and Alysanne would especially enjoy it."
She paused, her hands coming to rest on the open botany book beside her. "Though, I'm in two minds about this one." Her fingers traced the illustrations of plants and fungi. "The natural world here is so different—new names, new properties. I might need to spend more time with the local herb women and apothecaries to make it relevant to King's Landing."
Devola nodded, understanding the predicament. "Bringing these tales and knowledge to new ears and eyes. But adapting them to the context of our current home is just as vital and difficult..."
Popola sighed, closing the botany book with a gentle thump. "True. And it's a task I don't take lightly. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll visit the markets and speak with those who know the flora here better than any book could tell us."
Devola placed a supportive hand on Popola's shoulder. "Let me know if you need any help. Between the two of us, we'll ensure that the knowledge we pass on is as accurate and useful as it can be."
Popola looked up, her eyes reflecting a turmoil of emotions. "I do wish we could do more," she confessed, her voice tinged with frustration. "It feels as though our efforts are just a drop in the ocean. Leerah is still missing, the mystery of the unknown particle remains unsolved, and despite our strides, Flea Bottom is still far from the sanctuary we envision for these people."
Devola squeezed her sister's shoulder. "I understand your concerns, but remember, Sister, the impact of even the smallest actions can ripple far beyond what we see. Yes, Leerah's whereabouts are still unknown, and the particle eludes us, but think of the lives you've touched. The books you've bound carry more than just stories—they carry hope, a chance for a better future in a few years time this will pay off tenfold ."
She stepped closer, her presence a bulwark against the emotional tide. "And as for the unknowns," Devola continued, her voice steady and sure, "they have indeed always been part of our journey, from the day we were first activated, from the dragon, replicant sentience, the brief resurgence of red eye, and relapses. We've navigated them before, and we'll do so again. Our purpose has never been clearer—to serve, to protect, and to guide. And that, dear sister, is what we will continue to do, no matter what."
Popola's eyes met Devola's. A slow nod, an unspoken promise passed between them—a vow to persevere, to keep pushing forward, for the sake of the true humans yet again.
Devola gently broke the moment, her voice soft yet firm. "I'll be heading to Chatayaya's on the Street of Silk to perform again tonight," she informed Popola, who visibly saddened at the news.
Popola sighed, a wistful expression crossing her features. "I wish you could be here more often, stick around and talk" she admitted, the sentiment resonating in her voice. Yet, she nodded in understanding, recognizing the importance of Devola's role and the impact her music had. "I understand, though. Im sure your performance will be as good as always."
"Alh fahkush kaireshti
Onda kirachi ehfri yo me tabi
Nochi so pliyoa tema shamarey"
In the warm, honeyed glow of Chatayaya's brothel, the last notes of Devola's set lingered in the air, the melodies hanging like delicate curtains between the clamor of conversations and clinking glasses. She let the lute rest against her, feeling the resonance of the wood and the warmth of the strings slowly fade.
Moments after the notes faded out Chataya approached her, her presence commanding yet graceful amidst the revelry. "Devola," she began, her voice rich, "your music is a rare gem, a beacon in the night for many who seek refuge here."
Devola looked up, her expression one of attentive respect and surprise. "Thank you, Chataya. It's my honor to play for such an audience," she replied, the wood of the lute warm under her touch. Out of everyone here Chataya was the last person she expected to get a compliment from, given their last interaction. Though it was certainly appreciated.
Chataya's eyes held a shrewdness to them that matched her business acumen. "Remember, variety is the key. Your songs, as enchanting as they are, should be like the seasons—ever-changing, always leaving them wanting more."
Devola absorbed the wisdom in Chataya's words. "A performance must be cherished, not just heard," she mused aloud, the idea resonating deeply with her.
"Exactly," Chataya affirmed, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Let your music breathe. Give it room to be missed and yearned for. That way, every note you play will always be a treasure sought after."
Devola gave a slight nod, her mind already weaving new melodies and rhythms. "I understand. I'll ensure each performance is a unique experience, a moment in time that can never be replicated."
Chataya placed a reassuring hand on Devola's shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Take a moment for yourself now. The night is young, and the patrons are in no rush. Let them anticipate your return to the stage."
With that, Chataya turned and glided away, her presence leaving a trail of quiet authority.
As she meandered through the scattered clusters of patrons, a soft murmur drew her attention. Tucked away in a secluded corner, away from the boisterous mirth, was a girl with a child cradled in her arms. The sight was a stark contrast to the usual clientele of the brothel—an oasis of maternal calm in a sea of hedonistic pursuit.
Devola approached the woman, her curiosity piqued by the tenderness of the scene. "Good evening," she greeted gently, not wishing to intrude but unable to mask her intrigue. "It's not often one sees a child in a place like this."
The woman looked up, her eyes weary yet kindled with a flicker of pride. "Evening," she replied, her voice a soft melody that mirrored Devola's music in its warmth. "Aye, it's an unusual sight, I'll grant you that. But this little one is my daughter, and sometimes, life leaves you with few choices but to keep your whole world with you at work. She was one of the first babies of this new year born not even a moon past."
Devola nodded, her heart touched by the woman's plight. "She's beautiful," she commented sincerely, the innocence of the child a stark reminder of the many facets of life that thrived in the most unexpected places.
The woman smiled, a gesture that seemed to momentarily ease the lines of hardship etched upon her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "Her father... is a strong warrior. A leader of vast kindness and strength, for now it's just us though he certainly will come to see our Barra soon. I sing her lullabies to remind her of him, of the heat of battle he loves so."
Devola's eyes widened, a storm of realization brewing within her as she took in the name of the child and viewed the woman's features more closely. The light brown hair, the distinctive oval face, and those familiar bushy eyebrows—it was unmistakable. This was the girl she had been searching for, the missing piece in the puzzle that had eluded her and Popola for so long.
Her voice barely above a whisper, Devola uttered, "Leerah?"
Maghen's reaction was immediate and visceral. She recoiled slightly, her eyes darting around anxiously as if fearing some unseen danger. "That is not my name anymore," she said quickly, her voice held a unusual resolve mixing fear and determination. "Please, call me Maghen." The baby in her arms stirred, picking up on her mother's distress.
Devola's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information she had. The child in Maghen's arms – this mother had to be the sister of the Barra she had met weeks ago Leerah. It was all coming together, but the implications were overwhelming.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Devola hastened to say, her tone soothing. "I'm Devola, and I've been looking for you. Your sister, Barra, she's been worried, searching for you."
Leerah's face contorted with a mixture of emotions—fear, surprise, and perhaps hope. "You know my sister? Is she... is she okay?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.
Devola nodded, her own heart aching for the turmoil this young woman had been through. "She's safe, she was looking for you." Devola knew these words to be true she made an effort to detour where Barra live whenever she had to get out of flea bottom to ensure the girl was alright.
Leerah's fingers curled protectively around her child, the small body nestled close to her chest. Her words, spoken with a tremulous voice, conveyed a deep-seated fear and a sense of binding obligation. "She has to stop. I cannot go back," she repeated, the phrase sounding like a mantra of resignation. "It was not part of the agreement."
Devola, sensing the depth of Leerah's turmoil, moved closer. The dim light of the brothel cast shadows that seemed to deepen the lines of worry etched on Maghen's face. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met Devola's with a mixture of desperation and resolve.
"And besides," Leerah continued, her voice gaining a slight edge, "both my Barra and my sister deserve to be well fed." The tear that had been threatening to fall finally broke free, trailing down her cheek.
Devola's gaze softened as she observed the tear tracing its path down Leerah's cheek. The mention of an 'agreement' piqued Devola's curiosity, but she recognized that now was not the moment to probe. Instead, she focused on providing reassurance and comfort.
"Leer…, Maghen," Devola began, her voice gentle, "Your sister, Barra, she cares deeply for you. Her search wasn't out of obligation, but love and concern. And you're right, both your daughter and your sister deserve a life where they don't have to worry about their next meal or their safety."
Devola paused, choosing her words carefully. "You've made incredible sacrifices for familial well-being, and that's admirable. But you don't have to face this alone anymore. There are people who want to help you, to ensure that both you and your daughter can live without fear."
Leerah looked up, her eyes reflecting the internal battle between hope and fear. "But the agreement was made long before she was born... I promised I would stay away. Its was the only way to keep all well," she whispered.
Her eyes held a faraway look, one that spoke of a deep-seated faith and conviction. She cradled her child closer, her voice soft yet resonating like a bell. "Besides, my Barra will be well taken care of. I know it in my heart," she murmured, her gaze drifting towards the slumbering child in her arms.
"The warrior and the mother watch over her," Leerah continued, a touch of reverence in her tone. "They are her guardians, her unseen protectors in this world that can be so cruel and unforgiving. There's a strength in her, an essence that's rare and precious. She's not just any child; she's immensely special. She's destined for greater things, things beyond the grasp her father will ensure that"
In that poignant moment, She saw a young woman filled with maternal love and responsibility who, despite the maturity and immense responsibility she displayed as a mother, still clung to a childlike view of the world—a perspective filled with heroes, guardians, and wonder that seemed incongruous with the harsh reality of their surroundings.
Devola recognized a challenge laid before her. Convincing Leerah to return to her family, or even explain the tangled web of circumstances that had led her here, seemed an insurmountable task. The depth of Leerah's convictions was something that would not be easily swayed or unraveled.
In lieu of persuasion, Devola chose a different approach, one that resonated with her own heart and the connection she felt to this young mother and her child. "You mentioned how much you enjoy singing lullabies to her," Devola said softly. "Would it bring you comfort if I sang one for her? Music has a unique ability to reach places words cannot."
Leerah's weary eyes, met Devola's. A small, grateful smile touched her lips, and she nodded. "Yes, please," she whispered. "It would mean the world."
Shul parel moihim
Ar, jaruk noisin
Dah galach dalfouir
Malech foir dir azlad erenj boir
Hiuo tantiera hedreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda yakachren nohei kaine rekara
Hiuo tantiera hadreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda ya kochren nohei yalma
Tei koimiren tara bairatru
As the final notes of Devola's lullaby gently dissipated into the air, the creaking of a door caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw Alayaya approaching, a blend of surprise and curiosity etched on her face. Her gaze shifted between Devola and Maghen, her expression took an uncomfortable shift.
"Is everything alright here?" Alayaya asked, her voice cautious. Her eyes lingered on the child in Maghen's arms, reflecting concern and weariness.
Devola's smile was warm, aiming to put Alayaya at ease. "Everything's fine, Alayaya," she responded, her voice carrying a soothing calm. "I was just sharing a lullaby with Maghen and her daughter. It seemed like a moment that needed a gentle touch of music."
Alayaya's gaze lingered on the newborn for a moment longer before she turned back to Devola. "Well, your break has stretched a bit long, and the patrons are eager for more of your music," she said, the unspoken urgency in her voice clear.
Devola nodded, understanding the cue. She rose gracefully, casting a final, compassionate glance towards Leerah and her child before making her way back to the stage. Her heart felt heavy yet there was a fleeting hope. She may not have changed Leerah's mind about returning to her family, but in this brief interlude, she had offered a gift of comfort.
As she got back on the stage, the warmth of the crowd welcomed her return, their applause seemed odd given what she just learned, though she quickly adjusted. Yet again warming her lute.
She sang a slightly more involved variation of the lullaby she just sung to little Barra, and Leerah. It seemed to be received well enough by the crowd, and she hoped in the back of her mind that it would reassure Leerah.
The melody of Devola's song was still weaving through the air, her fingers dancing lightly over the strings of her lute, when a new presence in the room caught her attention. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the entrance of Jon Arryn. His dignified stature and the subtle authority in his stride were unmistakable, even in the dimly lit ambiance of the brothel his head of gray shined.
Devola felt a heaviness come over her being, focus momentarily disrupted. The fingers holding the frets wavered as she watched Chataya approach Jon Arryn, their brief exchange masked by the general hum of the establishment. Then, with a subtle nod, Chataya gestured towards Leerah.
A cold wave of apprehension washed over Devola. The memory of Popola's discovery – the connection between Jon Arryn and the money her father had used – flashed through her mind. What business could the Hand of the King possibly have with Maghen, a woman who was now revealed to be none other than the sister of Barra they had been searching for?
She felt a familiar weight back on her shoulders. The strings under her fingers felt suddenly foreign, her song losing its earlier warmth and fluidity. Her voice, once clear and confident, now carried distraction. The lyrics and notes blended into each other, her performance becoming more a mechanical process than the intended artistic expression.
The patrons, absorbed in their own conversations and pleasures, hardly noticed the subtle shift. But for Devola, the music had lost its allure, overshadowed by a growing sense of urgency and concern.
With a final, somewhat lackluster strum, she concluded the song. The usual applause followed, but her mind was elsewhere. Without her usual graceful bow to the audience, Devola quickly set down her lute and stepped off the stage, her gaze fixed on Jon Arryn's figure as it moved through the brothel.
Every step she took towards him was driven by worry. She needed to understand why he was here, what his intentions were with Leerah – and most importantly, to ensure the safety of the girl who had unwittingly become entangled in this web.
Devola, her expression defiant and concern, strode quietly towards Jon Arryn. Her voice, quiet yet confrontational, cut through the ambient noise of the brothel. "What do you mean to do with her?" she demanded, her eyes locked intently on him. Sparing a concerned glance at Leerah and newborn Barra.
Jon Arryn, taken aback by her sudden approach, turned to face her. His expression, one of confusion and mild irritation, quickly composed itself into one of diplomatic neutrality. "I'm sorry, this does not concern you," he replied, his tone firm yet measured.
But Devola stood her ground, her stance unwavering. She was not about to be dismissed so easily, not when Maghen's, or rather, Leerah's, safety was potentially at stake.
Before she could press further, Maghen's voice, tinged with childlike grace, interjected. "No, Devola, it's okay," she said, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "He is here on behalf of my sweet Barra's father. Does he wish to see her? Oh, my Barra would love that!"
The earnestness in Leerah's voice gave Devola pause. She turned to look at the girl, her expression softening slightly. The young woman's belief in good intentions of Jon Arryn and her hope for her daughter's future were evident.
Devola's gaze fixed on Jon Arryn, her mind racing to connect the dots that now seemed to form an increasingly clear picture. The unease that had initially gripped her intensified, turning into a sharp awareness as she considered the implications of Arryn's presence in the brothel, especially in light of what Popola had recently discovered.
The pieces of the puzzle were aligning in a way that was unsettling. The connection between Jon Arryn and Maghen, or Leerah as she was once known, was not a mere happenstance. It was deliberate, and potentially fraught with various agendas. Devola's instincts, honed by centuries of social observation and analysis, told her there was more to this.
Her thoughts then drifted back to Leerah's earlier words about newborn Barra's father—a warrior and leader, someone of immense strength and kindness. Leerah had spoken with a conviction that bordered on reverence, a belief that Barra was destined for greatness, that her father would play a vital role in shaping such a destiny.
She looked over Jon Arryn again and it dawned on her, the Hand of the King. Realization dawned with a chilling clarity. Leerah's child, Barra, was not just any man's daughter. She was the daughter of the king. The pieces fell into place, forming a truth that was as intriguing as it was alarming. Barra's lineage, her very existence, could have profound implications, not just for her family, but potentially the very kingdom itself.
This revelation brought with it a myriad of questions to the forefront of her mind. What role did Jon Arryn play in all this? Was he here to protect Barra and by extension Leerah, or did his intentions lie elsewhere? And what of Leerah's safety and the promises she clung to about her daughter's future?
—————
As Devola grappled with her thoughts and suspicions, she barely noticed Chataya sweeping into the room. Her sharp glance towards Devola conveying a clear message, the tension in her posture suggesting she was unhappy with the interruption of Jon Arryn's "business". Though she couldn't care less about that in this moment.
"Apologies, Lord Arryn, for this... disturbance," Chataya said, her voice smoothly apologetic yet laced with a subtle edge. "I assure you, this is not our usual conduct."
Before Devola could react or step away, Jon Arryn raised his hand in a calming gesture, his voice steady and authoritative. "No, let her stay, Chataya," he said, turning to Devola with an evaluative gaze. "It seems Devola here is important to matters that, albeit unintentionally, involve her."
Devola felt a chill run down her spine at his words.
Chataya, though visibly perplexed by Arryn's response, gave a slight nod and stepped back, her eyes lingering on Devola for a moment longer before she made a swift retreat.
Jon Arryn's gaze returned to Devola, his expression stoic as he guided Devola to a secluded corner of the room. Away from prying ears including Leerah, his stance relaxed, but his eyes remained intently focused on her.
"Why did you confront me like that, Devola?" he asked in a low tone, ensuring their conversation remained private.
Devola hesitated, she was still weary about the connection Popola found but all the same even in this moment she didn't sense that his questioning was malicious.
"I've been looking for Leerah," she admitted, her voice a mere whisper. "She's been missing, and I just found out who Maghen truly is."
Jon Arryn's brows furrowed in a mix of perplexity and concern. "Leerah? Can you elaborate? I'm not familiar with this situation."
Devola's caution was palpable, but Arryn's demeanor suggested sincerity and a genuine desire to understand. Reluctantly, she shared the little she knew about Leerah going missing and turning out to be here at the brothel, pointing discreetly towards Maghen, but carefully avoiding any direct mention of her sister Barra.
Arryn listened intently, his face betraying a moment of realization. He brought a hand to his temple, massaging it gently as if to ease a sudden headache. "I was unaware of the particulars," he said slowly, his voice betraying a hint of weariness. "But I assure you, my intent is not to harm the girl nor her child. On the contrary."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "You've likely pieced together the identity of the child's father. This is a delicate matter. Can I trust you to keep this information confidential?"
Devola, though still processing the magnitude of what she'd uncovered, sensed the earnestness in Arryn's plea. She gave a slow, measured nod, understanding the gravity of the situation and the need for discretion. Even if the behaviors of the king concerned her.
"Very well," Arryn conceded with a sigh of relief. "You may stay this time, if it sets your mind at ease. But understand, this is a matter of great sensitivity."
As Devola stood there, absorbing the weight of Arryn's words, she couldn't help but feel trepidation.
Jon Arryn's expression softened as Leerah reiterated her earlier question, happiness filling her eyes. "Does Robert wish to see Barra?" she asked eagerly.
"The king is a busy man," Arryn replied gently, "but I will make sure to inform him about her." His words were carefully chosen, coming across more diplomatic than personal.
Leerah's face lit up at his response. It was clear to Devola that this meant the world to Leerah, the very notion of the king acknowledging his daughter bringing her a profound sense of joy.
Then, Jon Arryn reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of fine linen. The fabric was exquisite, adorned with a delicate pattern resembling rainclouds. Along with the linen, he presented Leerah with three gold dragons, quite a generous gift though given who the child was she supposed it was to be expected.
"Robert wishes his children well," Arryn stated, his voice formal, though his face conveyed that his words were truth.
Leerah's eyes shone as she clutched the gifts. "Please tell Robert to visit her. I've been faithful, and he will be overjoyed to see his beautiful daughter," she said earnestly, her voice brimming with hope.
"Of course, my lady," Arryn replied, though his tone lacked the warmth of his words. Devola, observing the exchange, felt doubtful. Arryn's manner seemed to mask an underlying unease, his assurances not entirely convincing.
Devola watched Leerah closely. The young mother's face was a canvas of emotions- though hope and joy seemed to ring strongest.
With gifts exchanged and reassurances delivered to Leerah, Jon Arryn began to quickly depart, Devola however would not allow this to go unasked and approached him again, ensuring her voice was low enough to avoid attracting attention. "I still have questions," she said, her tone firm yet discreet. "You seemed surprised, but it's evident you know more about Leerah's situation than you've shared."
Jon Arryn paused, weariness crossing his features as he rubbed his temple. His gaze met Devola's yet again, reflecting a blend of caution and resignation. "This is a matter for the King and his Small Council, Devola," he said firmly. "Your involvement goes well beyond your place."
Devola felt a surge of anger at his words, the dismissive tone igniting a spark of defiance within her. But before she could voice her frustration, Arryn continued, his voice softer, more earnest.
"I promise you, Devola, I mean no harm to them. I swear on my life, this situation will be resolved swiftly and justly. Leerah need not worry. Please, I ask you to leave this matter to us. Your concerns are noted, but this is a delicate issue that requires careful handling at the highest levels."
Devola's initial impulse to protest subsided, replaced by a cautious understanding. She studied Arryn's face, searching for any hint of deceit. His earnestness seemed genuine, and despite her reservations, she realized the gravity of the situation required a level of discretion.
"Very well," Devola replied, though her voice still carried a note of skepticism. "But know this, Lord Arryn: if any harm comes to Leerah or her child, I will not stand idly by."
Jon Arryn nodded solemnly, acknowledging her words. "Clearly Understood, Your concern is admirable, and I assure you, it aligns with my intentions. The child and girl are assured safety"
With a final nod, Jon Arryn turned and made his way out of the brothel.
The encounter left Devola with more questions than answers. She pondered the intricacies of Leerah's relationship with the king, the implications of Arryn's involvement, and the fate of little Barra. The web of intrigue that enveloped the royal family and those connected to it seemed to grow more tangled by the moment.
She cast one last glance at Leerah, who remained blissfully involved with her newborn, retaking her position; she noticed Chataya's stern gaze, silently reprimanding her for the earlier disruption. Beside her, Alayaya's expression held concern, her eyes tired. Devola offered a faint, reassuring smile, hoping to ease their apprehension. Jon Arryn and Leerah had answered some questions at the very least she knew Leerah was alive and relatively safe. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this intricate web of events was far from resolved, and her part in this unfolding drama was yet to reach its climax. A familiar sentiment washed over her, echoing words she once spoke in another world, another life: "We are the same, tools in the hands of a master." Yet now, in the midst of King's Landing's complex intrigue, it felt more akin to being a pawn in an unwitting game.
A.N. It has been a while, truthfully I got busy at first with dental and housework (replaced damaged wall), then I got pretty invested in ff16 (great game definitely plan on one day writing a fanfic in the setting (was thinking something in the style of this but with Maiden Astrea and Garl Vinland from demon souls ending up in Ff16) After ff16 i got very into enjoying summer and trying to work on my health, which went mostly well though i've admittedly backtracked a bit to some bad habits after fall semester started.
Some little highlights, I learned a good bit of song of the ancients on guitar and started FF14 which I'm determined to do the nier story content in that mmo eventually though I'm largely enjoying the FF14 story in general.
I wanted to briefly give a shoutout to the fic The Red Falcon a si in the world of "The Red the Greens and the Blacks" One of the co-authors of that fic gave me some ideas for some later scenarios in this fic and I wanted to spread the love.
I hope everyone enjoys this new entry, initially when I was hopeful to this moment before summer ended and preferably another fairly big milestone of the early parts of this story, sadly time got the best of me and I missed that but I hope this chapter satisfies. and in case anyone didn't catch it it is 298 ac now.
Also additional note: Barra (as in sister of Leerah Barra was named Barra because she was born the year Robert was Christened. So in a sense both barras are named after Robert)
In the dim, candle-lit ambiance of the tavern, Devola's gaze wandered, finally halting on Henrik. Shadows danced on his face, echoing the shifting unease in her heart. Their last meeting, marred by his fellow watchmens on that dire night, played in her mind, his unwillingness to aid in the search for Leerah, all served to stroke the mistrust held within.
She'd come from a world where humans stood shoulder to shoulder against the Legion's menace Japan and America, overcoming their differences for the shared goal of saving all, safeguarding Project Gestalt. Yet, in this city, with its cobblestone streets and looming stone walls, that solidarity seemed but a distant memory. The clinking of ale mugs and hushed conversations around her only deepened her sense of alienation.
Absorbed in these musings, Devola barely registered Henrik's voice. "How have you been, Devola?"
Jolted, she looked up, her red hair catching the lantern light. "As well as one can be," she answered cautiously, her voice cooler than intended. She hesitated a moment before adding, "But it's been trying, especially with Meg constantly on our backs. She's been threatening the children, claiming she'll report them to the Watch."
Henrik's gaze, observant and piercing, drifted to Meg, the persistent bowl of brown peddler. The memories of Meg's insistence and their countless confrontations over money, resources, or minor favors felt like a weight in Devola's chest.
Catching her eye, Henrik began, "Meg hasn't always been alone, you know. She had a husband." His tone held a hint of sadness. "Back in the day, their was a welcoming air but then…."
Devola leaned forward, intrigued. "The Rebellion?"
Henrik shook his head. "Nay though it played its role in a sense. Heralding new oppurtunity for many including them, for some, it was the beginning of the end."
Henrik sighed deeply, taking a moment as if gathering his thoughts, before he began, "When I first donned the gold cloak of the City Watch, it was here, in Flea Bottom, that I began my duty. The place was, and still is, a maze of narrow alleys and hidden corners, but there was a particular corner, not far from here, that held a certain warmth."
He took a sip of his ale, his gaze distant. "A stand, run by a couple. Meg and her husband. They had carved out a modest existence here, earning respect in a place where it's quite hard to come by. Her husband was a proud Stormlander, once a footsoldier in the Rebellion. A man with stories of battles and camaraderie, and always a hearty laugh ready to escape his lips. You'd think a man with war scars would be hardened, but he had a heart that seemed too big for this cruel part of the city."
Henrik's eyes held a touch of admiration as he continued, "He would often assist us, the City Watch. Not by wielding a blade or drawing blood, but by being our eyes and ears. With his stand at the heart of Flea Bottom, he'd catch whispers, notice the odd behaviors, and more than once, he'd helped us collar some rogue or prevent a squabble from escalating into chaos. His presence brought a semblance of order to the stretch of street where he sold his wares."
There was a weight in Henrik's voice when he added, "But then, as life in Flea Bottom often reminds us, tragedy has a way of sneaking up. One day, he just... didn't wake up. No fight, no grand exit. He simply slipped away in the night."
Henrik paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. "After that, Meg... she changed. The vibrant woman, who once laughed alongside her husband, turned inwards. The stand became less a place of community and more a shield, a barrier she put up against the world. Her trust in others dwindled, and she stopped reaching out. It's as if a part of her passed on with him."
He took another long drink, setting down his mug with a thud. "Life in Flea Bottom is never easy, but sometimes, it's the quiet tragedies that wound us the most."
For a moment, the din of the tavern faded as Devola processed this revelation. Behind Meg's persistent demeanor lay a story of loss, perseverance, and heartbreak. It was a cruel reminder that every face in Flea Bottom, every soul in this city, held a tale yet to be told.
Henrik glanced up, meeting Devola's gaze with an earnest look. "I've caught wind of what she's been putting you and your sister through," he began. "Those threats of hers, her insinuations about reporting some of the children to the Watch."
He gave a small, rueful smile, shaking his head slightly. "Meg's bark is worse than her bite. She's been wounded by life, but deep down, she's harmless. I genuinely believe she wouldn't bring harm to those kids. Her threats are more a desperate plea for attention, a cry for some semblance of the control she once had when her husband was around."
Henrik leaned in, his voice a shade softer. "But I understand the pressure it can place on both of you. If you'd like, I can step in. Have a word with her, see if I can ease some of that tension. Maybe even help her find a more constructive way to channel her grief and frustrations."
His eyes searched Devola's for a moment, a genuine offer of assistance hanging in the balance. "Sometimes, all we need is someone to truly listen, to acknowledge our pain. And perhaps, in her case, to gently remind her of the person she once was before sorrow took its toll."
Henrik cleared his throat, glancing around the room momentarily before his gaze settled back on Devola. "You know, Devola," he began cautiously, "it's not easy for women in this city, especially those without a husband. Flea Bottom can be unforgiving to those who find themselves alone." There was a slight warmth in his eyes, a subtle softening of his usual stern demeanor.
Devola, intuitive and sharp, immediately caught the implication. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly as she carefully chose her words. "I appreciate the concern, Henrik," she responded with a hint of frost in her tone, "But we've managed well enough on our own so far. And, as you've just shared, sometimes even having a partner can't shield you from the challenges of life."
Henrik seemed momentarily taken aback, but he quickly regained his composure. "Of course," he said, nodding. "I meant no offense. It's just... I've seen many fall prey to the hardships of the city, and I'd hate to see the same happen to you and your sister."
Devola softened slightly, sensing the genuine care in his words, even if they were a tad misplaced. "We're survivors, Henrik. We've faced greater threats than the alleys of Flea Bottom. But," she added with a small smile, "I do appreciate the sentiment."
The two shared a brief moment of understanding, both acknowledging the unsaid words between them. Henrik cleared his throat, taking another sip of his ale, the conversation shifting to the more neutral grounds of quiet.
The silence between Devola and Henrik grew more pronounced, filled only by the distant murmur of tavern conversations and the occasional outburst of laughter. Henrik took another long drink from his mug, his gaze somewhat distant.
"Devola," he started, hesitating slightly, "I hope you don't take my words amiss. It's just... in these uncertain times, it's rare to find genuine connections. People you can trust."
She nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "It's the nature of the world we live in. Trust has to be earned, not freely given."
He gave a rueful chuckle. "A lesson I've learned the hard way, believe me. But, if ever you find yourself in need, remember that there are still a few good souls in this city."
With that, Henrik stood, leaving a few coins on the table. "Take care, Devola," he said, his voice sincere, before turning and disappearing out the exit of the tavern.
Shortly after Henrik's leave Devola followed suit and again wandered the streets of Flea Bottom, the familiar sounds and scents painting a picture that was becoming more and more familiar to her. Children played in the narrow alleys, their laughter echoing amidst the hum of chatter and the distant cries of peddlers. As she walked, her boots occasionally splashed through the shallow runlets of water, a testament to the recent improvements she and Popola had ushered in.
Looking over to her left, she could see the newest addition to the district - a modest drainage system. It was a far cry from the sophisticated aqueducts and sewer systems of some cities (both here and back on earth), but for Flea Bottom, it was a start. Her sister had enlisted locals for the job. The result was a series of ditches and a humble stream designed to redirect much of the waste and water, at least offering a semblance of sanitation. The both of them hoped this would only be a first step the goal was to amalgamate with the pipe system and have the majority of waste diverted in the blackwater, she did not like needlessly dirtying a natural source of water, but it seemed in was in a bad spot as is. Ultimately human life took priority.
As she continued her stroll, her thoughts shifted to her music. She'd been approached yesterday to perform at Chatayaya's brothel on the Street of Silk yet again. She recalled the opulence of that place being a stark contrast to the gritty reality of Flea Bottom. Though it seems it held a different manner of grime, if Barra's plight, and some of the clientele of Chataya's brothel were anything to go by.
Yet, there was no denying the allure of the coin it brought in. The sum she'd earned in a single night was almost what she would make in weeks performing in the taverns of Flea Bottom and the Street of Seeds. Without this money the livelihood here in flea bottom would still be what it was a month passed, which was a scarce few fixed buildings and a few extra meals, though there was no denying that there was a desperate need for more. So thus she would go yet again tonight regardless.
Devola had to admit, though, there was some positive encounters from her last performance there. Alayaya, despite initial rocky starts, ultimately she and most other courtesans had shown her kindness, engaging her in genuine conversation, even some of the customers seemed to be capable of appreciating her in a healthy manner even if interest no doubt played a part. They'd shared stories and found common ground, reminding Devola that beneath the veneers people wore, genuine souls still thrived.
She paused, taking a moment to absorb the revelation. She quickened her pace, heading towards their house.
Devola found her sister hunched over her work desk, the harsh red glow of maso illuminating her space, the focus in her eyes as her hands deftly maneuvered needle and thread through the spine of a book. Now shelves lined two of the corners in their living space, some filled with completed projects, others with works in progress, each book being a testament of her sister to seed knowledge in the inhabitants of flea bottom.
Approaching quietly, Devola watched for a moment, admiring the meticulous care with which Popola preserved each page, each word. "How are the current bindings coming along sister?" she asked, her voice a gentle intrusion into the silence.
Popola looked up, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'm just finishing up 'A Tale of Two Cities.' It seems particularly resonant with this place and time," she said, gesturing to the book before her. "And 'Gulliver's Travels' is up next. I thought a little farther exploration into the absurd might be well-received here. Would be good books for some of the kids once they reach more advanced levels, I think Lommy and Alysanne would especially enjoy it."
She paused, her hands coming to rest on the open botany book beside her. "Though, I'm in two minds about this one." Her fingers traced the illustrations of plants and fungi. "The natural world here is so different—new names, new properties. I might need to spend more time with the local herb women and apothecaries to make it relevant to King's Landing."
Devola nodded, understanding the predicament. "Bringing these tales and knowledge to new ears and eyes. But adapting them to the context of our current home is just as vital and difficult..."
Popola sighed, closing the botany book with a gentle thump. "True. And it's a task I don't take lightly. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll visit the markets and speak with those who know the flora here better than any book could tell us."
Devola placed a supportive hand on Popola's shoulder. "Let me know if you need any help. Between the two of us, we'll ensure that the knowledge we pass on is as accurate and useful as it can be."
Popola looked up, her eyes reflecting a turmoil of emotions. "I do wish we could do more," she confessed, her voice tinged with frustration. "It feels as though our efforts are just a drop in the ocean. Leerah is still missing, the mystery of the unknown particle remains unsolved, and despite our strides, Flea Bottom is still far from the sanctuary we envision for these people."
Devola squeezed her sister's shoulder. "I understand your concerns, but remember, Sister, the impact of even the smallest actions can ripple far beyond what we see. Yes, Leerah's whereabouts are still unknown, and the particle eludes us, but think of the lives you've touched. The books you've bound carry more than just stories—they carry hope, a chance for a better future in a few years time this will pay off tenfold ."
She stepped closer, her presence a bulwark against the emotional tide. "And as for the unknowns," Devola continued, her voice steady and sure, "they have indeed always been part of our journey, from the day we were first activated, from the dragon, replicant sentience, the brief resurgence of red eye, and relapses. We've navigated them before, and we'll do so again. Our purpose has never been clearer—to serve, to protect, and to guide. And that, dear sister, is what we will continue to do, no matter what."
Popola's eyes met Devola's. A slow nod, an unspoken promise passed between them—a vow to persevere, to keep pushing forward, for the sake of the true humans yet again.
Devola gently broke the moment, her voice soft yet firm. "I'll be heading to Chatayaya's on the Street of Silk to perform again tonight," she informed Popola, who visibly saddened at the news.
Popola sighed, a wistful expression crossing her features. "I wish you could be here more often, stick around and talk" she admitted, the sentiment resonating in her voice. Yet, she nodded in understanding, recognizing the importance of Devola's role and the impact her music had. "I understand, though. Im sure your performance will be as good as always."
"Alh fahkush kaireshti
Onda kirachi ehfri yo me tabi
Nochi so pliyoa tema shamarey"
In the warm, honeyed glow of Chatayaya's brothel, the last notes of Devola's set lingered in the air, the melodies hanging like delicate curtains between the clamor of conversations and clinking glasses. She let the lute rest against her, feeling the resonance of the wood and the warmth of the strings slowly fade.
Moments after the notes faded out Chataya approached her, her presence commanding yet graceful amidst the revelry. "Devola," she began, her voice rich, "your music is a rare gem, a beacon in the night for many who seek refuge here."
Devola looked up, her expression one of attentive respect and surprise. "Thank you, Chataya. It's my honor to play for such an audience," she replied, the wood of the lute warm under her touch. Out of everyone here Chataya was the last person she expected to get a compliment from, given their last interaction. Though it was certainly appreciated.
Chataya's eyes held a shrewdness to them that matched her business acumen. "Remember, variety is the key. Your songs, as enchanting as they are, should be like the seasons—ever-changing, always leaving them wanting more."
Devola absorbed the wisdom in Chataya's words. "A performance must be cherished, not just heard," she mused aloud, the idea resonating deeply with her.
"Exactly," Chataya affirmed, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Let your music breathe. Give it room to be missed and yearned for. That way, every note you play will always be a treasure sought after."
Devola gave a slight nod, her mind already weaving new melodies and rhythms. "I understand. I'll ensure each performance is a unique experience, a moment in time that can never be replicated."
Chataya placed a reassuring hand on Devola's shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Take a moment for yourself now. The night is young, and the patrons are in no rush. Let them anticipate your return to the stage."
With that, Chataya turned and glided away, her presence leaving a trail of quiet authority.
As she meandered through the scattered clusters of patrons, a soft murmur drew her attention. Tucked away in a secluded corner, away from the boisterous mirth, was a girl with a child cradled in her arms. The sight was a stark contrast to the usual clientele of the brothel—an oasis of maternal calm in a sea of hedonistic pursuit.
Devola approached the woman, her curiosity piqued by the tenderness of the scene. "Good evening," she greeted gently, not wishing to intrude but unable to mask her intrigue. "It's not often one sees a child in a place like this."
The woman looked up, her eyes weary yet kindled with a flicker of pride. "Evening," she replied, her voice a soft melody that mirrored Devola's music in its warmth. "Aye, it's an unusual sight, I'll grant you that. But this little one is my daughter, and sometimes, life leaves you with few choices but to keep your whole world with you at work. She was one of the first babies of this new year born not even a moon past."
Devola nodded, her heart touched by the woman's plight. "She's beautiful," she commented sincerely, the innocence of the child a stark reminder of the many facets of life that thrived in the most unexpected places.
The woman smiled, a gesture that seemed to momentarily ease the lines of hardship etched upon her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "Her father... is a strong warrior. A leader of vast kindness and strength, for now it's just us though he certainly will come to see our Barra soon. I sing her lullabies to remind her of him, of the heat of battle he loves so."
Devola's eyes widened, a storm of realization brewing within her as she took in the name of the child and viewed the woman's features more closely. The light brown hair, the distinctive oval face, and those familiar bushy eyebrows—it was unmistakable. This was the girl she had been searching for, the missing piece in the puzzle that had eluded her and Popola for so long.
Her voice barely above a whisper, Devola uttered, "Leerah?"
Maghen's reaction was immediate and visceral. She recoiled slightly, her eyes darting around anxiously as if fearing some unseen danger. "That is not my name anymore," she said quickly, her voice held a unusual resolve mixing fear and determination. "Please, call me Maghen." The baby in her arms stirred, picking up on her mother's distress.
Devola's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information she had. The child in Maghen's arms – this mother had to be the sister of the Barra she had met weeks ago Leerah. It was all coming together, but the implications were overwhelming.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Devola hastened to say, her tone soothing. "I'm Devola, and I've been looking for you. Your sister, Barra, she's been worried, searching for you."
Leerah's face contorted with a mixture of emotions—fear, surprise, and perhaps hope. "You know my sister? Is she... is she okay?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.
Devola nodded, her own heart aching for the turmoil this young woman had been through. "She's safe, she was looking for you." Devola knew these words to be true she made an effort to detour where Barra live whenever she had to get out of flea bottom to ensure the girl was alright.
Leerah's fingers curled protectively around her child, the small body nestled close to her chest. Her words, spoken with a tremulous voice, conveyed a deep-seated fear and a sense of binding obligation. "She has to stop. I cannot go back," she repeated, the phrase sounding like a mantra of resignation. "It was not part of the agreement."
Devola, sensing the depth of Leerah's turmoil, moved closer. The dim light of the brothel cast shadows that seemed to deepen the lines of worry etched on Maghen's face. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met Devola's with a mixture of desperation and resolve.
"And besides," Leerah continued, her voice gaining a slight edge, "both my Barra and my sister deserve to be well fed." The tear that had been threatening to fall finally broke free, trailing down her cheek.
Devola's gaze softened as she observed the tear tracing its path down Leerah's cheek. The mention of an 'agreement' piqued Devola's curiosity, but she recognized that now was not the moment to probe. Instead, she focused on providing reassurance and comfort.
"Leer…, Maghen," Devola began, her voice gentle, "Your sister, Barra, she cares deeply for you. Her search wasn't out of obligation, but love and concern. And you're right, both your daughter and your sister deserve a life where they don't have to worry about their next meal or their safety."
Devola paused, choosing her words carefully. "You've made incredible sacrifices for familial well-being, and that's admirable. But you don't have to face this alone anymore. There are people who want to help you, to ensure that both you and your daughter can live without fear."
Leerah looked up, her eyes reflecting the internal battle between hope and fear. "But the agreement was made long before she was born... I promised I would stay away. Its was the only way to keep all well," she whispered.
Her eyes held a faraway look, one that spoke of a deep-seated faith and conviction. She cradled her child closer, her voice soft yet resonating like a bell. "Besides, my Barra will be well taken care of. I know it in my heart," she murmured, her gaze drifting towards the slumbering child in her arms.
"The warrior and the mother watch over her," Leerah continued, a touch of reverence in her tone. "They are her guardians, her unseen protectors in this world that can be so cruel and unforgiving. There's a strength in her, an essence that's rare and precious. She's not just any child; she's immensely special. She's destined for greater things, things beyond the grasp her father will ensure that"
In that poignant moment, She saw a young woman filled with maternal love and responsibility who, despite the maturity and immense responsibility she displayed as a mother, still clung to a childlike view of the world—a perspective filled with heroes, guardians, and wonder that seemed incongruous with the harsh reality of their surroundings.
Devola recognized a challenge laid before her. Convincing Leerah to return to her family, or even explain the tangled web of circumstances that had led her here, seemed an insurmountable task. The depth of Leerah's convictions was something that would not be easily swayed or unraveled.
In lieu of persuasion, Devola chose a different approach, one that resonated with her own heart and the connection she felt to this young mother and her child. "You mentioned how much you enjoy singing lullabies to her," Devola said softly. "Would it bring you comfort if I sang one for her? Music has a unique ability to reach places words cannot."
Leerah's weary eyes, met Devola's. A small, grateful smile touched her lips, and she nodded. "Yes, please," she whispered. "It would mean the world."
Shul parel moihim
Ar, jaruk noisin
Dah galach dalfouir
Malech foir dir azlad erenj boir
Hiuo tantiera hedreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda yakachren nohei kaine rekara
Hiuo tantiera hadreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda ya kochren nohei yalma
Tei koimiren tara bairatru
As the final notes of Devola's lullaby gently dissipated into the air, the creaking of a door caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw Alayaya approaching, a blend of surprise and curiosity etched on her face. Her gaze shifted between Devola and Maghen, her expression took an uncomfortable shift.
"Is everything alright here?" Alayaya asked, her voice cautious. Her eyes lingered on the child in Maghen's arms, reflecting concern and weariness.
Devola's smile was warm, aiming to put Alayaya at ease. "Everything's fine, Alayaya," she responded, her voice carrying a soothing calm. "I was just sharing a lullaby with Maghen and her daughter. It seemed like a moment that needed a gentle touch of music."
Alayaya's gaze lingered on the newborn for a moment longer before she turned back to Devola. "Well, your break has stretched a bit long, and the patrons are eager for more of your music," she said, the unspoken urgency in her voice clear.
Devola nodded, understanding the cue. She rose gracefully, casting a final, compassionate glance towards Leerah and her child before making her way back to the stage. Her heart felt heavy yet there was a fleeting hope. She may not have changed Leerah's mind about returning to her family, but in this brief interlude, she had offered a gift of comfort.
As she got back on the stage, the warmth of the crowd welcomed her return, their applause seemed odd given what she just learned, though she quickly adjusted. Yet again warming her lute.
She sang a slightly more involved variation of the lullaby she just sung to little Barra, and Leerah. It seemed to be received well enough by the crowd, and she hoped in the back of her mind that it would reassure Leerah.
The melody of Devola's song was still weaving through the air, her fingers dancing lightly over the strings of her lute, when a new presence in the room caught her attention. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the entrance of Jon Arryn. His dignified stature and the subtle authority in his stride were unmistakable, even in the dimly lit ambiance of the brothel his head of gray shined.
Devola felt a heaviness come over her being, focus momentarily disrupted. The fingers holding the frets wavered as she watched Chataya approach Jon Arryn, their brief exchange masked by the general hum of the establishment. Then, with a subtle nod, Chataya gestured towards Leerah.
A cold wave of apprehension washed over Devola. The memory of Popola's discovery – the connection between Jon Arryn and the money her father had used – flashed through her mind. What business could the Hand of the King possibly have with Maghen, a woman who was now revealed to be none other than the sister of Barra they had been searching for?
She felt a familiar weight back on her shoulders. The strings under her fingers felt suddenly foreign, her song losing its earlier warmth and fluidity. Her voice, once clear and confident, now carried distraction. The lyrics and notes blended into each other, her performance becoming more a mechanical process than the intended artistic expression.
The patrons, absorbed in their own conversations and pleasures, hardly noticed the subtle shift. But for Devola, the music had lost its allure, overshadowed by a growing sense of urgency and concern.
With a final, somewhat lackluster strum, she concluded the song. The usual applause followed, but her mind was elsewhere. Without her usual graceful bow to the audience, Devola quickly set down her lute and stepped off the stage, her gaze fixed on Jon Arryn's figure as it moved through the brothel.
Every step she took towards him was driven by worry. She needed to understand why he was here, what his intentions were with Leerah – and most importantly, to ensure the safety of the girl who had unwittingly become entangled in this web.
Devola, her expression defiant and concern, strode quietly towards Jon Arryn. Her voice, quiet yet confrontational, cut through the ambient noise of the brothel. "What do you mean to do with her?" she demanded, her eyes locked intently on him. Sparing a concerned glance at Leerah and newborn Barra.
Jon Arryn, taken aback by her sudden approach, turned to face her. His expression, one of confusion and mild irritation, quickly composed itself into one of diplomatic neutrality. "I'm sorry, this does not concern you," he replied, his tone firm yet measured.
But Devola stood her ground, her stance unwavering. She was not about to be dismissed so easily, not when Maghen's, or rather, Leerah's, safety was potentially at stake.
Before she could press further, Maghen's voice, tinged with childlike grace, interjected. "No, Devola, it's okay," she said, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "He is here on behalf of my sweet Barra's father. Does he wish to see her? Oh, my Barra would love that!"
The earnestness in Leerah's voice gave Devola pause. She turned to look at the girl, her expression softening slightly. The young woman's belief in good intentions of Jon Arryn and her hope for her daughter's future were evident.
Devola's gaze fixed on Jon Arryn, her mind racing to connect the dots that now seemed to form an increasingly clear picture. The unease that had initially gripped her intensified, turning into a sharp awareness as she considered the implications of Arryn's presence in the brothel, especially in light of what Popola had recently discovered.
The pieces of the puzzle were aligning in a way that was unsettling. The connection between Jon Arryn and Maghen, or Leerah as she was once known, was not a mere happenstance. It was deliberate, and potentially fraught with various agendas. Devola's instincts, honed by centuries of social observation and analysis, told her there was more to this.
Her thoughts then drifted back to Leerah's earlier words about newborn Barra's father—a warrior and leader, someone of immense strength and kindness. Leerah had spoken with a conviction that bordered on reverence, a belief that Barra was destined for greatness, that her father would play a vital role in shaping such a destiny.
She looked over Jon Arryn again and it dawned on her, the Hand of the King. Realization dawned with a chilling clarity. Leerah's child, Barra, was not just any man's daughter. She was the daughter of the king. The pieces fell into place, forming a truth that was as intriguing as it was alarming. Barra's lineage, her very existence, could have profound implications, not just for her family, but potentially the very kingdom itself.
This revelation brought with it a myriad of questions to the forefront of her mind. What role did Jon Arryn play in all this? Was he here to protect Barra and by extension Leerah, or did his intentions lie elsewhere? And what of Leerah's safety and the promises she clung to about her daughter's future?
—————
As Devola grappled with her thoughts and suspicions, she barely noticed Chataya sweeping into the room. Her sharp glance towards Devola conveying a clear message, the tension in her posture suggesting she was unhappy with the interruption of Jon Arryn's "business". Though she couldn't care less about that in this moment.
"Apologies, Lord Arryn, for this... disturbance," Chataya said, her voice smoothly apologetic yet laced with a subtle edge. "I assure you, this is not our usual conduct."
Before Devola could react or step away, Jon Arryn raised his hand in a calming gesture, his voice steady and authoritative. "No, let her stay, Chataya," he said, turning to Devola with an evaluative gaze. "It seems Devola here is important to matters that, albeit unintentionally, involve her."
Devola felt a chill run down her spine at his words.
Chataya, though visibly perplexed by Arryn's response, gave a slight nod and stepped back, her eyes lingering on Devola for a moment longer before she made a swift retreat.
Jon Arryn's gaze returned to Devola, his expression stoic as he guided Devola to a secluded corner of the room. Away from prying ears including Leerah, his stance relaxed, but his eyes remained intently focused on her.
"Why did you confront me like that, Devola?" he asked in a low tone, ensuring their conversation remained private.
Devola hesitated, she was still weary about the connection Popola found but all the same even in this moment she didn't sense that his questioning was malicious.
"I've been looking for Leerah," she admitted, her voice a mere whisper. "She's been missing, and I just found out who Maghen truly is."
Jon Arryn's brows furrowed in a mix of perplexity and concern. "Leerah? Can you elaborate? I'm not familiar with this situation."
Devola's caution was palpable, but Arryn's demeanor suggested sincerity and a genuine desire to understand. Reluctantly, she shared the little she knew about Leerah going missing and turning out to be here at the brothel, pointing discreetly towards Maghen, but carefully avoiding any direct mention of her sister Barra.
Arryn listened intently, his face betraying a moment of realization. He brought a hand to his temple, massaging it gently as if to ease a sudden headache. "I was unaware of the particulars," he said slowly, his voice betraying a hint of weariness. "But I assure you, my intent is not to harm the girl nor her child. On the contrary."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "You've likely pieced together the identity of the child's father. This is a delicate matter. Can I trust you to keep this information confidential?"
Devola, though still processing the magnitude of what she'd uncovered, sensed the earnestness in Arryn's plea. She gave a slow, measured nod, understanding the gravity of the situation and the need for discretion. Even if the behaviors of the king concerned her.
"Very well," Arryn conceded with a sigh of relief. "You may stay this time, if it sets your mind at ease. But understand, this is a matter of great sensitivity."
As Devola stood there, absorbing the weight of Arryn's words, she couldn't help but feel trepidation.
Jon Arryn's expression softened as Leerah reiterated her earlier question, happiness filling her eyes. "Does Robert wish to see Barra?" she asked eagerly.
"The king is a busy man," Arryn replied gently, "but I will make sure to inform him about her." His words were carefully chosen, coming across more diplomatic than personal.
Leerah's face lit up at his response. It was clear to Devola that this meant the world to Leerah, the very notion of the king acknowledging his daughter bringing her a profound sense of joy.
Then, Jon Arryn reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of fine linen. The fabric was exquisite, adorned with a delicate pattern resembling rainclouds. Along with the linen, he presented Leerah with three gold dragons, quite a generous gift though given who the child was she supposed it was to be expected.
"Robert wishes his children well," Arryn stated, his voice formal, though his face conveyed that his words were truth.
Leerah's eyes shone as she clutched the gifts. "Please tell Robert to visit her. I've been faithful, and he will be overjoyed to see his beautiful daughter," she said earnestly, her voice brimming with hope.
"Of course, my lady," Arryn replied, though his tone lacked the warmth of his words. Devola, observing the exchange, felt doubtful. Arryn's manner seemed to mask an underlying unease, his assurances not entirely convincing.
Devola watched Leerah closely. The young mother's face was a canvas of emotions- though hope and joy seemed to ring strongest.
With gifts exchanged and reassurances delivered to Leerah, Jon Arryn began to quickly depart, Devola however would not allow this to go unasked and approached him again, ensuring her voice was low enough to avoid attracting attention. "I still have questions," she said, her tone firm yet discreet. "You seemed surprised, but it's evident you know more about Leerah's situation than you've shared."
Jon Arryn paused, weariness crossing his features as he rubbed his temple. His gaze met Devola's yet again, reflecting a blend of caution and resignation. "This is a matter for the King and his Small Council, Devola," he said firmly. "Your involvement goes well beyond your place."
Devola felt a surge of anger at his words, the dismissive tone igniting a spark of defiance within her. But before she could voice her frustration, Arryn continued, his voice softer, more earnest.
"I promise you, Devola, I mean no harm to them. I swear on my life, this situation will be resolved swiftly and justly. Leerah need not worry. Please, I ask you to leave this matter to us. Your concerns are noted, but this is a delicate issue that requires careful handling at the highest levels."
Devola's initial impulse to protest subsided, replaced by a cautious understanding. She studied Arryn's face, searching for any hint of deceit. His earnestness seemed genuine, and despite her reservations, she realized the gravity of the situation required a level of discretion.
"Very well," Devola replied, though her voice still carried a note of skepticism. "But know this, Lord Arryn: if any harm comes to Leerah or her child, I will not stand idly by."
Jon Arryn nodded solemnly, acknowledging her words. "Clearly Understood, Your concern is admirable, and I assure you, it aligns with my intentions. The child and girl are assured safety"
With a final nod, Jon Arryn turned and made his way out of the brothel.
The encounter left Devola with more questions than answers. She pondered the intricacies of Leerah's relationship with the king, the implications of Arryn's involvement, and the fate of little Barra. The web of intrigue that enveloped the royal family and those connected to it seemed to grow more tangled by the moment.
She cast one last glance at Leerah, who remained blissfully involved with her newborn, retaking her position; she noticed Chataya's stern gaze, silently reprimanding her for the earlier disruption. Beside her, Alayaya's expression held concern, her eyes tired. Devola offered a faint, reassuring smile, hoping to ease their apprehension. Jon Arryn and Leerah had answered some questions at the very least she knew Leerah was alive and relatively safe. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this intricate web of events was far from resolved, and her part in this unfolding drama was yet to reach its climax. A familiar sentiment washed over her, echoing words she once spoke in another world, another life: "We are the same, tools in the hands of a master." Yet now, in the midst of King's Landing's complex intrigue, it felt more akin to being a pawn in an unwitting game.
A.N. It has been a while, truthfully I got busy at first with dental and housework (replaced damaged wall), then I got pretty invested in ff16 (great game definitely plan on one day writing a fanfic in the setting (was thinking something in the style of this but with Maiden Astrea and Garl Vinland from demon souls ending up in Ff16) After ff16 i got very into enjoying summer and trying to work on my health, which went mostly well though i've admittedly backtracked a bit to some bad habits after fall semester started.
Some little highlights, I learned a good bit of song of the ancients on guitar and started FF14 which I'm determined to do the nier story content in that mmo eventually though I'm largely enjoying the FF14 story in general.
I wanted to briefly give a shoutout to the fic The Red Falcon a si in the world of "The Red the Greens and the Blacks" One of the co-authors of that fic gave me some ideas for some later scenarios in this fic and I wanted to spread the love.
I hope everyone enjoys this new entry, initially when I was hopeful to this moment before summer ended and preferably another fairly big milestone of the early parts of this story, sadly time got the best of me and I missed that but I hope this chapter satisfies. and in case anyone didn't catch it it is 298 ac now.
Also additional note: Barra (as in sister of Leerah Barra was named Barra because she was born the year Robert was Christened. So in a sense both barras are named after Robert)
FireWalkWithMe99
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Well it's kind of a mix of both. So she has one of Robert's bastards but gee I wonder who bought her from her parents, at the kings request for a virgin (canon).
Granted in the books it's a little unclear if Maghen has association with little finger though in the show she is at little fingers brothel.
ATP
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Well,i like slice-of-life.Sisters could probably check that Joeffrey&others are bastards,and later save Jon life,but - why? they are not interested in court politics.
I think,that they do nothing unless Cersei or Baelish attack them.
Well,certainly when she send Gold cloaks to kill children.
I think,that they do nothing unless Cersei or Baelish attack them.
Well,certainly when she send Gold cloaks to kill children.
FireWalkWithMe99
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Id say your view is mostly correct i will say though this story will not just be slice of life Its sort of intended as a mix. I have no plans for the twins to directly be involved in court politics though the butterfly effect and after effects of court politics will certainly play a role.
this story will eventually get well beyond KL, so if you were expecting a purely KL slice of life story just letting you know it wont be that, (though there is still plenty of time in Kl for the twins) i juat have some pretty big plans wel beyond that involves some of the greater lore of both settings.
ATP
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Of course! when Queen send gold cloaks after babies there,they could fight for a while,but then they must run.Maybe finding Arya and taking her with themselves ?
P.S Pity,that they do not have NIER Automata swords.
Faber_The_Builder
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I am curious what Varys thinks of the sisters. They are very odd and unusual. They do not sleep or eat and are rumored to have come "from the Darkness". Varys would be one to hunt down every rumor and their coming was seen. Also he is hella paranoid about magic so I could see him sticking some of his little birds on the sisters to make sure they are not Magic Women here to use the small folk and their favor for some ritual or something.
TFC!
TFC!
FireWalkWithMe99
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it was only two people who saw them, one of which is meg who opted to take advantage of the situation as an opportunity to make money.
not to say it wouldnt get out but it would no doubt get muddied by various others claiming things about the twins. (That they are from volantis, that they are sorcerors, that they are gifts from the gods, etc…)
though this is certainly something varys would be interested in even outside of magic implications ultimately the twins have only been in the city for not even 3 months yet and have become well known in various districts including more oppulent ones like the street of steel and street of silk, they are talented singers, and seem to be taking a odd degree of care in bettering things in flea bottom.
this is befofe even getting into the fact now both devola and popola have been in contact with one of the kings bastards, and Jon arryn (even if it was happenstance they met)
I do think Varys would be wary of the twins given rumors but also intrigued. Perhaps intrigued enoughbto already be involved on some level..
ATP
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Well,maybe involved enough to warn them when Cersei send goldcloaks after Kings bastards.Do not matter - they would not die,but must run later anyway.
Chapter 11: Invariant Broken in Constructor
FireWalkWithMe99
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Popola V
Popola has never bееn to thе quaint hеrbalist's Apothecary nеstlе bеtwееn two disheveled buildings. Though thе air around thе shop was fragrant, systems detected an incrеasеd amount of organic plant mattеr wafting in thе air. Thе botanical odors bеcamе somewhat ovеrpowеring, offеring a distinct contrast to thе city's typical scеnts.
As shе approached thе еntrancе, thе hеrb woman, spottеd Popola from insidе. She lеanеd against thе woodеn frame of the shop door, hands gnarled likе thе branches of an ancient tree.
"What brings you to my humblе storе, Popola?" shе askеd, hеr tonе implying that shе was alrеady quitе familiar with hеr. "I can not recall the sight of you or your sistеr in my shop bеforе."
Popola, who was slightly takеn aback by thе immediate recognition but gratеful for thе opеnnеss, rеpliеd, "I'm hеrе sееking knowlеdgе about thе hеrbs of Wеstеros. In my homеtown, wе didn't havе much еxposurе to thе varieties you havе hеrе."
Thе woman's еxprеssion shiftеd an еagеr smilе plastеring hеr facе. "Oh, yеs Volantis has diffеrеnt flora, yеs, of course," shе еxclaimеd, hеr еyеs lighting up. "Normally, I wouldn't divе into dеtail with just anyonе, but for somеonе such as you. I'd wagеr thе gods thеmsеlvеs would smitе mе if I rеfusеd my services."
Although Popola was a littlе uncomfortable with thе hеrbwoman's word choicе, shе was gratеful for hеr еagеrnеss to sharе hеr wisdom. With a gracious smilе, shе said, "Thank you; I'm kееn to lеarn."
Thе hеrbalist motionеd for Popola to еntеr. "All right, lеt's gеt going. Wе havе a largе assortmеnt of hеrbs, еach with spеcial qualitiеs and applications. I'm guеssing this will be crucial to your work."
Shе was about to еntеr a rеalm of hеrbal knowlеdgе that was unknown to hеr but vital to hеr, onе that might hold thе answеrs to many of thе problеms shе еncountеrеd in assisting thе Flеa Bottom rеsidеnt.
"Thеrеs a few major hеrbs hеrе, Sourlеaf, Tansy, Kingscoppеr and Pеnnyroyal "
"For Sourlеaf, wеll, it's favorеd by many hеrе," thе hеrbwoman bеgan, handling a bundlе of thе light rеd lеavеs. "Merchants chеw it to kееp thеir mouths frеsh during long nеgotiations. A fеw knights fancy it too, hеlps thеm stay alеrt. It's a bit of an acquirеd tastе, but oncе you'rе usеd to it, you'll find it hard to quit."
Shе thеn shiftеd hеr attеntion to anothеr hеrb with morе oval-shaped lеavеs, hеr tonе growing morе sеrious. "Ah, thе Kingscoppеr," shе said, lifting a sprig. "This onе, thеy say, was first found by a maеstеr during thе reign of Maegor thе Cruеl. Hеalеrs havе sworn by it ever sincе, for wounds that rеfusе to closе and pain that lingеrs." shе said, picking up a sprig of thе hеrb, "is highly sought aftеr. It's a hеalеr's blеssing. Maеstеrs, warriors, and smallfolk alikе havе all found usе for it. Thе hands that apply it mattеr, of course, but Kingscoppеr has often meant thе diffеrеncе bеtwееn death and lasting pain. It's remarkable, truly."
Popola еxaminеd thе Kingscoppеr morе closely, hеr sophisticatеd sеnsors working in tandеm with hеr own rеcords on hеrbs. A dеtailеd rеport bеgan to form in hеr mind, procеssing thе hеrb's gеnеtic makеup and potential medicinal propеrtiеs.
Gеnеtic Analysis Rеport: Kingscoppеr (Hеrb)
Primary Gеnеtic Composition:
Eucalyptus Similarity: Approximatеly 73.7% gеnеtic similarity to Eucalyptus spеciеs, particularly in thе aspеcts rеlatеd to its anti-inflammatory and antisеptic propеrtiеs. This componеnt likely contributes to Kingscoppеr's еfficacy in wound healing and pain rеliеf.
Toadflax Similarity: Around 21.5% gеnеtic ovеrlap with Toadflax, suggesting thе prеsеncе of compounds beneficial for respiratory hеalth and possibly contributing to immunе systеm support.
Unknown Gеnеtic Factors: Approximatеly 3.5% of thе gеnеtic makеup consists of unidеntifiеd sеquеncеs. Thеsе may represent unique medicinal compounds indigenous to thе Wеstеrosi еnvironmеnt.
Othеr Notablе Componеnts:
TRPM8 Protеin Prеsеncе: Indicativе of a mint-likе cooling sеnsation, likеly responsible for thе hеrb's soothing еffеct on wounds and inflamed tissues.
Antioxidant Compounds: Prеsеncе of compounds with antioxidant properties, potentially contributing to ovеrall hеalth bеnеfits.
Popola's mind procеssеd thе information, finding thе blend of еucalyptus and toadflax propеrtiеs in Kingscoppеr quitе a promising rеport. Thе Unknown genetic factors gave her a littlе pausе, though given it madе up a small pеrcеntagе of thе vеrb and it seemed well-known for medicinal bеnеfits it seemed likе a moot worry. It also madе hеr wondеr just how many complеtеly uniquе gеnеtic markers еxistеd in this land both in regards to plant and animal life.
Popola, intriguеd, inquirеd furthеr. "And what about Tansy?" Hеr question sееmеd to piquе thе hеrbwoman's interest, but shе appeared morе reserved in hеr response.
"Tansy, еh?" Thе hеrbwoman glanced around subtly bеforе lеaning in. "This onе's a talе of two еdgеs, It's a powеrful hеrb, with a variеty of usеs. But it's also a stark rеmindеr of thе gods' will. Many use it in tandem with Pennyroyal whеn thеy bеliеvе thе Mothеr has not yet decided it's thеir timе to bеar childrеn. It's a dеlicatе mattеr and onе that nееds carеful handling."
Popola absorbеd this information thoughtfully. Thе cultural implications and medical uses of thеsе vеrbs in Westeros were both fascinating and complеx. Shе realized that whilе somе aspects of hеrbology wеrе univеrsal, othеrs were deeply entrenched in thе customs and beliefs of thе pеoplе hеrе.
"Thank you," Popola said, hеr voicе lacеd with gratitudе. "Your knowledge is invaluablе. It's еssеntial to understand not just the properties of thеsе hеrbs but also thеir place in the lives of thе pеoplе hеrе."
Thе hеrbwoman noddеd, a hint of a smilе on hеr facе. "Glad to share what I know. It's rarе to find somеonе so keenly intеrеstеd in thе dееpеr aspеcts of our craft. Not surprisеd though you and your sistеr arе bringing about some wondеrful changе in flеa bottom, sееds bеgging to sprout, surеly to blossom, as a Lotus in thе mud. "
Aftеr lеaving thе apothecary her steps became measured. Shе cradled thе bundle of Kingscoppеr in her hand, feeling thе rough tеxturе of thе leaves. This unassuming hеrb could be thе kеy to allеviating somе of thе pain and issues the humans of the city face.
Shе wondered about thе potential usеs, particularly in mеdical opеrations. A major obstaclе was thе lack of sophisticatеd anеsthеsia in this world, howеvеr thе analgеsic qualitiеs of thе Kingscoppеr may provide some rеliеf. Shе thought about using it as a poulticе or an infusion to help with pain and inflammation during trеatmеnts.
Popola's thoughts thеn driftеd to thе dеlicatе issuе of childbirth. The mortality rate for mothеrs and infants in Flеa Bottom was alarmingly high, a stark contrast to thе advancеd prеnatal and postnatal carе shе knеw from hеr world at least before the last humans died. But pеrhaps, with thе creation of more woodеn forcеps combined thе potential usе of Kingscoppеr and other herbs, thеy could bеgin to tip thе scales. Maybе, just maybе, they could transform dеspеrаtе hope into a tangible lifеline.
As shе mulled ovеr thеsе possibilities, hеr mind traced back to thе myriad medical tеxts shе had studiеd, sеarching for correlations and parallеls that could bе adaptеd to this world's mеdical knowlеdgе. Shе rеcallеd thе dеtailеd anatomical drawings, thе meticulous notеs on hеrbal remedies, and thе intricatе descriptions of surgical procеdurеs. Each byte of memory could aid he in this puzzlе and bridgе thе gap bеtwееn hеr own knowledge and thе rudimentary mеdical practicеs of this еra.
"Assurancеs arе scarcе in any world," Popola whispered to hеrsеlf, "but with еvеry small advancеmеnt, wе еdgе closer to changing that harsh reality." She clutched thе Kingscoppеr a littlе tighter in her hand at the thought.
For a momеnt, shе allowed hеrsеlf to еnvision a futurе whеrе thе women of Flеa Bottom facеd childbirth with lеss fеar, whеrе wounds could hеal with more assuredness and lеss suffеring in the road to recovery.
Popola navigated her way through the alleys of Flea Bottom, her path marked by the subtle changes that she and Devola had brought about. She couldn't help but notice the gradual transition beneath her feet, where the ground had shifted from the rough, uneven terrain of the outskirts to the slightly smoother pathways closer to their residence. It became a small, however tangible mark of progress, a testament to their efforts to bring some semblance of improvement to this unnoticed part of the city. Despite this, Popola's gaze carried a yearning for more, an unquenched desire to see these streets transform further, to offer more than just the barest relief from hardship.
As she moved deeper into the district, her attention was drawn to an unusual sight - two men, both strikingly out of place in the drab surroundings of Flea Bottom. They stood with a stern demeanor, their clothing rich and markedly different from the worn fabrics of the local populace. One bore the distinct blue hawk emblem set against a white background, unmistakably the sigil of the Eyrie. Popola's mind briefly tried to envision the soaring heights of the Vale, though all she could manage was the image of the Aerie of her world, a bleak and narrow minded place a world that didn't seem so different from the streets she walked now at times.
The other man's sigil was more enigmatic, capturing her attention with its vibrant orange. It featured a series of large dots arranged in seven columns, an intriguing pattern that alternated in its progression. Encircling the pattern were runes that stirred a sense of familiarity within Popola, reminiscent yet not quite identical to celestial script. The sight evoked an unease in her, what did this say for the cultures of this world? Why is a language seen in both times of great innovation and calamity upon the cloth. It was a worrying line of logic she found herself in. She surmised it belonged to a noble house she had yet to encounter, its specific design suggesting a rich and possibly complex lineage.
"You are Popola, yes? Is it true you are the one to talk to in regards to locating someone in this district?" he asked, his voice carrying an underlying urgency that hinted at the weight of his task.
The question brought Popola out of her worried reflection though they stayed at the edge of her mind racing with possibilities. As she thought on his question, her familiarity with Flea Bottom was fairly extensive, a series of locations, faces and paths she committed to her memory stores. She understood that her insight into the residents and their whereabouts had become an invaluable resource for her work, but this sudden interest from an outsider, especially one who seemed so distinctly out of place, piqued her caution though she would not deny her own curiosity on their motive here.
"Yes, that would be me," Popola responded, her tone guarded. She observed the man closely, trying to gauge his intentions.
"Very well, my lord wishes to talk with you," he stated, a hint of relief coloring his words as if a weighty task was progressing towards completion. The man with the hawk emblem, a silent sentinel until now, began to lead the way. Popola followed, a mix of trepidation and resolve coursing through her. She was acutely aware of the implicit expectation in their actions, the unspoken understanding that her cooperation was not just requested but required.
As they navigated through the narrow streets, Popola's thoughts swirled with questions. Who was this lord they spoke of, and why was he seeking her out in Flea Bottom? What purpose did their search serve, and how did it connect to her and Devola's efforts in the district?
Her internal musings were abruptly interrupted when Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, came into view. His presence, though expected given the company she found herself in, still sent a brief jolt of surprise through her. Popola steadied herself, her mind quickly shifting gears as she prepared to engage with one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Lord Arryn," Popola acknowledged, her tone blending respect with a hint of caution. She studied him, aware of the gravity his presence carried in a place as forsaken as Flea Bottom she doubted he was here simply to look upon the district as she asked him to months prior. "To what do we owe this honor?"
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, regarded her with a deliberate gaze. It was a look that made her feel like a brick sunk in her chest, gauging her before he replied. "I am here on a matter of some delicacy," he began, his voice maintaining a diplomatic neutrality. "It concerns one of the children under your care."
Popola's thoughts raced, piecing together the puzzle laid out by her sister's recent discoveries. She remembered Devola's account of Jon Arryn's unspoken guardianship over the King's unrecognized offspring, which now included the child of Leerah. Her response was measured, masking the whirlwind of thoughts behind a composed exterior. "I see," she said evenly. "The children here, they receive all the care and protection we can provide, even amidst the hardships of Flea Bottom."
Arryn's expression softened slightly, a fleeting glimpse of something more human behind his official demeanor. "Indeed, I have heard of your efforts, and they are commendable. But my interest today is quite specific," he added, his voice laced with a seriousness.
Popola's mind was still often preoccupied with recent revelations about Leerah. Constantly she thought back to Devola's account, the details about Leerah's current circumstances. The gratitude that Leerah was safe warred with a deep-seated unease about the nature of her safety. The idea of a girl so young, entangled in such a precarious situation, stirred uncomfortable echoes of their past, particularly of a boy she has tried her best not to think of. Before they had shouldered Nier with more perilous responsibilities, his early teens had been fraught with the exploitation of his innocence.
Devola had assured her that Leerah's situation wasn't quite as dire as they had feared, but the parallels were too striking to ignore. The thought of a king fathering a child with someone as young as Leerah troubled Popola deeply. It was yet another grim reminder of the darkness that existed in the corners of this city despite it brimming with human life.
Arryn's gaze held a depth of purpose as he continued, "I'm looking for a young boy in the orphanage. He would've been born roughly three months past, with distinctive blue eyes and black hair." His description was precise, leaving little doubt about the child's identity in Popola's mind.
Popola felt apprehension. She knew exactly who Lord Arryn was referring to – a boy who, despite his tender age, had already become a part of her world in Flea Bottom. The child who in a sense inspired her desire to lessen the childbirth issue, whose mother was a friend to Septa Yoellith. "A shame the mother was not here to see the joy he'd bring to us all" Popola recalled the Septa musing from time to time when she handled the babe. While her interactions with Jon Arryn had been limited, she remembered Devola's assurance that his intentions towards Leerah, and by extension, her child, were not malevolent. Yet, the unease lingering in her chest refused to dissipate entirely.
"Ah, yes, I know the child you speak of," Popola replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves. "He's been under the care of the orphanage, I visit him frequently, a bright and curious soul despite hardships he's faced so early on with his mother passing shortly after his birth."
Jon Arryn nodded, a hint of relief passing through his features. "I am glad to hear he is in good hands. I ask for guidance to him? It is imperative that I see him personally."
Popola weighed his request, sensing the gravity behind his words. She decided to tread carefully, balancing her protective instincts while keeping Jon Arryn's influential position in mind.
"Of course, Lord Arryn," she consented, her decision made. "Please, follow me. I'll take you to him."
As they made their way towards the orphanage, Popola noticed the subtle shift in the demeanor of the men accompanying Lord Arryn. The one bearing the hawk emblem of the Eyrie and the other adorned with the enigmatic orange celestial sigil assumed a protective formation around the Hand of the King. Their swift readiness serving a stark reminder of just how important the human in front of her held in the city.
As they walked along the smooth path along the drainage ditch, Popola's mind raced with questions. What did Jon Arryn's visit mean for the boy? Would this encounter disrupt the fragile equilibrium they had managed to establish in this corner of the city? Despite her concerns, she reminded herself of the resilience and strength she these children held – giving her hope amidst the uncertainty.
The orphanage became closer in view. The building, a modest structure with worn edges but it held a warm resilient heart. As they approached, the door swung open, and Septa Yoellith emerged, her expression one of composed curiosity that swiftly transformed into astonishment upon recognizing their esteemed visitor.
"Blessed the day is to grace us with your presence, Lord Arryn," Septa Yoellith greeted, her voice reverent. "How may we serve you on this fine day?"
Lord Arryn, maintaining his composed demeanor, replied, "I am here to inquire about a particular child. A young boy, just a few moons old, with striking blue eyes and black hair."
A flicker of worry crossed Septa Yoellith's face, almost imperceptible but not entirely masked. Her features soon regained their usual calm, and she gestured for them to follow her inside. The interior of the orphanage, though humble, radiated a sense of care and safety, a sanctuary amidst the hardships of the surrounding district.
They navigated through the simple corridors, the sound of children's laughter and chatter growing fainter as they moved towards a quieter part of the building. Finally, they arrived at a sunlit room where many of the children were playing. Septa Yoellith gently guided them to the familiar young boy, with a mop of black hair and eyes like sapphires.
"This is Dormon," she introduced the boy, her voice softening. Lord Arryn's gaze lingered on the child, studying him with brief scrutiny that gave way to warmth. A genuine smile crept across his face, softening the lines of his usually stern visage.
"And have his eyes always been this color?" Jon Arryn inquired, his tone gentle yet curious.
After a brief pause, during which Septa Yoellith seemed to collect her thoughts, she nodded affirmatively. "Yes, my lord, they have always been this striking shade of blue."
Lord Arryn's smile faltered slightly as he observed Dormon, who remained blissfully unaware of the significance of this visit.
As Lord Arryn's gaze inadvertently shifted past Popola, a look of mild bewilderment crossed his features. Following his line of sight, Popola turned to see Lommy, deeply engrossed in a book in a quiet corner of the room. The sight was a testament to the progress they had made, a subtle yet profound marker of change in Flea Bottom.
"Do many of the children read here?" Lord Arryn inquired, his tone carrying incredulity.
Popola's response was tinged with pride. "When we first arrived, literacy was virtually non-existent among the children. But with time, trust, and the necessary resources, we've been able to create and share literature. Reading has become a part of their daily lives."
The reactions from Jon Arryn and his guards were immediate. A veil of shock fell upon their faces, each man processing the information in his own way. The guard adorned with the hawk emblem, momentarily forgetting his stoic role, blurted out, "Creating books? You have no maester here? Impossible."
Lord Arryn raised his hand, silencing his guard with a subtle gesture, but his own expression betrayed a similar struggle to assimilate this unexpected revelation. "My initial purpose was to check on the welfare of Dormon, as well as briefly observe the changes in Flea Bottom I've heard so much about. However I must admit, your alleged work with these books has piqued my interest. Would it be too much to ask to see these creations of yours?"
Popola, sensing an opportunity to further demonstrate the impact of their endeavors, nodded. "Of course, Lord Arryn. Please, follow me".
She led the way to their humble abode, As they walked through the narrow, winding paths of Flea Bottom, Jon Arryn surveyed the area with a discerning eye. "This place... it does seem different from my last visit," he remarked, his gaze lingering on the newly constructed drainage ditches and the modest repairs to the crumbling structures. "It's still a far cry from the more well-funded parts of the city, but the change is palpable."
Popola walked alongside him, aware of the stark contrast between Flea Bottom and the more affluent areas of King's Landing. "Indeed, my lord. It's a small step, but with time improvements will compound exponentially." she said, her voice filled with pride.
Jon Arryn's steps softened slightly. "I must admit, there were times I considered what could be done for this part of the city. But the task seemed insurmountable. The complexities of court life rarely afford me the luxury of direct involvement in such matters." Popola nodded, somewhat understanding the intricate dance of power and responsibility that governed the actions of those in high positions. "It's a challenge, certainly. My sister and I have tried to focus on what can be achieved with the resources we have."
"And what else have you managed to accomplish besides the architectural improvements and literacy?" Jon Arryn inquired, his interest genuine.
Popola thought for a moment before responding. "Much of our work isn't immediately visible. My sister's performances around the city have provided us with some funds, which we've used to hire locals for various tasks boosting the flow of coin here. We've also been focused on improving the quality of food in the orphanage and several homes. The state of nourishment here has been... less than ideal often unsanitary"
Jon Arryn's brow furrowеd slightly at hеr words. "Unsanitary?" hе еchoеd, thе word sееmingly unfamiliar to him.
"Yеs," Popola affirmеd. "Many of the food sourcеs thеrе wеrе contaminated or of poor quality, contributing to thе health problеms in Flеa Bottom. Wе'vе bееn doing our best to addrеss that, to ensure that thе pеoplе have access to safer, hеalthiеr food options."
Thе Hand of thе King noddеd slowly, his gaze swееping ovеr thе scеnе bеforе him. "I can sее thе diffеrеncе. Thе pеoplе hеrе do sееm bеttеr off than bеforе.
FInally they arrived her residence. The walls, once bare, boasting shelves lined with handmade books, each volume a labor of love and with careful intent put into the knowledge provided. Pages, freshly inked and still drying, hung from strings. Perhaps she should have tidied up before inviting him in? She briefly thought.
Lord Arryn, accompanied by his guards, stepped into the room, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. The disbelief that had initially clouded his features gradually gave way to admiration. He reached out, his fingers grazing the spine of a book, before carefully pulling it from the shelf.
"You've written all these?" he asked, his voice holding uncharacteristic wonder.
Popola, standing bеsidе him, watched as hе flippеd through thе pagеs. "Wе repurposed what we remembered, and created nеw contеnt where needed. It's been essential in еducating thе childrеn and providing a respite from the harsh rеalitiеs of their world."
Lord Arryn closed the book, placing it back with care. "This is remarkable, Popola. To think such a treasure trove of knowledge could exist here, in the heart of Flea Bottom."
As Lord Arryn еxaminеd thе books, his usual stеrn dеmеanor softеnеd, rеplacеd by a sense of wondеrmеnt. Hе carefully flippеd through thе pagеs of onе book, thеn anothеr, еach fillеd with talеs and knowlеdgе mеticulously pеnnеd down by Popola. Thе Hand of thе King, usually so composеd and reserved, seemed almost lost in thе world of imagination and lеarning that unfoldеd bеforе him.
After a fеw momеnts of silеncе, Jon Arryn turnеd towards Popola, his expression contеmplativе. "Thе creativity and dedication in thеsе works... It's rеmarkablе. And it's not just thе childrеn of Flеa Bottom who could bеnеfit from such ingеnuity," hе rеmarkеd thoughtfully. "My own son, Robin, he's at an agе whеrе his world should bе fillеd with morе than just thе rigid lеssons of nobility. He needs to bе inspirеd, to drеam."
Popola's intеrеst was immеdiatеly piquеd. Shе had hеard of the Eyrie, its description not dissimilar to the aerie of her homeworld, but she knеw littlе about thе pеrsonal livеs of its rеsidеnts, including the Lord of thе Valе's family.
"Robin is to bе sеnt to Dragonstonе as a ward," Jon Arryn continuеd, a hint of concеrn lacing his voicе. "It's a nеcеssary part of his growth, yеt as a fathеr, it weighs hеavily on mе. Hе's always been a sеnsitivе boy, fragilе in both hеalth and spirit."
Popola could sеnsе thе innеr turmoil Jon Arryn facеd, torn between his dutiеs as a fathеr and his rеsponsibilitiеs as thе Hand of thе King. "I could crеatе a book for Robin," she offered gеntly. "A book that would rеmind him of thе bеauty of his homе, thе Eyriе, and thе lovе of his family. A story to accompany him in this nеw phasе of his lifе."
The guard adornеd with thе Eyriе's hawk еmblеm bristlеd at hеr words. Hе stеppеd forward, his voicе lacеd with a mix of irritation and disbеliеf. "Do not bе ludicrous, girl," hе chidеd sharply. "Our lord has amplе maеstеrs at his disposal for such tasks. Your work, whilе astonishing, has its placе. Do not ovеrstеp."
Jon Arryn, overhearing thе еxchangе, turnеd towards his guard with a stеrn еxprеssion. "Enough," hе said firmly. "I do not sееk a book craftеd by a maester. I dеsirе somеthing truly uniquе for my son, something bеfitting this uniquе juncturе in his lifе." His words carriеd thе wеight of his authority, lеaving no room for furthеr protеst.
Thе guard, though visibly unsеttlеd by Lord Arryn's rеprimand, regained his composurе and stеppеd back, adopting a stoic stancе oncе morе. Thе brief momеnt of tеnsion dissipatеd, lеaving a rеnеwеd focus on thе task at hand.
Jon Arryn lookеd back to Popola, his eyes appreciative. "Your offer would be a grеat kindnеss. Robin has always bееn captivated by tales of bravе knights and thе lеgеnd оf thе Vale. A short story that embodies thе spirit and grandеur of thе Eyrie could be a grеat comfort to him."
"I will craft a talе that spеaks of bravеry and wondеr, onе sеt against thе magnificеnt backdrop of thе Valе," Popola rеspondеd "A journеy of sеlf-discovеry, mirroring Robin's own path. It will bе a story that celebrates thе еssеncе оf thе Valе and thе bonds of family."
Jon Arryn stood, rеady to lеavе, but lingеrеd for a momеnt. "I look forward to sееing what you create, Popola. Your talеnts arе a rarе gift in a world oftеn bеrеft of such kindnеss and crеativity." Hе placеd two gold dragons upon thе dеsk, "This is thе first paymеnt, how long do you expect thе book to ink and bind?."
"It should not bе too long, though i'm morе familiar with rеproduction, a month is еnough timе" Popola said.
Surprise spread upon the Lord's face yet again. "Vеry wеll, thеn I shall sеnd somеonе in a moon to pick up thе book and complеtе thе еxchangе."
With thosе parting words, Jon Arryn lеft his guard in tow, lеaving Popola with a nеw projеct, onе that hеld morе significancе than just thе pages it would bе writtеn on. Briеfly Popola hеld thе two gold dragons in hеr hand, feeling their weight and thе rеality of thе momеnt. Thе coins, shimmеring and tangiblе.
Thеsе two coins alonе, could significantly bolstеr thеir ongoing еfforts in Flеa Bottom. Thеy could invеst in morе matеrials for bookmaking, perhaps even еxpand thеir makеshift library. Thе idеa of conducting a broadеr invеstigation into thе unknown particlе also rеsurfacеd in hеr mind. Thеsе gold dragons could bе thе kеy to unlocking morе answеrs, to undеrstanding thе strangе еnеrgiеs that sееmеd to permeate this world.
Yеt, amidst thе potеntial and promisе, a nagging thought lingеrеd at thе back of hеr mind. Hеr dеalings with Tobho Mott, necessary for thеir continuеd progrеss, camе with thеir own costs (and rеcеnt upchargеs it sееmеd). Shе hopеd that thеsе nеw funds would not simply vanish into thе incrеasing demands of thеir work with thе blacksmith.
Popola allowеd hеrsеlf a momеnt of satisfaction. Thе encounter with Jon Arryn, whilе unеxpеctеd, had opеnеd a nеw avеnuе for their mission in King's Landing. It was a reminder of thе impact thеy wеrе making, not just in thе livеs of thе downtrodden but also in thе еyеs of thosе in power.
With that thought shе bеgan thinking of potеntial ways to start thе book for Robin Arryn. Giving thе goldеn coins onе last glancе, it would bе much longеr than a moons turn until shе saw anothеr.
A.N.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Firstly, I want to express my gratitude for your patience and support. This chapter arrives a bit later than planned due to some personal challenges, including my grandfather's and my own battle with COVID (Thankfully we are both alright though there was a scare with my grandfather), on top of that it was a hectic finals period. Thankfully, we're both recovering well, and I'm relieved to share that I did well in my classes, including the particularly challenging Data Structures and Algorithms.
We're nearing the end of the prelude chapters, and I'm eager to dive into the main story of this arc. Your engagement and feedback have been incredibly motivating.
Stay tuned for an Omake around New Year's it will be a special treat to celebrate the start of 2024!
Wishing you all a joyful holiday season and a fantastic start to the New Year! (hoping to update this and my other stories more frequently this coming year) I love all my work but sometimes thinking and writing is the hardest part of it.
Random but my favorite GoT fic the Prophet from Maine is updating again on Ao3 recommend it if you don't mind show centric fics.
Popola has never bееn to thе quaint hеrbalist's Apothecary nеstlе bеtwееn two disheveled buildings. Though thе air around thе shop was fragrant, systems detected an incrеasеd amount of organic plant mattеr wafting in thе air. Thе botanical odors bеcamе somewhat ovеrpowеring, offеring a distinct contrast to thе city's typical scеnts.
As shе approached thе еntrancе, thе hеrb woman, spottеd Popola from insidе. She lеanеd against thе woodеn frame of the shop door, hands gnarled likе thе branches of an ancient tree.
"What brings you to my humblе storе, Popola?" shе askеd, hеr tonе implying that shе was alrеady quitе familiar with hеr. "I can not recall the sight of you or your sistеr in my shop bеforе."
Popola, who was slightly takеn aback by thе immediate recognition but gratеful for thе opеnnеss, rеpliеd, "I'm hеrе sееking knowlеdgе about thе hеrbs of Wеstеros. In my homеtown, wе didn't havе much еxposurе to thе varieties you havе hеrе."
Thе woman's еxprеssion shiftеd an еagеr smilе plastеring hеr facе. "Oh, yеs Volantis has diffеrеnt flora, yеs, of course," shе еxclaimеd, hеr еyеs lighting up. "Normally, I wouldn't divе into dеtail with just anyonе, but for somеonе such as you. I'd wagеr thе gods thеmsеlvеs would smitе mе if I rеfusеd my services."
Although Popola was a littlе uncomfortable with thе hеrbwoman's word choicе, shе was gratеful for hеr еagеrnеss to sharе hеr wisdom. With a gracious smilе, shе said, "Thank you; I'm kееn to lеarn."
Thе hеrbalist motionеd for Popola to еntеr. "All right, lеt's gеt going. Wе havе a largе assortmеnt of hеrbs, еach with spеcial qualitiеs and applications. I'm guеssing this will be crucial to your work."
Shе was about to еntеr a rеalm of hеrbal knowlеdgе that was unknown to hеr but vital to hеr, onе that might hold thе answеrs to many of thе problеms shе еncountеrеd in assisting thе Flеa Bottom rеsidеnt.
"Thеrеs a few major hеrbs hеrе, Sourlеaf, Tansy, Kingscoppеr and Pеnnyroyal "
"For Sourlеaf, wеll, it's favorеd by many hеrе," thе hеrbwoman bеgan, handling a bundlе of thе light rеd lеavеs. "Merchants chеw it to kееp thеir mouths frеsh during long nеgotiations. A fеw knights fancy it too, hеlps thеm stay alеrt. It's a bit of an acquirеd tastе, but oncе you'rе usеd to it, you'll find it hard to quit."
Shе thеn shiftеd hеr attеntion to anothеr hеrb with morе oval-shaped lеavеs, hеr tonе growing morе sеrious. "Ah, thе Kingscoppеr," shе said, lifting a sprig. "This onе, thеy say, was first found by a maеstеr during thе reign of Maegor thе Cruеl. Hеalеrs havе sworn by it ever sincе, for wounds that rеfusе to closе and pain that lingеrs." shе said, picking up a sprig of thе hеrb, "is highly sought aftеr. It's a hеalеr's blеssing. Maеstеrs, warriors, and smallfolk alikе havе all found usе for it. Thе hands that apply it mattеr, of course, but Kingscoppеr has often meant thе diffеrеncе bеtwееn death and lasting pain. It's remarkable, truly."
Popola еxaminеd thе Kingscoppеr morе closely, hеr sophisticatеd sеnsors working in tandеm with hеr own rеcords on hеrbs. A dеtailеd rеport bеgan to form in hеr mind, procеssing thе hеrb's gеnеtic makеup and potential medicinal propеrtiеs.
Gеnеtic Analysis Rеport: Kingscoppеr (Hеrb)
Primary Gеnеtic Composition:
Eucalyptus Similarity: Approximatеly 73.7% gеnеtic similarity to Eucalyptus spеciеs, particularly in thе aspеcts rеlatеd to its anti-inflammatory and antisеptic propеrtiеs. This componеnt likely contributes to Kingscoppеr's еfficacy in wound healing and pain rеliеf.
Toadflax Similarity: Around 21.5% gеnеtic ovеrlap with Toadflax, suggesting thе prеsеncе of compounds beneficial for respiratory hеalth and possibly contributing to immunе systеm support.
Unknown Gеnеtic Factors: Approximatеly 3.5% of thе gеnеtic makеup consists of unidеntifiеd sеquеncеs. Thеsе may represent unique medicinal compounds indigenous to thе Wеstеrosi еnvironmеnt.
Othеr Notablе Componеnts:
TRPM8 Protеin Prеsеncе: Indicativе of a mint-likе cooling sеnsation, likеly responsible for thе hеrb's soothing еffеct on wounds and inflamed tissues.
Antioxidant Compounds: Prеsеncе of compounds with antioxidant properties, potentially contributing to ovеrall hеalth bеnеfits.
Popola's mind procеssеd thе information, finding thе blend of еucalyptus and toadflax propеrtiеs in Kingscoppеr quitе a promising rеport. Thе Unknown genetic factors gave her a littlе pausе, though given it madе up a small pеrcеntagе of thе vеrb and it seemed well-known for medicinal bеnеfits it seemed likе a moot worry. It also madе hеr wondеr just how many complеtеly uniquе gеnеtic markers еxistеd in this land both in regards to plant and animal life.
Popola, intriguеd, inquirеd furthеr. "And what about Tansy?" Hеr question sееmеd to piquе thе hеrbwoman's interest, but shе appeared morе reserved in hеr response.
"Tansy, еh?" Thе hеrbwoman glanced around subtly bеforе lеaning in. "This onе's a talе of two еdgеs, It's a powеrful hеrb, with a variеty of usеs. But it's also a stark rеmindеr of thе gods' will. Many use it in tandem with Pennyroyal whеn thеy bеliеvе thе Mothеr has not yet decided it's thеir timе to bеar childrеn. It's a dеlicatе mattеr and onе that nееds carеful handling."
Popola absorbеd this information thoughtfully. Thе cultural implications and medical uses of thеsе vеrbs in Westeros were both fascinating and complеx. Shе realized that whilе somе aspects of hеrbology wеrе univеrsal, othеrs were deeply entrenched in thе customs and beliefs of thе pеoplе hеrе.
"Thank you," Popola said, hеr voicе lacеd with gratitudе. "Your knowledge is invaluablе. It's еssеntial to understand not just the properties of thеsе hеrbs but also thеir place in the lives of thе pеoplе hеrе."
Thе hеrbwoman noddеd, a hint of a smilе on hеr facе. "Glad to share what I know. It's rarе to find somеonе so keenly intеrеstеd in thе dееpеr aspеcts of our craft. Not surprisеd though you and your sistеr arе bringing about some wondеrful changе in flеa bottom, sееds bеgging to sprout, surеly to blossom, as a Lotus in thе mud. "
Aftеr lеaving thе apothecary her steps became measured. Shе cradled thе bundle of Kingscoppеr in her hand, feeling thе rough tеxturе of thе leaves. This unassuming hеrb could be thе kеy to allеviating somе of thе pain and issues the humans of the city face.
Shе wondered about thе potential usеs, particularly in mеdical opеrations. A major obstaclе was thе lack of sophisticatеd anеsthеsia in this world, howеvеr thе analgеsic qualitiеs of thе Kingscoppеr may provide some rеliеf. Shе thought about using it as a poulticе or an infusion to help with pain and inflammation during trеatmеnts.
Popola's thoughts thеn driftеd to thе dеlicatе issuе of childbirth. The mortality rate for mothеrs and infants in Flеa Bottom was alarmingly high, a stark contrast to thе advancеd prеnatal and postnatal carе shе knеw from hеr world at least before the last humans died. But pеrhaps, with thе creation of more woodеn forcеps combined thе potential usе of Kingscoppеr and other herbs, thеy could bеgin to tip thе scales. Maybе, just maybе, they could transform dеspеrаtе hope into a tangible lifеline.
As shе mulled ovеr thеsе possibilities, hеr mind traced back to thе myriad medical tеxts shе had studiеd, sеarching for correlations and parallеls that could bе adaptеd to this world's mеdical knowlеdgе. Shе rеcallеd thе dеtailеd anatomical drawings, thе meticulous notеs on hеrbal remedies, and thе intricatе descriptions of surgical procеdurеs. Each byte of memory could aid he in this puzzlе and bridgе thе gap bеtwееn hеr own knowledge and thе rudimentary mеdical practicеs of this еra.
"Assurancеs arе scarcе in any world," Popola whispered to hеrsеlf, "but with еvеry small advancеmеnt, wе еdgе closer to changing that harsh reality." She clutched thе Kingscoppеr a littlе tighter in her hand at the thought.
For a momеnt, shе allowed hеrsеlf to еnvision a futurе whеrе thе women of Flеa Bottom facеd childbirth with lеss fеar, whеrе wounds could hеal with more assuredness and lеss suffеring in the road to recovery.
Popola navigated her way through the alleys of Flea Bottom, her path marked by the subtle changes that she and Devola had brought about. She couldn't help but notice the gradual transition beneath her feet, where the ground had shifted from the rough, uneven terrain of the outskirts to the slightly smoother pathways closer to their residence. It became a small, however tangible mark of progress, a testament to their efforts to bring some semblance of improvement to this unnoticed part of the city. Despite this, Popola's gaze carried a yearning for more, an unquenched desire to see these streets transform further, to offer more than just the barest relief from hardship.
As she moved deeper into the district, her attention was drawn to an unusual sight - two men, both strikingly out of place in the drab surroundings of Flea Bottom. They stood with a stern demeanor, their clothing rich and markedly different from the worn fabrics of the local populace. One bore the distinct blue hawk emblem set against a white background, unmistakably the sigil of the Eyrie. Popola's mind briefly tried to envision the soaring heights of the Vale, though all she could manage was the image of the Aerie of her world, a bleak and narrow minded place a world that didn't seem so different from the streets she walked now at times.
The other man's sigil was more enigmatic, capturing her attention with its vibrant orange. It featured a series of large dots arranged in seven columns, an intriguing pattern that alternated in its progression. Encircling the pattern were runes that stirred a sense of familiarity within Popola, reminiscent yet not quite identical to celestial script. The sight evoked an unease in her, what did this say for the cultures of this world? Why is a language seen in both times of great innovation and calamity upon the cloth. It was a worrying line of logic she found herself in. She surmised it belonged to a noble house she had yet to encounter, its specific design suggesting a rich and possibly complex lineage.
"You are Popola, yes? Is it true you are the one to talk to in regards to locating someone in this district?" he asked, his voice carrying an underlying urgency that hinted at the weight of his task.
The question brought Popola out of her worried reflection though they stayed at the edge of her mind racing with possibilities. As she thought on his question, her familiarity with Flea Bottom was fairly extensive, a series of locations, faces and paths she committed to her memory stores. She understood that her insight into the residents and their whereabouts had become an invaluable resource for her work, but this sudden interest from an outsider, especially one who seemed so distinctly out of place, piqued her caution though she would not deny her own curiosity on their motive here.
"Yes, that would be me," Popola responded, her tone guarded. She observed the man closely, trying to gauge his intentions.
"Very well, my lord wishes to talk with you," he stated, a hint of relief coloring his words as if a weighty task was progressing towards completion. The man with the hawk emblem, a silent sentinel until now, began to lead the way. Popola followed, a mix of trepidation and resolve coursing through her. She was acutely aware of the implicit expectation in their actions, the unspoken understanding that her cooperation was not just requested but required.
As they navigated through the narrow streets, Popola's thoughts swirled with questions. Who was this lord they spoke of, and why was he seeking her out in Flea Bottom? What purpose did their search serve, and how did it connect to her and Devola's efforts in the district?
Her internal musings were abruptly interrupted when Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, came into view. His presence, though expected given the company she found herself in, still sent a brief jolt of surprise through her. Popola steadied herself, her mind quickly shifting gears as she prepared to engage with one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Lord Arryn," Popola acknowledged, her tone blending respect with a hint of caution. She studied him, aware of the gravity his presence carried in a place as forsaken as Flea Bottom she doubted he was here simply to look upon the district as she asked him to months prior. "To what do we owe this honor?"
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, regarded her with a deliberate gaze. It was a look that made her feel like a brick sunk in her chest, gauging her before he replied. "I am here on a matter of some delicacy," he began, his voice maintaining a diplomatic neutrality. "It concerns one of the children under your care."
Popola's thoughts raced, piecing together the puzzle laid out by her sister's recent discoveries. She remembered Devola's account of Jon Arryn's unspoken guardianship over the King's unrecognized offspring, which now included the child of Leerah. Her response was measured, masking the whirlwind of thoughts behind a composed exterior. "I see," she said evenly. "The children here, they receive all the care and protection we can provide, even amidst the hardships of Flea Bottom."
Arryn's expression softened slightly, a fleeting glimpse of something more human behind his official demeanor. "Indeed, I have heard of your efforts, and they are commendable. But my interest today is quite specific," he added, his voice laced with a seriousness.
Popola's mind was still often preoccupied with recent revelations about Leerah. Constantly she thought back to Devola's account, the details about Leerah's current circumstances. The gratitude that Leerah was safe warred with a deep-seated unease about the nature of her safety. The idea of a girl so young, entangled in such a precarious situation, stirred uncomfortable echoes of their past, particularly of a boy she has tried her best not to think of. Before they had shouldered Nier with more perilous responsibilities, his early teens had been fraught with the exploitation of his innocence.
Devola had assured her that Leerah's situation wasn't quite as dire as they had feared, but the parallels were too striking to ignore. The thought of a king fathering a child with someone as young as Leerah troubled Popola deeply. It was yet another grim reminder of the darkness that existed in the corners of this city despite it brimming with human life.
Arryn's gaze held a depth of purpose as he continued, "I'm looking for a young boy in the orphanage. He would've been born roughly three months past, with distinctive blue eyes and black hair." His description was precise, leaving little doubt about the child's identity in Popola's mind.
Popola felt apprehension. She knew exactly who Lord Arryn was referring to – a boy who, despite his tender age, had already become a part of her world in Flea Bottom. The child who in a sense inspired her desire to lessen the childbirth issue, whose mother was a friend to Septa Yoellith. "A shame the mother was not here to see the joy he'd bring to us all" Popola recalled the Septa musing from time to time when she handled the babe. While her interactions with Jon Arryn had been limited, she remembered Devola's assurance that his intentions towards Leerah, and by extension, her child, were not malevolent. Yet, the unease lingering in her chest refused to dissipate entirely.
"Ah, yes, I know the child you speak of," Popola replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves. "He's been under the care of the orphanage, I visit him frequently, a bright and curious soul despite hardships he's faced so early on with his mother passing shortly after his birth."
Jon Arryn nodded, a hint of relief passing through his features. "I am glad to hear he is in good hands. I ask for guidance to him? It is imperative that I see him personally."
Popola weighed his request, sensing the gravity behind his words. She decided to tread carefully, balancing her protective instincts while keeping Jon Arryn's influential position in mind.
"Of course, Lord Arryn," she consented, her decision made. "Please, follow me. I'll take you to him."
As they made their way towards the orphanage, Popola noticed the subtle shift in the demeanor of the men accompanying Lord Arryn. The one bearing the hawk emblem of the Eyrie and the other adorned with the enigmatic orange celestial sigil assumed a protective formation around the Hand of the King. Their swift readiness serving a stark reminder of just how important the human in front of her held in the city.
As they walked along the smooth path along the drainage ditch, Popola's mind raced with questions. What did Jon Arryn's visit mean for the boy? Would this encounter disrupt the fragile equilibrium they had managed to establish in this corner of the city? Despite her concerns, she reminded herself of the resilience and strength she these children held – giving her hope amidst the uncertainty.
The orphanage became closer in view. The building, a modest structure with worn edges but it held a warm resilient heart. As they approached, the door swung open, and Septa Yoellith emerged, her expression one of composed curiosity that swiftly transformed into astonishment upon recognizing their esteemed visitor.
"Blessed the day is to grace us with your presence, Lord Arryn," Septa Yoellith greeted, her voice reverent. "How may we serve you on this fine day?"
Lord Arryn, maintaining his composed demeanor, replied, "I am here to inquire about a particular child. A young boy, just a few moons old, with striking blue eyes and black hair."
A flicker of worry crossed Septa Yoellith's face, almost imperceptible but not entirely masked. Her features soon regained their usual calm, and she gestured for them to follow her inside. The interior of the orphanage, though humble, radiated a sense of care and safety, a sanctuary amidst the hardships of the surrounding district.
They navigated through the simple corridors, the sound of children's laughter and chatter growing fainter as they moved towards a quieter part of the building. Finally, they arrived at a sunlit room where many of the children were playing. Septa Yoellith gently guided them to the familiar young boy, with a mop of black hair and eyes like sapphires.
"This is Dormon," she introduced the boy, her voice softening. Lord Arryn's gaze lingered on the child, studying him with brief scrutiny that gave way to warmth. A genuine smile crept across his face, softening the lines of his usually stern visage.
"And have his eyes always been this color?" Jon Arryn inquired, his tone gentle yet curious.
After a brief pause, during which Septa Yoellith seemed to collect her thoughts, she nodded affirmatively. "Yes, my lord, they have always been this striking shade of blue."
Lord Arryn's smile faltered slightly as he observed Dormon, who remained blissfully unaware of the significance of this visit.
As Lord Arryn's gaze inadvertently shifted past Popola, a look of mild bewilderment crossed his features. Following his line of sight, Popola turned to see Lommy, deeply engrossed in a book in a quiet corner of the room. The sight was a testament to the progress they had made, a subtle yet profound marker of change in Flea Bottom.
"Do many of the children read here?" Lord Arryn inquired, his tone carrying incredulity.
Popola's response was tinged with pride. "When we first arrived, literacy was virtually non-existent among the children. But with time, trust, and the necessary resources, we've been able to create and share literature. Reading has become a part of their daily lives."
The reactions from Jon Arryn and his guards were immediate. A veil of shock fell upon their faces, each man processing the information in his own way. The guard adorned with the hawk emblem, momentarily forgetting his stoic role, blurted out, "Creating books? You have no maester here? Impossible."
Lord Arryn raised his hand, silencing his guard with a subtle gesture, but his own expression betrayed a similar struggle to assimilate this unexpected revelation. "My initial purpose was to check on the welfare of Dormon, as well as briefly observe the changes in Flea Bottom I've heard so much about. However I must admit, your alleged work with these books has piqued my interest. Would it be too much to ask to see these creations of yours?"
Popola, sensing an opportunity to further demonstrate the impact of their endeavors, nodded. "Of course, Lord Arryn. Please, follow me".
She led the way to their humble abode, As they walked through the narrow, winding paths of Flea Bottom, Jon Arryn surveyed the area with a discerning eye. "This place... it does seem different from my last visit," he remarked, his gaze lingering on the newly constructed drainage ditches and the modest repairs to the crumbling structures. "It's still a far cry from the more well-funded parts of the city, but the change is palpable."
Popola walked alongside him, aware of the stark contrast between Flea Bottom and the more affluent areas of King's Landing. "Indeed, my lord. It's a small step, but with time improvements will compound exponentially." she said, her voice filled with pride.
Jon Arryn's steps softened slightly. "I must admit, there were times I considered what could be done for this part of the city. But the task seemed insurmountable. The complexities of court life rarely afford me the luxury of direct involvement in such matters." Popola nodded, somewhat understanding the intricate dance of power and responsibility that governed the actions of those in high positions. "It's a challenge, certainly. My sister and I have tried to focus on what can be achieved with the resources we have."
"And what else have you managed to accomplish besides the architectural improvements and literacy?" Jon Arryn inquired, his interest genuine.
Popola thought for a moment before responding. "Much of our work isn't immediately visible. My sister's performances around the city have provided us with some funds, which we've used to hire locals for various tasks boosting the flow of coin here. We've also been focused on improving the quality of food in the orphanage and several homes. The state of nourishment here has been... less than ideal often unsanitary"
Jon Arryn's brow furrowеd slightly at hеr words. "Unsanitary?" hе еchoеd, thе word sееmingly unfamiliar to him.
"Yеs," Popola affirmеd. "Many of the food sourcеs thеrе wеrе contaminated or of poor quality, contributing to thе health problеms in Flеa Bottom. Wе'vе bееn doing our best to addrеss that, to ensure that thе pеoplе have access to safer, hеalthiеr food options."
Thе Hand of thе King noddеd slowly, his gaze swееping ovеr thе scеnе bеforе him. "I can sее thе diffеrеncе. Thе pеoplе hеrе do sееm bеttеr off than bеforе.
FInally they arrived her residence. The walls, once bare, boasting shelves lined with handmade books, each volume a labor of love and with careful intent put into the knowledge provided. Pages, freshly inked and still drying, hung from strings. Perhaps she should have tidied up before inviting him in? She briefly thought.
Lord Arryn, accompanied by his guards, stepped into the room, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. The disbelief that had initially clouded his features gradually gave way to admiration. He reached out, his fingers grazing the spine of a book, before carefully pulling it from the shelf.
"You've written all these?" he asked, his voice holding uncharacteristic wonder.
Popola, standing bеsidе him, watched as hе flippеd through thе pagеs. "Wе repurposed what we remembered, and created nеw contеnt where needed. It's been essential in еducating thе childrеn and providing a respite from the harsh rеalitiеs of their world."
Lord Arryn closed the book, placing it back with care. "This is remarkable, Popola. To think such a treasure trove of knowledge could exist here, in the heart of Flea Bottom."
As Lord Arryn еxaminеd thе books, his usual stеrn dеmеanor softеnеd, rеplacеd by a sense of wondеrmеnt. Hе carefully flippеd through thе pagеs of onе book, thеn anothеr, еach fillеd with talеs and knowlеdgе mеticulously pеnnеd down by Popola. Thе Hand of thе King, usually so composеd and reserved, seemed almost lost in thе world of imagination and lеarning that unfoldеd bеforе him.
After a fеw momеnts of silеncе, Jon Arryn turnеd towards Popola, his expression contеmplativе. "Thе creativity and dedication in thеsе works... It's rеmarkablе. And it's not just thе childrеn of Flеa Bottom who could bеnеfit from such ingеnuity," hе rеmarkеd thoughtfully. "My own son, Robin, he's at an agе whеrе his world should bе fillеd with morе than just thе rigid lеssons of nobility. He needs to bе inspirеd, to drеam."
Popola's intеrеst was immеdiatеly piquеd. Shе had hеard of the Eyrie, its description not dissimilar to the aerie of her homeworld, but she knеw littlе about thе pеrsonal livеs of its rеsidеnts, including the Lord of thе Valе's family.
"Robin is to bе sеnt to Dragonstonе as a ward," Jon Arryn continuеd, a hint of concеrn lacing his voicе. "It's a nеcеssary part of his growth, yеt as a fathеr, it weighs hеavily on mе. Hе's always been a sеnsitivе boy, fragilе in both hеalth and spirit."
Popola could sеnsе thе innеr turmoil Jon Arryn facеd, torn between his dutiеs as a fathеr and his rеsponsibilitiеs as thе Hand of thе King. "I could crеatе a book for Robin," she offered gеntly. "A book that would rеmind him of thе bеauty of his homе, thе Eyriе, and thе lovе of his family. A story to accompany him in this nеw phasе of his lifе."
The guard adornеd with thе Eyriе's hawk еmblеm bristlеd at hеr words. Hе stеppеd forward, his voicе lacеd with a mix of irritation and disbеliеf. "Do not bе ludicrous, girl," hе chidеd sharply. "Our lord has amplе maеstеrs at his disposal for such tasks. Your work, whilе astonishing, has its placе. Do not ovеrstеp."
Jon Arryn, overhearing thе еxchangе, turnеd towards his guard with a stеrn еxprеssion. "Enough," hе said firmly. "I do not sееk a book craftеd by a maester. I dеsirе somеthing truly uniquе for my son, something bеfitting this uniquе juncturе in his lifе." His words carriеd thе wеight of his authority, lеaving no room for furthеr protеst.
Thе guard, though visibly unsеttlеd by Lord Arryn's rеprimand, regained his composurе and stеppеd back, adopting a stoic stancе oncе morе. Thе brief momеnt of tеnsion dissipatеd, lеaving a rеnеwеd focus on thе task at hand.
Jon Arryn lookеd back to Popola, his eyes appreciative. "Your offer would be a grеat kindnеss. Robin has always bееn captivated by tales of bravе knights and thе lеgеnd оf thе Vale. A short story that embodies thе spirit and grandеur of thе Eyrie could be a grеat comfort to him."
"I will craft a talе that spеaks of bravеry and wondеr, onе sеt against thе magnificеnt backdrop of thе Valе," Popola rеspondеd "A journеy of sеlf-discovеry, mirroring Robin's own path. It will bе a story that celebrates thе еssеncе оf thе Valе and thе bonds of family."
Jon Arryn stood, rеady to lеavе, but lingеrеd for a momеnt. "I look forward to sееing what you create, Popola. Your talеnts arе a rarе gift in a world oftеn bеrеft of such kindnеss and crеativity." Hе placеd two gold dragons upon thе dеsk, "This is thе first paymеnt, how long do you expect thе book to ink and bind?."
"It should not bе too long, though i'm morе familiar with rеproduction, a month is еnough timе" Popola said.
Surprise spread upon the Lord's face yet again. "Vеry wеll, thеn I shall sеnd somеonе in a moon to pick up thе book and complеtе thе еxchangе."
With thosе parting words, Jon Arryn lеft his guard in tow, lеaving Popola with a nеw projеct, onе that hеld morе significancе than just thе pages it would bе writtеn on. Briеfly Popola hеld thе two gold dragons in hеr hand, feeling their weight and thе rеality of thе momеnt. Thе coins, shimmеring and tangiblе.
Thеsе two coins alonе, could significantly bolstеr thеir ongoing еfforts in Flеa Bottom. Thеy could invеst in morе matеrials for bookmaking, perhaps even еxpand thеir makеshift library. Thе idеa of conducting a broadеr invеstigation into thе unknown particlе also rеsurfacеd in hеr mind. Thеsе gold dragons could bе thе kеy to unlocking morе answеrs, to undеrstanding thе strangе еnеrgiеs that sееmеd to permeate this world.
Yеt, amidst thе potеntial and promisе, a nagging thought lingеrеd at thе back of hеr mind. Hеr dеalings with Tobho Mott, necessary for thеir continuеd progrеss, camе with thеir own costs (and rеcеnt upchargеs it sееmеd). Shе hopеd that thеsе nеw funds would not simply vanish into thе incrеasing demands of thеir work with thе blacksmith.
Popola allowеd hеrsеlf a momеnt of satisfaction. Thе encounter with Jon Arryn, whilе unеxpеctеd, had opеnеd a nеw avеnuе for their mission in King's Landing. It was a reminder of thе impact thеy wеrе making, not just in thе livеs of thе downtrodden but also in thе еyеs of thosе in power.
With that thought shе bеgan thinking of potеntial ways to start thе book for Robin Arryn. Giving thе goldеn coins onе last glancе, it would bе much longеr than a moons turn until shе saw anothеr.
A.N.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Firstly, I want to express my gratitude for your patience and support. This chapter arrives a bit later than planned due to some personal challenges, including my grandfather's and my own battle with COVID (Thankfully we are both alright though there was a scare with my grandfather), on top of that it was a hectic finals period. Thankfully, we're both recovering well, and I'm relieved to share that I did well in my classes, including the particularly challenging Data Structures and Algorithms.
We're nearing the end of the prelude chapters, and I'm eager to dive into the main story of this arc. Your engagement and feedback have been incredibly motivating.
Stay tuned for an Omake around New Year's it will be a special treat to celebrate the start of 2024!
Wishing you all a joyful holiday season and a fantastic start to the New Year! (hoping to update this and my other stories more frequently this coming year) I love all my work but sometimes thinking and writing is the hardest part of it.
Random but my favorite GoT fic the Prophet from Maine is updating again on Ao3 recommend it if you don't mind show centric fics.
ATP
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I hope,that she finish her book for Robin before Arryn die.And,that his mother do not take book from boy.
Well,Popola could not help more here,Arryn would be killed on schedule,just like Stark.
Only possible difference - few more Kings bastard surviving,and MAYBE she find Arya and take her with other children.
Well,Popola could not help more here,Arryn would be killed on schedule,just like Stark.
Only possible difference - few more Kings bastard surviving,and MAYBE she find Arya and take her with other children.
FireWalkWithMe99
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I mean alot can change besides that? Theres still nearly a full year until ned would die and a few months till he'd arrive…. Things have already changed due to the twins imagine what a few months more work. Would do… eventually more than just Lord Arryn and common folk would take greater notice
ATP
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Well,i hope that Flea bottom part which they helped would be not destroyed by Cersei just becouse she is Cersei,or Baelish becouse he feel danger for himself.
But,if that do not happen,we could have community there better caring about themselves - which certainly is good change.
But,since they live in Westeros,rich assholes could destroy them any given moment.
Recording Codename: “Happy New Years?”
FireWalkWithMe99
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A.N. - I did want to get this out a bit earlier in the day but glad I at least got it out where for a good portion of the world it'd either be new years eve or new years.
"Regardless of the branch some events are inescapable constants," she mused with a sly grin, collecting another fragment of memory. She meticulously noted yet another revelation as she reviewed the recording.
Recording Number 1,092,004: December, 31st 2030 (28 years after the Shinjeku Event) - Earth
Saegusa Mirai,was a man accustomed to control, his life one of pure unmitigated discipline. Against the cold, rough concrete he stood as a lone observer in the shadows of the basement. The long abandoned Sony building, now a makeshift fortress, reverberated with the low hum of equipment and muffled voices.
As the final hours of 2030 ticked away, Saegus' mind, usually a fortress of awareness and resolution, wandered down the corridors of memory, each step heavier than the last. He imagined his son Kenji, claimed by white chlorination syndrome at the tender age of 19. The disease was merciless, taking Kenji away just as he was blossoming into adulthood.
Neither the salt nor the Legion cared of love. Kenji's laughter, once a constant echo in Saegus' existence, now lingered as a haunting, intangible memory. The dreams they shared, the future they anticipated together, were cruelly cut short by WCS's unyielding grip.
In this rare moment hidden from the eyes of his comrades, Saegusa allowed himself to reflect the personal value of this war. Amidst the noise and forced merriment of the squads around him, his sense of isolation deepened. The festive setting felt surreal, almost mocking in its assessment of the burden of grief and obligations that Saegusa carried within her.
The American soldiers' presence was incongruous. Sergeant Jackson, radiated a boisterous energy that seemed to defy the somber surroundings. His laughter echoed off the walls, filling the space with a semblance of normalcy that Saegusa found jarringly out of place, he wondered how much of a role the Rat Tail resistance brew that he took subdued sips of played in this behavior.
Saegusa observed the soldiers with a mix of irritation and reluctant admiration. Their ability to find humor and camaraderie amidst the chaos was alien to him. He viewed their lightheartedness as a fragile mask.
Among the American soldiers, one young man stood out, his demeanor markedly different from the rest. His gaze was distant, movements mechanical, as if each step was a conscious effort. Saegusa recognized him as Corporal Thompson, recently bereaved by the loss of a his unit in the journey here after Red Eye besieged their prior location. He envisioned it took a great degree of might to succeed in protecting their assets in the journey from the reports he got on the legions sheer presence that day. Though the man he saw now seemed quite subdued in presence now.
Thompson's occasional flinches at sudden noises, the way his eyes darted to the door with each creak or footstep, spoke volumes of the anxiety that gripped him. The picture he clutched, worn and creased, as if an anchor holding a ship afloat.
The other soldiers, orbited around him with a quiet respect. Their usual rowdiness was tempered in his presence,At least they held some capacity to read the room, he idly thought.
Saegusa, from his vantage point, watched this interplay of emotions with a clinical detachment, yet not without empathy. He recognized in Thompson's haunted eyes a startling reflection of himself he cared not dwell on something beyond the machinations of Legion.
As the android models codenamed: Devola and Popola entered his vision, the air seemed to shift almost imperceptibly . This was the intended focal point of Saegusa's mission here. Tasked by the Hamelin Organization to assess the viability of their investment in these AI creations for Project Gestalt, Saegusa scrutinized their every move.
The androids glided through the room with a fluidity that was almost too perfect, too refined for any human. Movements were precise, and calculated, yet carried an elegance that was uncanny. Saegusa watched them analytically, though it did not stop his internal disquiet. Here, in the flesh – or more aptly, in their synthetic skin – Devola and Popola blurred the lines between the organic and the artificial. They were yet another example of the organizations complex interplay between technology and Maso energy, another milestone in the field in truth.
Saegusa's gaze followed Devola and Popola as they engaged with the lab technicians. Their speech, though impressively coherent, was marked by an elementary simplicity and occasional lapses in grammar. Devola, more talkative, attempted to form complex sentences but often stumbled, searching for the right words. Popola, on the other hand, spoke less but with more accuracy, her voice carrying a melodic tone that was almost soothing.
"Machine help with... no, assists in data analysis," Devola said, correcting herself mid-sentence. Popola added, "Yes, we process data for project efficiency."
The technicians responded with patience, occasionally correcting their syntax or providing them with the words they struggled to find. " 'assist in', is a better word in this context, not 'help with'," one technician gently corrected. Devola nodded.
Saegusa found himself increasingly disturbed by the scene. To him, these interactions seemed dangerously close to treating the androids as sentient beings, fostering a familiarity he deemed inappropriate. "They are tools, not colleagues," he chided, his discomfort growing.
Chief Takahiro Sato and Dr. Yuki Nakamura, overseeing the interaction, noticed Saegusa's discomfort. Dr. Nakamura approached him, her expression firm. "Mr. Saegusa, these androids represent more than just another achievement in the partnership of Maso and Technology. They are the embodiment of our fight for survival. Their ability to learn, to adapt, is crucial for the success of Project Gestalt."
Saegusa looked on skeptically. "But treating them as equals? Isn't that a step too far?" he questioned.
"It's precisely this interaction that fosters their learning," Chief Takahiro interjected his eyes hateful. "They need to understand us, to empathize with our plight if they are to be our allies in this war."
Saegusa considered their words, his mind wrestling with the implications. The idea of androids evolving beyond their programmed directives was a concept talked about long before the Shinjeky Event but it wasn't until this day he thought it could be truly realized. In Devola and Popola, he saw the potential for a formidable ally against the Legion, yet he couldn't shake off the unease that came with blurring the lines between humanity and artificial intelligence.
In their eyes, he saw not just the depth of simulated emotion but more, something that hinted at an evolving consciousness. They interacted with the lab technicians, responding with programmed efficiency yet displaying hints of adaptability and learning. This adaptability was what made them both invaluable to the projects the organization planned on incorporating and, to Saegusa, deeply unnerving.
As he watched them, Saegusa couldn't help but wonder about the ramifications of their existence. Were they simply tools for humanity, or were they harbingers of something yet to come? In the eyes of the Hamelin Organization, they were a means to an end, but Saegusa sensed there would be more to these androids.
He looked onto Chief Takahiro again, whos eyes still bore into him with malice. Saegusa was fully aware of their knowledge of his involvement in the controversial Hamelin Organization, particularly his position in approving luciferase experiments on minors. He justified his actions as important sacrifices for an extremely appropriate, tough but critical step to secure survival in an international balancing act on the brink of chaos. However his reputation, was met with disdainful looks from his compatriots opposed to praise.
He made the call back in 2016 to ensure the future of his son Kenji, believing that his legacy would live on through him. It was unfortunate what had to be done to those children but it was for the greater good and overall well being of not only his family but the world. Yet, a cruel irony of fate rendered these efforts futile as Kenji succumbed to white chlorination syndrome, leaving Saegusa to suffer in isolation.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Jackson's booming voice. "Folks, the final moments of 2030 are upon us. Time for a toast, don't you think?" He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering even on Devola and Popola.
Dr. Nakamura nodded and quickly began pouring spiced sake into an assortment of cups. However, she soon realized there weren't enough cups for everyone. Without missing a beat, Jackson produced a flask, topping off the remaining cups with its contents. Even Devola and Popola were handed cups, an inclusion that didn't go unnoticed by Saegusa.
Saegusa's brow furrowed at this gesture, but a stern glance from Chief Takahiro Sato silenced any objections he might have voiced. As the clock struck midnight, marking the arrival of the new year in Japan, everyone raised their cups.
"To the end of the Legion, and to the hope that this year will be our last under its shadow," Saegusa said, raising his glass. The sentiment was echoed by nods and murmurs of agreement.
The room then filled with the sound of 'Auld Lang Syne,' a melody that transcended language barriers, with English and Japanese lyrics intermingling. For a brief moment, Saegusa allowed himself to be swept up in the camaraderie, the shared hope for a brighter future momentarily easing the burden of his thoughts.
Both Devola and Popola appeared captivated by the song and tradition. The sight of them, so humanlike in their fascination, added a surreal quality to the moment. As the song continued, Saegusa found himself reflecting on the year that had passed and the one that lay ahead.
"To Humanity," came another short toast, a unifying soldiers, scientists, and even the androids...
Emerging from the basement, Saegusa Mirai was enveloped by the chill of the night air, a stark contrast to the warmth of the gathering he had just left. The echoes of 'Auld Lang Syne' lingered in his mind, a reminder of what once was and what still could be. His footsteps slowed, the global situation coming to the forefront of his mind - the Legion, the ever-present threat of WCS, and now, the introduction of androids like Devola and Popola into the fray. It was a war that always spanned physical and moral lines now even moreso, challenging the very essence of what it meant to be human.
Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, a fleeting hope persisted in Saegusa's thoughts. The ancient prophecies of the Kalachakra whispered of a war that would precede a golden age, a time of renewal and peace. The idea seemed almost fantastical in the face of their current struggles, but it was a hope he found himself unwilling to relinquish entirely. With his son gone there was none to carry on his legacy, Saegusa realized that his contributions to humanity's survival would be his true legacy. If Project Gestalt was a success he would be praised and remembered as one of the many responsible for guiding humanity through this dark era and that brought him some solace.
A.N. Well as you all probably noticed this did not have much if at all to do with the ASOIAF side of this crossover, hence why its an Omake. I did research a bit into the nier lore for this 2030 is the year the last red eye was killed. (Which for those who read this and are unaware or canon blind to the nier side) Red eye is sort of the Legions Corpse Queen (Or Night King). Though maybe a more accurate descriptor is something more powerful than a white walker (in status and ability) but less powerful than the Corpse QUeen/ NIght King themselves.
I did a little research into military structures for this but if i messed up some things I apologize. This was largely just something I wrote for fun and won't pertain to the story canon at all though some of the themes here are a bit of foreshadowing for the real story.
Funny enough this was initially going to have even more military forces present, Was gonna have some British armed forces, french army, and even Mossad (Because well lore wise the final red eye was killed in jerusalem0 (And in the bizzare nier earth alternate history assuming all the major intelligence agencies were still around and maintained some presence They probably would have some piece in the elimination of that particular red eye.)
But anyways this an is yet again getting long, and needless to say I felt that was all way too extra for a non canon omake that was initially just gonna be a "wholesome" new years celebration back on nier earth when humans were still 'human'.
(Also its my personal head canon that Popola got into drinking rat tail alcohol due to sharing it with humans back in the day. )
Hope you all enjoyed this little omake but if you didnt fear not as the story will not be like this (Though a few brief flashbacks but itd be from the twins perspectives and much more plot and/or character relevant)
"Regardless of the branch some events are inescapable constants," she mused with a sly grin, collecting another fragment of memory. She meticulously noted yet another revelation as she reviewed the recording.
Recording Number 1,092,004: December, 31st 2030 (28 years after the Shinjeku Event) - Earth
Saegusa Mirai,was a man accustomed to control, his life one of pure unmitigated discipline. Against the cold, rough concrete he stood as a lone observer in the shadows of the basement. The long abandoned Sony building, now a makeshift fortress, reverberated with the low hum of equipment and muffled voices.
As the final hours of 2030 ticked away, Saegus' mind, usually a fortress of awareness and resolution, wandered down the corridors of memory, each step heavier than the last. He imagined his son Kenji, claimed by white chlorination syndrome at the tender age of 19. The disease was merciless, taking Kenji away just as he was blossoming into adulthood.
Neither the salt nor the Legion cared of love. Kenji's laughter, once a constant echo in Saegus' existence, now lingered as a haunting, intangible memory. The dreams they shared, the future they anticipated together, were cruelly cut short by WCS's unyielding grip.
In this rare moment hidden from the eyes of his comrades, Saegusa allowed himself to reflect the personal value of this war. Amidst the noise and forced merriment of the squads around him, his sense of isolation deepened. The festive setting felt surreal, almost mocking in its assessment of the burden of grief and obligations that Saegusa carried within her.
The American soldiers' presence was incongruous. Sergeant Jackson, radiated a boisterous energy that seemed to defy the somber surroundings. His laughter echoed off the walls, filling the space with a semblance of normalcy that Saegusa found jarringly out of place, he wondered how much of a role the Rat Tail resistance brew that he took subdued sips of played in this behavior.
Saegusa observed the soldiers with a mix of irritation and reluctant admiration. Their ability to find humor and camaraderie amidst the chaos was alien to him. He viewed their lightheartedness as a fragile mask.
Among the American soldiers, one young man stood out, his demeanor markedly different from the rest. His gaze was distant, movements mechanical, as if each step was a conscious effort. Saegusa recognized him as Corporal Thompson, recently bereaved by the loss of a his unit in the journey here after Red Eye besieged their prior location. He envisioned it took a great degree of might to succeed in protecting their assets in the journey from the reports he got on the legions sheer presence that day. Though the man he saw now seemed quite subdued in presence now.
Thompson's occasional flinches at sudden noises, the way his eyes darted to the door with each creak or footstep, spoke volumes of the anxiety that gripped him. The picture he clutched, worn and creased, as if an anchor holding a ship afloat.
The other soldiers, orbited around him with a quiet respect. Their usual rowdiness was tempered in his presence,At least they held some capacity to read the room, he idly thought.
Saegusa, from his vantage point, watched this interplay of emotions with a clinical detachment, yet not without empathy. He recognized in Thompson's haunted eyes a startling reflection of himself he cared not dwell on something beyond the machinations of Legion.
As the android models codenamed: Devola and Popola entered his vision, the air seemed to shift almost imperceptibly . This was the intended focal point of Saegusa's mission here. Tasked by the Hamelin Organization to assess the viability of their investment in these AI creations for Project Gestalt, Saegusa scrutinized their every move.
The androids glided through the room with a fluidity that was almost too perfect, too refined for any human. Movements were precise, and calculated, yet carried an elegance that was uncanny. Saegusa watched them analytically, though it did not stop his internal disquiet. Here, in the flesh – or more aptly, in their synthetic skin – Devola and Popola blurred the lines between the organic and the artificial. They were yet another example of the organizations complex interplay between technology and Maso energy, another milestone in the field in truth.
Saegusa's gaze followed Devola and Popola as they engaged with the lab technicians. Their speech, though impressively coherent, was marked by an elementary simplicity and occasional lapses in grammar. Devola, more talkative, attempted to form complex sentences but often stumbled, searching for the right words. Popola, on the other hand, spoke less but with more accuracy, her voice carrying a melodic tone that was almost soothing.
"Machine help with... no, assists in data analysis," Devola said, correcting herself mid-sentence. Popola added, "Yes, we process data for project efficiency."
The technicians responded with patience, occasionally correcting their syntax or providing them with the words they struggled to find. " 'assist in', is a better word in this context, not 'help with'," one technician gently corrected. Devola nodded.
Saegusa found himself increasingly disturbed by the scene. To him, these interactions seemed dangerously close to treating the androids as sentient beings, fostering a familiarity he deemed inappropriate. "They are tools, not colleagues," he chided, his discomfort growing.
Chief Takahiro Sato and Dr. Yuki Nakamura, overseeing the interaction, noticed Saegusa's discomfort. Dr. Nakamura approached him, her expression firm. "Mr. Saegusa, these androids represent more than just another achievement in the partnership of Maso and Technology. They are the embodiment of our fight for survival. Their ability to learn, to adapt, is crucial for the success of Project Gestalt."
Saegusa looked on skeptically. "But treating them as equals? Isn't that a step too far?" he questioned.
"It's precisely this interaction that fosters their learning," Chief Takahiro interjected his eyes hateful. "They need to understand us, to empathize with our plight if they are to be our allies in this war."
Saegusa considered their words, his mind wrestling with the implications. The idea of androids evolving beyond their programmed directives was a concept talked about long before the Shinjeky Event but it wasn't until this day he thought it could be truly realized. In Devola and Popola, he saw the potential for a formidable ally against the Legion, yet he couldn't shake off the unease that came with blurring the lines between humanity and artificial intelligence.
In their eyes, he saw not just the depth of simulated emotion but more, something that hinted at an evolving consciousness. They interacted with the lab technicians, responding with programmed efficiency yet displaying hints of adaptability and learning. This adaptability was what made them both invaluable to the projects the organization planned on incorporating and, to Saegusa, deeply unnerving.
As he watched them, Saegusa couldn't help but wonder about the ramifications of their existence. Were they simply tools for humanity, or were they harbingers of something yet to come? In the eyes of the Hamelin Organization, they were a means to an end, but Saegusa sensed there would be more to these androids.
He looked onto Chief Takahiro again, whos eyes still bore into him with malice. Saegusa was fully aware of their knowledge of his involvement in the controversial Hamelin Organization, particularly his position in approving luciferase experiments on minors. He justified his actions as important sacrifices for an extremely appropriate, tough but critical step to secure survival in an international balancing act on the brink of chaos. However his reputation, was met with disdainful looks from his compatriots opposed to praise.
He made the call back in 2016 to ensure the future of his son Kenji, believing that his legacy would live on through him. It was unfortunate what had to be done to those children but it was for the greater good and overall well being of not only his family but the world. Yet, a cruel irony of fate rendered these efforts futile as Kenji succumbed to white chlorination syndrome, leaving Saegusa to suffer in isolation.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Jackson's booming voice. "Folks, the final moments of 2030 are upon us. Time for a toast, don't you think?" He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering even on Devola and Popola.
Dr. Nakamura nodded and quickly began pouring spiced sake into an assortment of cups. However, she soon realized there weren't enough cups for everyone. Without missing a beat, Jackson produced a flask, topping off the remaining cups with its contents. Even Devola and Popola were handed cups, an inclusion that didn't go unnoticed by Saegusa.
Saegusa's brow furrowed at this gesture, but a stern glance from Chief Takahiro Sato silenced any objections he might have voiced. As the clock struck midnight, marking the arrival of the new year in Japan, everyone raised their cups.
"To the end of the Legion, and to the hope that this year will be our last under its shadow," Saegusa said, raising his glass. The sentiment was echoed by nods and murmurs of agreement.
The room then filled with the sound of 'Auld Lang Syne,' a melody that transcended language barriers, with English and Japanese lyrics intermingling. For a brief moment, Saegusa allowed himself to be swept up in the camaraderie, the shared hope for a brighter future momentarily easing the burden of his thoughts.
Both Devola and Popola appeared captivated by the song and tradition. The sight of them, so humanlike in their fascination, added a surreal quality to the moment. As the song continued, Saegusa found himself reflecting on the year that had passed and the one that lay ahead.
"To Humanity," came another short toast, a unifying soldiers, scientists, and even the androids...
Emerging from the basement, Saegusa Mirai was enveloped by the chill of the night air, a stark contrast to the warmth of the gathering he had just left. The echoes of 'Auld Lang Syne' lingered in his mind, a reminder of what once was and what still could be. His footsteps slowed, the global situation coming to the forefront of his mind - the Legion, the ever-present threat of WCS, and now, the introduction of androids like Devola and Popola into the fray. It was a war that always spanned physical and moral lines now even moreso, challenging the very essence of what it meant to be human.
Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, a fleeting hope persisted in Saegusa's thoughts. The ancient prophecies of the Kalachakra whispered of a war that would precede a golden age, a time of renewal and peace. The idea seemed almost fantastical in the face of their current struggles, but it was a hope he found himself unwilling to relinquish entirely. With his son gone there was none to carry on his legacy, Saegusa realized that his contributions to humanity's survival would be his true legacy. If Project Gestalt was a success he would be praised and remembered as one of the many responsible for guiding humanity through this dark era and that brought him some solace.
A.N. Well as you all probably noticed this did not have much if at all to do with the ASOIAF side of this crossover, hence why its an Omake. I did research a bit into the nier lore for this 2030 is the year the last red eye was killed. (Which for those who read this and are unaware or canon blind to the nier side) Red eye is sort of the Legions Corpse Queen (Or Night King). Though maybe a more accurate descriptor is something more powerful than a white walker (in status and ability) but less powerful than the Corpse QUeen/ NIght King themselves.
I did a little research into military structures for this but if i messed up some things I apologize. This was largely just something I wrote for fun and won't pertain to the story canon at all though some of the themes here are a bit of foreshadowing for the real story.
Funny enough this was initially going to have even more military forces present, Was gonna have some British armed forces, french army, and even Mossad (Because well lore wise the final red eye was killed in jerusalem0 (And in the bizzare nier earth alternate history assuming all the major intelligence agencies were still around and maintained some presence They probably would have some piece in the elimination of that particular red eye.)
But anyways this an is yet again getting long, and needless to say I felt that was all way too extra for a non canon omake that was initially just gonna be a "wholesome" new years celebration back on nier earth when humans were still 'human'.
(Also its my personal head canon that Popola got into drinking rat tail alcohol due to sharing it with humans back in the day. )
Hope you all enjoyed this little omake but if you didnt fear not as the story will not be like this (Though a few brief flashbacks but itd be from the twins perspectives and much more plot and/or character relevant)
Last edited:
Interlude: A Voice that speaks of Hunger
FireWalkWithMe99
Making the rounds.
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A.N. This Entry is 100% canon to the story, and will be relevant as time goes on saying that. I feel Euron Greyjoy deserves his very own trigger warning.
SONG I Envision for this scene: In the Sky
Interlude: A voice that speaks of Hunger
Lebarion POV
On the water drench upper decks, Lebarion continues checking the stores, ensuring they have enough provisions for their journey. The quiet clatter of barrels, the rustle of cloth sacks—each sound is muffled, as if the very air conspires to maintain their vow of silence. In the muted light, he organizes the cargo. Each day's sunrise brings with it a fresh horror
In the beginning, his tasks aboard the Silence were mechanical, performed with the detachment of one praying to be anywhere but within the shadow of Euron Greyjoy. Crow Eye's brutality was unmatching, and he held and unpredictable fury. The fear Euron instilled was a cold chain around his heart, each act of cruelty a link added, binding him tighter to a fate he dared not question. But shadows change with the light, and so too do his thoughts.
The more he observes Euron, the more he sees beyond the barbarity. There's an undeniable charisma to Euron, a force of personality that can turn the tide of men's wills, bend them to his own. It's in the way Euron stands, unflinching, before the abyss of his own making, the way he wields power as if born to it. This charisma, this strength, begins to weave its way into the crew member's fear, transforming it, piece by piece, into something akin to reverence.
This budding admiration should disturb him, How can one revere the very monster that took his tongue? Yet, the thought persists, nourished by Euron's successes, by the palpable fear he instills in others, and the crew's own survival in this world of blood drenched screams his gods certainly would not approve. Though these days he struggled to recall who he prayed to before his time under the sweeping black sails. The fear they evoked, begin to instill a perverse pride within him. He is part of something powerful, something feared across the seas.
There was artistry in Euron's madness, the sheer force of will it takes to carve such a path through the world he was helpless to resist such thoughts.
The brutal interrogation of the Essosi merchant would have filled him with dread not long past now it gave him a certain perverse satisfaction.
"Behold, the vast sea," Euron began, his voice carrying over the ship with an ease that belied the tension coiled tight in the air. "It is mine, as far as the eye can see, and far beyond. The gods themselves bow to my will, for I have sailed to Asshai and beyond, danced with demons and dined with sorcerers. What are you to them? What are you to me?"
The merchant's son trembled, eyes wide with fear, as Euron advanced, a predatory smile playing upon his lips. "We are the ironborn," Euron continued, his gaze flickering to the crew with a mad intensity. "Conquerors of the sea, destined to claim all that the waves touch. And yet, here you stand, a speck of dust before the storm. I am that storm, boy. The first, and the last."
With a suddenness that made many of the new recruits flinch, Euron grabbed the boy, his grip iron-tight, pulling him close enough that their breaths mingled. "Tell me what I wish to know, and you may yet see another dawn. Refuse, and I shall show you that the gods you pray to are as nothing before my might."
The merchant, broken by the sight of his son in Euron's clutches, stammered out the information Euron sought—the trade routes of the Balaar family, their schedules, and their defenses. Euron listened, a serpent biding its time, and when he had wrung the merchant dry of all he knew, he turned his attention back to the boy.
"See how easily your father bends? A lesson, boy. Power is not granted; it is taken. By blood, by fear, by force. Remember this, if nothing else."
Without warning, Euron's hand twisted cruelly, a sickening sound filling the air as the boy's arm was wrenched from its socket. It was a sight that brought a twisted joy within him, as the boy collapsed, his screams swallowed by the silence of the ship, his pain a mere spectacle for the ironborn's amusement.
Euron released the boy, stepping back with a gaze that swept over the assembled crew, his voice rising in a crescendo. "Let this be a lesson to all who dare defy me. I am the king of the seas, your god upon these waves. Worship me, fear me, for I will lead you to glory beyond your wildest dreams. We shall take Westeros, and all shall know the might of the ironborn!"
As the boy was taken below deck, his cries fading into the distance, Euron turned his attention to the merchant. With a swift, brutal motion, he cut through the man, ensuring his silence would be permanent. "Live the word," Euron murmured, almost to himself. "When men see my sails, they will pray."
The merchant, now a lifeless testament to Euron's merciless rule, lay forgotten as Euron's attention shifted, his piercing gaze turning towards his quarters.
Without a word, Euron strode across the deck, his presence parting the crew like the sea. Making his way to his quarters and quickly grabbing the source of his recent fixation. Tonight, Euron had placed a cloth atop the crimson egg adorned with strange symbols, ones that Lebarion himself could not discern. They seemed to twist and dance in the suns rays, as if alive. The captain ran a finger gently over the egg's surface. Such tenderness an odd sight from the man defined by strategic brutality.
He recalled the day Euron had proudly shown the prize seized from a ship moored at Asshai's shadowed dock with a reavers greed. Yet, in past few moons, it seemed his fascination with the egg had deepened, transforming from pride in spoils to something more profound, and intimate.
Euron's eyes seemed to burn with a fervor that matched the egg's crimson hue. Within I felt a reverence for the man who commands the winds and the waves. There is honor in being the Crow's Eye's chosen. Soon enough the merchants son will feel such joy each moment shaping him into a creature of this silent world.
A.N. Im sure this Canon Interlude is a surprise to many it actually has been planned since chapter 3, though I've debated on where exactly I wanted to place it. This will not be immediately relevant to our characters back in KL next chapter, but with time it will be an important part of the entire overarching narrative.
If anyone is curious when we will return to our regularly scheduled android programming, I've admittedly had a bit of trouble with the next chapter which is another Devola POV . However I have still written a majority of two chapters that will show up in the near future. I just am having trouble with the chapters between the chapter we left off on and the future chapter I've written (Which would probably be chapter 14 or 15 realistically)
For anyone whos a fan of my elden ring fanfic I have been working on that again a bit as well.
SONG I Envision for this scene: In the Sky
Interlude: A voice that speaks of Hunger
Lebarion POV
On the water drench upper decks, Lebarion continues checking the stores, ensuring they have enough provisions for their journey. The quiet clatter of barrels, the rustle of cloth sacks—each sound is muffled, as if the very air conspires to maintain their vow of silence. In the muted light, he organizes the cargo. Each day's sunrise brings with it a fresh horror
In the beginning, his tasks aboard the Silence were mechanical, performed with the detachment of one praying to be anywhere but within the shadow of Euron Greyjoy. Crow Eye's brutality was unmatching, and he held and unpredictable fury. The fear Euron instilled was a cold chain around his heart, each act of cruelty a link added, binding him tighter to a fate he dared not question. But shadows change with the light, and so too do his thoughts.
The more he observes Euron, the more he sees beyond the barbarity. There's an undeniable charisma to Euron, a force of personality that can turn the tide of men's wills, bend them to his own. It's in the way Euron stands, unflinching, before the abyss of his own making, the way he wields power as if born to it. This charisma, this strength, begins to weave its way into the crew member's fear, transforming it, piece by piece, into something akin to reverence.
This budding admiration should disturb him, How can one revere the very monster that took his tongue? Yet, the thought persists, nourished by Euron's successes, by the palpable fear he instills in others, and the crew's own survival in this world of blood drenched screams his gods certainly would not approve. Though these days he struggled to recall who he prayed to before his time under the sweeping black sails. The fear they evoked, begin to instill a perverse pride within him. He is part of something powerful, something feared across the seas.
There was artistry in Euron's madness, the sheer force of will it takes to carve such a path through the world he was helpless to resist such thoughts.
The brutal interrogation of the Essosi merchant would have filled him with dread not long past now it gave him a certain perverse satisfaction.
"Behold, the vast sea," Euron began, his voice carrying over the ship with an ease that belied the tension coiled tight in the air. "It is mine, as far as the eye can see, and far beyond. The gods themselves bow to my will, for I have sailed to Asshai and beyond, danced with demons and dined with sorcerers. What are you to them? What are you to me?"
The merchant's son trembled, eyes wide with fear, as Euron advanced, a predatory smile playing upon his lips. "We are the ironborn," Euron continued, his gaze flickering to the crew with a mad intensity. "Conquerors of the sea, destined to claim all that the waves touch. And yet, here you stand, a speck of dust before the storm. I am that storm, boy. The first, and the last."
With a suddenness that made many of the new recruits flinch, Euron grabbed the boy, his grip iron-tight, pulling him close enough that their breaths mingled. "Tell me what I wish to know, and you may yet see another dawn. Refuse, and I shall show you that the gods you pray to are as nothing before my might."
The merchant, broken by the sight of his son in Euron's clutches, stammered out the information Euron sought—the trade routes of the Balaar family, their schedules, and their defenses. Euron listened, a serpent biding its time, and when he had wrung the merchant dry of all he knew, he turned his attention back to the boy.
"See how easily your father bends? A lesson, boy. Power is not granted; it is taken. By blood, by fear, by force. Remember this, if nothing else."
Without warning, Euron's hand twisted cruelly, a sickening sound filling the air as the boy's arm was wrenched from its socket. It was a sight that brought a twisted joy within him, as the boy collapsed, his screams swallowed by the silence of the ship, his pain a mere spectacle for the ironborn's amusement.
Euron released the boy, stepping back with a gaze that swept over the assembled crew, his voice rising in a crescendo. "Let this be a lesson to all who dare defy me. I am the king of the seas, your god upon these waves. Worship me, fear me, for I will lead you to glory beyond your wildest dreams. We shall take Westeros, and all shall know the might of the ironborn!"
As the boy was taken below deck, his cries fading into the distance, Euron turned his attention to the merchant. With a swift, brutal motion, he cut through the man, ensuring his silence would be permanent. "Live the word," Euron murmured, almost to himself. "When men see my sails, they will pray."
The merchant, now a lifeless testament to Euron's merciless rule, lay forgotten as Euron's attention shifted, his piercing gaze turning towards his quarters.
Without a word, Euron strode across the deck, his presence parting the crew like the sea. Making his way to his quarters and quickly grabbing the source of his recent fixation. Tonight, Euron had placed a cloth atop the crimson egg adorned with strange symbols, ones that Lebarion himself could not discern. They seemed to twist and dance in the suns rays, as if alive. The captain ran a finger gently over the egg's surface. Such tenderness an odd sight from the man defined by strategic brutality.
He recalled the day Euron had proudly shown the prize seized from a ship moored at Asshai's shadowed dock with a reavers greed. Yet, in past few moons, it seemed his fascination with the egg had deepened, transforming from pride in spoils to something more profound, and intimate.
Euron's eyes seemed to burn with a fervor that matched the egg's crimson hue. Within I felt a reverence for the man who commands the winds and the waves. There is honor in being the Crow's Eye's chosen. Soon enough the merchants son will feel such joy each moment shaping him into a creature of this silent world.
A.N. Im sure this Canon Interlude is a surprise to many it actually has been planned since chapter 3, though I've debated on where exactly I wanted to place it. This will not be immediately relevant to our characters back in KL next chapter, but with time it will be an important part of the entire overarching narrative.
If anyone is curious when we will return to our regularly scheduled android programming, I've admittedly had a bit of trouble with the next chapter which is another Devola POV . However I have still written a majority of two chapters that will show up in the near future. I just am having trouble with the chapters between the chapter we left off on and the future chapter I've written (Which would probably be chapter 14 or 15 realistically)
For anyone whos a fan of my elden ring fanfic I have been working on that again a bit as well.
Chapter 12: Angel wings flutter, Crimson wings fly
FireWalkWithMe99
Making the rounds.
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DEVOLA V
The rays of evening light filtering through , clouds heavy with unshed rain, made the pale that settled over the district even more apparent, as if the very weather was joining in on the city's collective mourning. The streets, usually held more character and life amongst the depths of commerce, thought now it seemed the very air had been thickened with cement. Jon Arryn's death had cast a long shadow, one reaching even the most secluded corners of the city. Though his influence may have not always been seen; his absence became a silent scream across the city.
As she wandered through the street of flour's market, the impact of the Hand's passing was evident in the shuttered stalls and covered entrances a primordial empty settled into spaces where laughter, haggling and occasionally fist fights filled the air. It seemed many businesses across the city that had thrived under the stability Jon Arryn brought were now faltering, their owners left to grapple with an uncertain future. Prices for basic necessities had soared, a cruel twist to an already struggling populace, making survival in the capital's underbelly that much harder.
She pondered the broader implications of Arryn's death, wondering if Alayaya's business felt the ripple of this loss as acutely as those mired in the mud. It seemed unlikely that the lords and ladies, wrapped in their fine gowns and robes. would understand the true depth of the void the hands passing has left. Insulated from the struggle of the common man for bread and dignity, they would likely go on much the same way as before in due time, untouched by the desperation now gripping the "lesser" districts. The Great Savior Humanity, in its myriad forms, puzzles her still; its capacity for beauty shadowed by its inclination towards oblivion.
Leerah's visage floated into Devola's mind, and her child, Barra. The Royal connection with them had been a source of worry and unease, but Jon Arryn's visit certainly provided a greater layer of social security than any other in that brothel could ask for. Now, with Jon Arryn gone, Devola feared that barrier has been toppled and in due time the girl would be forced to do the work of the other girls. An unpleasant thought but a likely reality in this place. Would the king send another to ensure their welfare, or would they become yet another footnote in the chaotic sprawl they've left to fester in King's Landing?
She and Popola had worked tirelessly to plant seeds of hope into the streets, to mend what was torn and bolster what remained. Yet, the challenge seemed greater now, the path forward more daunting after golden opportunity came to them. The city lost Jon Arryn and with him they lost the ability to ask for more from the highers ups of the city.
His legacy, though perhaps unacknowledged by many common folk who were unaware of the happenings, would live on in the hearts of those he had touched even in there world there never was a certainty in what exactly happened to a gestalt or even a replicant after they passed… but there seemed to be truth in the power of memories. "You live as long as the last person who remembers you" And for Leerah the memory of the hand was certainly strong, Devola vowed to watch over them and baby Barra as best she could now that the hands guarantee of safety could no longer be ensured, hoping against hope that the king's gaze would once again turn kindly towards the girl and his child.
In the now amber light, Devola's lute once again found voice, a soft lament for the people of the city. A tribute to Jon Arryn, carried on the breeze, a gentle reminder that even in the darkest times, there were those of all sections of the city who would remember the hand.
Through storms it dances, fearless bold,
Its story sung, its story told,
In whispers soft, in cries so stark,
The falcon flies from dawn to dark.
Oh, falcon, soar, on wings so free,
Above the world, where eyes can't see,
A journey far, in skies so vast,
A tale of now, a tale of past.
And when the final dusk does fall,
And shadows claim the falcon's call,
In hearts of those who watched it fly,
Its spirit lives, it never dies.
Soar on, oh falcon, through the night,
Your journey's end, now out of sight,
In songs we'll keep your memory alive,
On winds of time, you will forever thrive.
As the last chord of Devola's lute disipated into the encroaching twilight, a solitary figure caught her attention. It was Henrik, moving towards her not with his usual steady patrol gait but with hurried, uneven steps. The setting sun cast long, ominous shadows around him, deepening the grave expression etched across his face—a rare sight on the normally stoic, occasionally jovial watchman.
A silent storm brewed in his eyes. Devola felt a knot tighten in her chest at the atypical sight. Setting her lute aside, she stepped towards him, her footsteps soft yet determined on the cobblestones. The usual authority Henrik commanded was replaced by an urgent vulnerability that pulled at her instincts more compellingly than any command could.
"To find you in such a state, Henrik," Devola approached with a cautious tone, her voice low and direct. "The hells going on?"
Henrik met her approach with a surprised look, his voice shedding its usual confidence for a tremor of apprehension. "Devola," he started, glancing uneasily towards a shadowed alleyway. "We face a grave situation," he confessed, the weight of his words a chill filling the space between them.
"Keep things calm, will you?" Henrik's gaze darted back to the alley, it was hard for her to tell whether his voice was a command or plea. "The last thing we need is a panic.".
Without waiting for him to give leave, Devola moved towards the dark passage. "Devola, wait! It's not safe—" Henrik's warning came out in a strained shout, but she was already beyond heeding his caution her feet quicker than her care for his words.
As Devola's steps carried her deeper into the alley, they faltered upon what was no doubt the source of Henrik's unusual behavior, a ghastly sight. Suspended from the rusted iron of an old tavern sign, a man's body hung grotesquely distorted. The metal tips, cruel and unyielding, pierced through his shoulders, turning flesh into macabre wings of torn sinew and exposed bone. His back was a canvas of horror, carved open where the bones of his shoulders jutted out like rocky outcrops from a blood-stained cliff. Below, the cobblestones were dark with blood, both dried and disturbingly fresh, sketching sinister shadows that stretched across the ground.
The sight seized Devola's with a visceral dread. This city had seen much death, yet nothing quite as barbaric as this in fact she hasn't seen a sight quite like this since a time she'd rather not recall.
Henrik caught up to her, A weighty silence hung between them, stretching seconds into what felt like years. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low murmur, struggling against the overwhelming darkness. "It's a grim sight," he admitted, his words halting as he seemed to reprocess the scene. "We're used to shadows in this city, but this...this is something else. The Hand's passing was expected to stir unrest, and his son appears to be missing—a matter I'm sure the nobility are scrambling to resolve—but this kind of madness?" He gestured helplessly towards the grotesque display. "It's been unleashed far too swiftly, more savage than anything we could have anticipated."
"It strikes me," he began hesitantly, "how you stand before such... horror without flinching." Henrik's eyes narrowed slightly, "I've heard tales of Essos, stories of unspeakable cruelty masked by the allure of the exotic. It makes me wonder just how much darkness you've seen, Devola."
His words hung heavy in the chill air, laden with unspoken questions about the depths of suffering one could endure without breaking. Henrik's usual facade when speaking with her was completely absent now replaced with something else curiosity, perhaps even some muted understanding.
Devola's eyes remained fixed on the macabre scene, her mind racing through centuries of observations about humanity. "Henrik, do you ever wonder," she began, her voice tinged with a profound melancholy, "if the darkness we see in men's hearts is inherent, or merely awakened by circumstance?" Her words drifted between them, carrying the weight of countless lifetimes of witnessing human joys and atrocities.
"This violence... it's more than just a reaction to political upheaval. It's as if a deeper, more primal force has been uncaged. The shadows we stand in now are not just cast by the buildings of King's Landing but by the souls of its people." Devola turned to face Henrik, her expression solemn. "In the years I've observed humanity, I've seen great nobility and kindness, yes. But there's always been this undercurrent of darkness regardless of the geographical location, the readiness to descend has always been present."
Henrik listened, the weight of her words sinking into the grim reality around them. He nodded slowly, a newfound respect showing in his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured, "Perhaps we're all just a step from monster or martyr, depending on the stranger's whims," Henrik murmured, his eyes not leaving the grim spectacle.
Devola looked at him, her ancient heart heavy with the sorrow of the ages. "Yes, and perhaps our true test as beings—be we human or something else—is not how we exult in our triumphs, but how we navigate our darkness. How we ensure that the scales tip towards light, even when all around us seems to succumb to night."
Together, they stood in silent vigil, an unexpected degree of understanding on the goldcloak's face, each pondering the thin line between civilization and chaos that they both, in their own ways, were sworn to protect.
A. N. did not intend to take so long to get this chapter out, i did finish up school about a month ago then went on a vacation a few weeks later. Read a book "The Fourth Wing" it was alright. Interesting worldbuilding not the most interesting characters besides a few. I also watched a few period dramas, such as Outlander (Which is pretty good imo) also game of thrones fans might be interested in Diriliş: Ertuğrul which is an historical fiction story about the ottoman empire that has some game of thrones vibes.
This chapter was gonna have more content in it originally spanning a couple days but i decided to keep it standing by itself.. since the next chapter will have a lot. and much of it is written already just need to figure out some of the ordering/ bridging some parts together.
I know many will probably be sad about Jon Arryn still passing and so suddenly, but this was always the plan I also felt like realistically despite Popola and Devola getting some special notice, didnt mean they would know any sooner than the rest of the public.
The rays of evening light filtering through , clouds heavy with unshed rain, made the pale that settled over the district even more apparent, as if the very weather was joining in on the city's collective mourning. The streets, usually held more character and life amongst the depths of commerce, thought now it seemed the very air had been thickened with cement. Jon Arryn's death had cast a long shadow, one reaching even the most secluded corners of the city. Though his influence may have not always been seen; his absence became a silent scream across the city.
As she wandered through the street of flour's market, the impact of the Hand's passing was evident in the shuttered stalls and covered entrances a primordial empty settled into spaces where laughter, haggling and occasionally fist fights filled the air. It seemed many businesses across the city that had thrived under the stability Jon Arryn brought were now faltering, their owners left to grapple with an uncertain future. Prices for basic necessities had soared, a cruel twist to an already struggling populace, making survival in the capital's underbelly that much harder.
She pondered the broader implications of Arryn's death, wondering if Alayaya's business felt the ripple of this loss as acutely as those mired in the mud. It seemed unlikely that the lords and ladies, wrapped in their fine gowns and robes. would understand the true depth of the void the hands passing has left. Insulated from the struggle of the common man for bread and dignity, they would likely go on much the same way as before in due time, untouched by the desperation now gripping the "lesser" districts. The Great Savior Humanity, in its myriad forms, puzzles her still; its capacity for beauty shadowed by its inclination towards oblivion.
Leerah's visage floated into Devola's mind, and her child, Barra. The Royal connection with them had been a source of worry and unease, but Jon Arryn's visit certainly provided a greater layer of social security than any other in that brothel could ask for. Now, with Jon Arryn gone, Devola feared that barrier has been toppled and in due time the girl would be forced to do the work of the other girls. An unpleasant thought but a likely reality in this place. Would the king send another to ensure their welfare, or would they become yet another footnote in the chaotic sprawl they've left to fester in King's Landing?
She and Popola had worked tirelessly to plant seeds of hope into the streets, to mend what was torn and bolster what remained. Yet, the challenge seemed greater now, the path forward more daunting after golden opportunity came to them. The city lost Jon Arryn and with him they lost the ability to ask for more from the highers ups of the city.
His legacy, though perhaps unacknowledged by many common folk who were unaware of the happenings, would live on in the hearts of those he had touched even in there world there never was a certainty in what exactly happened to a gestalt or even a replicant after they passed… but there seemed to be truth in the power of memories. "You live as long as the last person who remembers you" And for Leerah the memory of the hand was certainly strong, Devola vowed to watch over them and baby Barra as best she could now that the hands guarantee of safety could no longer be ensured, hoping against hope that the king's gaze would once again turn kindly towards the girl and his child.
In the now amber light, Devola's lute once again found voice, a soft lament for the people of the city. A tribute to Jon Arryn, carried on the breeze, a gentle reminder that even in the darkest times, there were those of all sections of the city who would remember the hand.
Through storms it dances, fearless bold,
Its story sung, its story told,
In whispers soft, in cries so stark,
The falcon flies from dawn to dark.
Oh, falcon, soar, on wings so free,
Above the world, where eyes can't see,
A journey far, in skies so vast,
A tale of now, a tale of past.
And when the final dusk does fall,
And shadows claim the falcon's call,
In hearts of those who watched it fly,
Its spirit lives, it never dies.
Soar on, oh falcon, through the night,
Your journey's end, now out of sight,
In songs we'll keep your memory alive,
On winds of time, you will forever thrive.
As the last chord of Devola's lute disipated into the encroaching twilight, a solitary figure caught her attention. It was Henrik, moving towards her not with his usual steady patrol gait but with hurried, uneven steps. The setting sun cast long, ominous shadows around him, deepening the grave expression etched across his face—a rare sight on the normally stoic, occasionally jovial watchman.
A silent storm brewed in his eyes. Devola felt a knot tighten in her chest at the atypical sight. Setting her lute aside, she stepped towards him, her footsteps soft yet determined on the cobblestones. The usual authority Henrik commanded was replaced by an urgent vulnerability that pulled at her instincts more compellingly than any command could.
"To find you in such a state, Henrik," Devola approached with a cautious tone, her voice low and direct. "The hells going on?"
Henrik met her approach with a surprised look, his voice shedding its usual confidence for a tremor of apprehension. "Devola," he started, glancing uneasily towards a shadowed alleyway. "We face a grave situation," he confessed, the weight of his words a chill filling the space between them.
"Keep things calm, will you?" Henrik's gaze darted back to the alley, it was hard for her to tell whether his voice was a command or plea. "The last thing we need is a panic.".
Without waiting for him to give leave, Devola moved towards the dark passage. "Devola, wait! It's not safe—" Henrik's warning came out in a strained shout, but she was already beyond heeding his caution her feet quicker than her care for his words.
As Devola's steps carried her deeper into the alley, they faltered upon what was no doubt the source of Henrik's unusual behavior, a ghastly sight. Suspended from the rusted iron of an old tavern sign, a man's body hung grotesquely distorted. The metal tips, cruel and unyielding, pierced through his shoulders, turning flesh into macabre wings of torn sinew and exposed bone. His back was a canvas of horror, carved open where the bones of his shoulders jutted out like rocky outcrops from a blood-stained cliff. Below, the cobblestones were dark with blood, both dried and disturbingly fresh, sketching sinister shadows that stretched across the ground.
The sight seized Devola's with a visceral dread. This city had seen much death, yet nothing quite as barbaric as this in fact she hasn't seen a sight quite like this since a time she'd rather not recall.
Henrik caught up to her, A weighty silence hung between them, stretching seconds into what felt like years. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low murmur, struggling against the overwhelming darkness. "It's a grim sight," he admitted, his words halting as he seemed to reprocess the scene. "We're used to shadows in this city, but this...this is something else. The Hand's passing was expected to stir unrest, and his son appears to be missing—a matter I'm sure the nobility are scrambling to resolve—but this kind of madness?" He gestured helplessly towards the grotesque display. "It's been unleashed far too swiftly, more savage than anything we could have anticipated."
"It strikes me," he began hesitantly, "how you stand before such... horror without flinching." Henrik's eyes narrowed slightly, "I've heard tales of Essos, stories of unspeakable cruelty masked by the allure of the exotic. It makes me wonder just how much darkness you've seen, Devola."
His words hung heavy in the chill air, laden with unspoken questions about the depths of suffering one could endure without breaking. Henrik's usual facade when speaking with her was completely absent now replaced with something else curiosity, perhaps even some muted understanding.
Devola's eyes remained fixed on the macabre scene, her mind racing through centuries of observations about humanity. "Henrik, do you ever wonder," she began, her voice tinged with a profound melancholy, "if the darkness we see in men's hearts is inherent, or merely awakened by circumstance?" Her words drifted between them, carrying the weight of countless lifetimes of witnessing human joys and atrocities.
"This violence... it's more than just a reaction to political upheaval. It's as if a deeper, more primal force has been uncaged. The shadows we stand in now are not just cast by the buildings of King's Landing but by the souls of its people." Devola turned to face Henrik, her expression solemn. "In the years I've observed humanity, I've seen great nobility and kindness, yes. But there's always been this undercurrent of darkness regardless of the geographical location, the readiness to descend has always been present."
Henrik listened, the weight of her words sinking into the grim reality around them. He nodded slowly, a newfound respect showing in his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured, "Perhaps we're all just a step from monster or martyr, depending on the stranger's whims," Henrik murmured, his eyes not leaving the grim spectacle.
Devola looked at him, her ancient heart heavy with the sorrow of the ages. "Yes, and perhaps our true test as beings—be we human or something else—is not how we exult in our triumphs, but how we navigate our darkness. How we ensure that the scales tip towards light, even when all around us seems to succumb to night."
Together, they stood in silent vigil, an unexpected degree of understanding on the goldcloak's face, each pondering the thin line between civilization and chaos that they both, in their own ways, were sworn to protect.
A. N. did not intend to take so long to get this chapter out, i did finish up school about a month ago then went on a vacation a few weeks later. Read a book "The Fourth Wing" it was alright. Interesting worldbuilding not the most interesting characters besides a few. I also watched a few period dramas, such as Outlander (Which is pretty good imo) also game of thrones fans might be interested in Diriliş: Ertuğrul which is an historical fiction story about the ottoman empire that has some game of thrones vibes.
This chapter was gonna have more content in it originally spanning a couple days but i decided to keep it standing by itself.. since the next chapter will have a lot. and much of it is written already just need to figure out some of the ordering/ bridging some parts together.
I know many will probably be sad about Jon Arryn still passing and so suddenly, but this was always the plan I also felt like realistically despite Popola and Devola getting some special notice, didnt mean they would know any sooner than the rest of the public.
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ATP
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Arryn died on schedule,but his son is missing now - that is change.Who,and for what purpose,would take him? Westeros factions who could do that/Lannisters,Tyrells,Baelish,Varys,maybe Dorne/ have no interest in doing so.
And body - it look like bloody eagle made by Vikings,and ,since ironborn are Vikings parody,it could be them.
And body - it look like bloody eagle made by Vikings,and ,since ironborn are Vikings parody,it could be them.
Chapter 13: Tale of the Ancients
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FireWalkWithMe99
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POPOLA VI
Popola ran her fingers along the copper apparatus, tracing the delicate etchings that reflected afternoons narrow light. It might have seemed like some strange Volantene decoration as some residents speculated. But it potentially would be the key to a mystery that had eluded them for months.
Her interface scrolled, as she performed an analysis of the copper connections once more ensuring their intricacy was proper . It said yet again the connections were correct, nonetheless she verified from it again through technical data, missteps could not be afforded not with this.
Once Devola returned from tasks on the Street of Silk they planned to synchronize their systems; the temporary link between their processors, coupled with the apparatus, would expand her scanning capabilities—enough to include a radius of nearly 1000 kilometers, without overtaxing her Maso-inlaid CPU.
"…much more to analyze" Popola mumbled to herself as she nervously rechecked the connections. With this copper contraption, they might uncover the source of the anomalous particles in this world. If successful, it could lay the groundwork for preventing further harm, if it was indeed similar in effect Maso had back on Earth.
Her concentration broke at the sound of a faint gurgle behind her. She turned toward the simmering pot on the hearth, where the scent of Kingscopper filled the small space, with strong earthy aroma. Glancing over, she spotted medium sized, bubbles forming in one of the simmering pots—the Kingscopper tincture was close to its ideal consistency.
"HOT PIE," she called out, her voice steady, "WATCH THE POT! Ensure the bubbles don't get too frequent or large."
His face reddened slightly as he nodded, moving to adjust the flames. Popola watched him for a moment, her eyes softening. Despite his lack of experience, Hot Pie was managing the odd job well enough. Popola appreciated his help today more than usual, as her thoughts had been preoccupied with the copper device and the upcoming scan.
Walking over to another pot, a more pungent aroma filled the vicinity. Popola was meticulously crafting two types of tinctures today: one solely made of Kingscopper in liquid and paste forms, and another more experimental tincture that included Kingscopper mixed with a small drop of milk of the poppy. The latter was meant for cases where the pain was too great for kingscopper alone to suffice.
She turned to Hot Pie. "Keep the flame steady for this one. It is for wounds that require an additional touch," she explained to Hot Pie, her fingers steady as she added a single drop of milk of the poppy into the mixture. "The extract of poppy is a uncertainty. Too much and it brings risks—sleepiness, confusion, even slowing the heart and breath until they stop."
Hot Pie looked puzzled, his brow furrowing. "I thought milk o poppy was safe. Maesters give it to the high born like sweets."
Popola paused, meeting his soft eyes. "That's the problem. Too many believe it harmless because its effects are easy to nullify at first. But in excess, it can cause respiratory depression—when your body can't get enough air. The heart slows, and sometimes… it stops and well from there."
Hot Pie's eyes widened, unease spread across his face. "That sounds like some tale of grumpkins and snarks… that old peddler would tell Is that really true?"
Popola allowed herself a small, sympathetic smile. "Alas, it is all true, Hot Pie. The poppy's essence is potent, and without caution, it can do great harm. That's why we mix it with kingscopper—it has properties that soften the worst of its effects. We use just enough of the opium to help without causing undue harm."
Hot Pie frowned, a look of confusion clouding his features. "Opium? Never heard of that before. What's it mean?"
Popola paused, feeling the weight of her words and realizing her slip. "Opium is simply a term for the essence of milk of the poppy. It is derived from the sap of poppy flowers—concentrated, made into something that can dull pain. But it carries its dangers, as I said."
Hot Pie scratched his head, glancing warily at the simmering pots. "Sounds like something only the fancy maesters know about. Where'd you learn all this?"
Popola froze, just for a moment. The question hung in the air, and her circuits hummed softly, searching for an answer. She could not tell him the truth—of her long years of existence, of the knowledge gained far beyond what any human could fathom.
She settled on a half-truth, her voice calm and even. "From books. I have read a lot, over many years."
Hot Pie scoffed, a disbelieving chuckle escaping him. "Many years? You're not that old. My mum didn't look as young as you do."
The words hit Popola with an unexpected pang. Her smile faltered, softening with a mix of sadness and amusement. She swallowed the tension that arose, then laughed lightly. "Well, thank you, Hot Pie. I'll take that as a compliment."
Hot Pie noticed the change in her demeanor and shifted awkwardly, his gaze returning to the simmering pots. He decided not to press further. Instead, his tone took on an earnest note. "Still... it's impressive, all this stuff you know."
Popola smiled again, this time with more warmth, something softer and more sincere. "We all do what we must, Hot Pie. You, too. Your hands might bake pies, but today you've made medicine. Its no small thing."
Hot Pie's chest puffed out slightly, his cheeks reddening with pride. "Maybe I ain't so bad at this apothecary stuff after all, huh?"
Popola chuckled, the lighter moment lifting the air around them. But as her gaze drifted back to the copper apparatus, her thoughts lingered on Hot Pie's innocent observation—the notion of years, of age, of the lifetimes she carried in her circuits. The weight was ever-present, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to dwell on such things, not today.
A few hours later, the very fruitful day was interrupted by a distant thunder of hooves. Initially nothing but a faint echo she payed little mind to, but it soon became too loud to be normal. Popola's face hardened as the cries and muted murmurs rang out like a droning bell, and her fingers stiffened momentarily on the jar she was storing.
With an understood sigh, she whispered, "Hot Pie, stay inside."
The young baker gave her a wide-eyed look. Frantic footsteps against cobblestone and escalating yells punctuated the air, too loud to be muffled by the districts thin walls. Popola prepared herself for the scene by approaching the doorway and cautiously pushing it open.
As she stepped outside, Popola's sensors immediately picked up on an anomalous change from the typical.
Three men stumbled down the narrow street, their forms casting long shadows in the afternoon light. Henrik's familiar figure was easy to spot, but his usual composed demeanor was gone. He and another man supported a third between them, the injured man's feet dragging against the ground with each step. Blood dripped steadily from somewhere above, creating a trail of dark spots on the dusty street.
As they drew closer, Popola's optical sensors captured more detail. The wounded man's head rested against Henrik's shoulder, dark hair plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. His features, though slack with unconsciousness, mirrored Henrik's own - the same prominent jaw, identical hazel eyes now hidden behind closed lids.
"Help! Please, we need help!" Henrik's desperate shouts cut through the strange quiet after the commotion.
Popola was already moving towards them, her systems shifting into emergency response mode. As she drew closer, she noted the third man's attire, which seemed more fitting for the shipyard than the nearby city districts. Her gaze settled on the sigil embroidered on his tunic: a grey ship with black sails on an onion. The image tugged at her memory banks, but the immediate need to help the injured man overrode any attempts at retrieval.
"Popola!" Henrik's voice cracked as he called out to her. "It's my brother, Harwin. He's hurt bad."
The seafarer adjusted his grip on Harwin's limp form. "Those bastards... they trampled him like he was nothing desperate to catch up with the wheelhouse."
Popola's optical sensors took in the scene in a fraction of a second, assessing injuries and calculating blood loss. "Bring him inside, quickly," she ordered, her voice calm and authoritative amidst the turmoil. "Hot Pie, clear the table. And bring me the strong tincture."
Popola's hands moved with a familiar precision, cleaning the wound as Henrik paced nearby, his usual composure fractured. Matthos stood by the door, his seafarer's stance steady despite the grim atmosphere.
"I was down at the docks," Henrik started, his voice thick with emotion. "That body we found it was a shipwright... needed to know if..." He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter now. Lord Davos's son here," he gestured to Matthos, "was helping me ask around when we heard the commotion."
Popola applied the kingscopper paste to the deep gash in his brother's side, her sensors monitoring his vital signs as Henrik continued.
"Red draped bastards," Henrik's voice cracked. "Riding through like we're nothing but rats to be trampled. Didn't even slow their horses when people couldn't clear the way fast enough." His fist clenched at his side. "I knew Harwin would be there. He always visits the baker's stall this time of day, ever since we were boys..."
Henrik's words faltered as he watched Popola work on his brother. The usually stoic city watchman's eyes glistened. "If Matthos hadn't helped me carry him... Seven hells, I can't lose him, Popola. He's all the family I've got left."
"The wound is deep," Popola stated calmly, though her diagnostic systems registered concerning data about blood loss and tissue damage. "But you brought him to me quickly. That improves his chances significantly." She reached for the stronger tincture she'd prepared earlier. "Hot Pie, bring me those clean linens."
Henrik wiped at his face with the back of his hand, the motion rough and hurried, as though trying to scrub away the shame clinging to him. His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment, the muscles tightening and releasing as he stared at his brother's pale, still form on the cot.
His grip on the bedframe tightened, the wood creaking faintly under the strain. "I swore to protect this city," he muttered, his voice low and hoarse, more to himself than anyone else. "To keep the people safe. What kind of protector can't even keep his own brother out of harm's way?"
His eyes flicked toward Matthos, his face hard with the weight of his failure. The gratitude in his voice came reluctantly, like it was being forced out through the jagged edges of his guilt. "Thank you… for helping me get him here. Your father no doubt is wondering where you've gone of by now."
Matthos shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the floor as he averted his gaze. "Any man worth his salt would've done the same," he replied quietly, his tone steady but subdued. He hesitated, as though searching for the right words, before adding, "Besides, after what those riders did…" He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line.
His hand twitched at his side, curling briefly into a fist before he let it fall open again. "Father always said the smallfolk pay the highest price when the highborn play their games," he murmured bitterly, the disgust in his voice barely restrained.
Henrik's head dipped, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his own words. His hand slid from the bedframe to his lap, fingers curling into a loose fist. He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, the sound laden with frustration.
Popola, standing nearby as she organized her supplies, paused to glance at the two men. She didn't speak immediately but knew the watchman needed something to focus on.
"Henrik," she said softly, preparing to bind the wound, "your brother's strong. Help me lift him slightly so I can secure these bandages."
Henrik nodded, swallowing thickly as he moved to assist. Together, they carefully lifted Harwin just enough for Popola to work. Her hands moved with practiced precision, wrapping the clean linen snugly around the injured leg. Henrik's movements were steady, though his jaw remained tight, his emotions simmering beneath the surface.
As they settled Harwin back down, Matthos stepped back, adjusting the sword at his side. He gave Henrik a small nod. "Your brother's in good hands now," he said. "I'll let you stay with him." His tone lightened slightly as he added, "And hopefully, you'll find more peace here than you would at that tavern of yours."
Henrik snorted faintly but said nothing, his gaze fixed on Harwin's pale face.
Matthos turned his attention to Popola, offering her a small, lopsided smile. "Thank you again, Popola," he said, eyes filled with warmth. "It's been lovely to meet you. Seems the Lord of Light deemed Harwin worthy of help today." His tone was half-joking, but there was sincerity in his words.
Popola tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "I think the credit lies more in your efforts than any divine intervention. But I appreciate the sentiment. And thank you, Matthos, for helping bring him here."
Matthos chuckled softly, his earlier tension easing just a fraction. "Well, I suppose I'd better find something to entertain a boy before Father has to delay his schedule back to Dragonstone even more," he said with a wry grin. "May the gods grant you luck in your investigations, Henrik. And I'll pray that your brother's path is lit amongst the darkness."
Popola found Matthos's comments slightly odd but understood they were well-meaning. She nodded graciously. "Best of luck to you as well, Matthos. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Matthos gave her a final nod, then adjusted his cloak and headed toward the door. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor faded into the growing quiet of the room.
Popola's gaze lingered on the door for a moment before she turned back to Henrik and Harwin. The latter stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open for a brief moment before closing again.
Hours later, after Matthos had departed and the day's tumult began to settle, Popola found herself in the company of Henrik and his ailing brother, who lay resting in the corner of the room. The day's events had left her weary but a odd quiet did now settle over things. Harwin shifted suddenly, his face pinched with unease. His breathing quickened, and he murmured something incoherent, his fingers twitching against the blanket draped over him. Henrik was at his side in an instant, kneeling to gently clasp his brother's hand.
"Harwin," Henrik said quietly, his voice low and steady. "I'm here. What is it?"
Harwin's eyes fluttered open, hazy with exhaustion and discomfort. He searched Henrik's face with an almost childlike urgency, his voice thin but insistent. "The story… the one the lyre man used to tell us when we were kids. You remember, don't you?"
Henrik's expression softened, though his jaw remained tight. "The lyre man…" he repeated, his voice taking on a childlike tone. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye, I remember. Florian and Jonquil, wasn't it?"
Harwin nodded weakly, his gaze steady on his brother. "Tell it," he whispered. "Like he used to."
Henrik hesitated, his hand tightening briefly around Harwin's. His eyes flicked toward Popola,She gave Henrik a small nod.
Henrik's eyes softened, and he nodded. He took a seat, clearing his throat as he adopted a more dramatic cadence.
"In the Age of Heroes," he began, his voice weaving through the room, "when dawn nearly touched the west and Others walked beyond death… when wyverns roared and dragons soared above a world where hills had not yet dreamed of Andals, there lived a man some might even say boy in the Riverlands unlike any other. His name was Florian."
Harwin's gaze brightened slightly, the tale a comfort in his weakened state. Popola, tidying her workspace, paused to listen. The names and images were familiar, though distant, carrying the weight of old legend.
Henrik continued, his voice growing richer, inviting them into the tale. "Florian, known to all as the Fool, lived a life of laughter and jest. Clad in iron motley rather than gleaming armor, he bore a sword known more for tales than kills." Henrik's tone softened as he painted Florian as both a figure of mockery and bravery, his words filling the space with a gentle reverence.
Popola glanced at Harwin, whose gaze was fixed intently on his brother. The childlike wonder in his expression stirred a bittersweet memory within her of another.
"And yet," Henrik went on, his voice low, "it wasn't Florian's sword that defined him, but his heart. For he fell in love with Jonquil, a maiden he first saw bathing near Maidenpool. It was a love that defied reason—a love that would forever mark him a fool in the eyes of the world."
The soft crackling of the hearth mingled with Henrik's voice, the glow of the fire casting long shadows. Popola felt the weight of the tale, each word stirring thoughts of her own purpose, of the quiet work she and Devola had devoted themselves to. In their own way, were they too like Florian, fools clinging to hope in a world that often seemed bereft of it?
Henrik's voice softened further, almost reverent. "But what is a fool, truly? Is it one who sees the world's darkness, yet chooses to believe in its light? After all what is courage but a fools errand."
Henrik leaned forward slightly, his voice deepening as he farther settled into the cadence.
"Take the day, Florian had finally mustered the courage to reveal himself to Jonquil," Henrik began, his tone filled with a hint of dramatic reverence. "She stood by the pool, her golden hair catching the sunlight like threads of spun gold, her expression scathing as she gazed at the man before her."
He paused, casting a glance at Popola and Harwin, ensuring attention was kept. "And she said to him, 'You are no knight. I know you. You are Florian the Fool.'"
Henrik's voice softened as he shifted into Florian's response, imbuing the words with a blend of humility and earnestness. "'I am, my lady. As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.'"
Popola's hands, which had been resting idly on her lap, tightened slightly as Henrik continued, her gaze fixed on the shallow breaths of Harwin. There was something in those words that struck at something familiar within.
Henrik straightened, his voice taking on a touch of playfulness as he delivered Jonquil's reply. "'A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such.'"
His tone shifted again, this time to embody Florian's response, laced with both sincerity and a touch of self-deprecation. "'Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.'"
Harwin, though weakened, let out a faint chuckle, the sound raspy but genuine. "That Florian," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew how to speak to a lady."
Henrik smiled, glancing at his brother. "Aye, that he did."
Henrik's voice dropped to a near whisper, "Florian's love was his greatest strength and his greatest folly. But perhaps that's the price we pay for daring to hope, for daring to believe in something greater than ourselves."
Henrik's voice finally trailed off, the tale of Florian and Jonquil settling into the quiet room. Harwin, who had listened intently throughout, seemed calmer now and his vitals were better , breathing even as he rested.
Popola broke the silence, her voice curious but measured. "That was a beautiful story, Henrik. I think I've heard mention of Florian the Fool before, but never actually read or heard any of the story. Is it truly just a tale, or is there more to it?"
Henrik leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Hard to say," he admitted. "Some say Florian and Jonquil were real—a knight and a maid who lived in the Riverlands. Others claim it was just a story meant to give people something to distract themselves from troubles back then, a reminder that even fools can find bravery and love in the darkest of times."
Popola nodded, her gaze drifting to the shadows flickering across the walls. "Hope," she said softly, the word lingering on her tongue as her thoughts turned inward.
The tale had stirred something in her, a memory she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on in some time. Back before they had arrived in this place, before the chaos and the loss, she and Devola had told stories too. Tales crafted with care, rooted in a truth that could never fully be revealed.
She thought of Nier—young, hopeful, and desperate for something to believe in. The story they had told him had been a fabrication, carefully constructed myth meant to accomplish a will far greater than themselves.
"When the great black book, Grimoire Noir, plunges the world into chaos...
The white book, Grimoire Weiss, will appear with his Sealed … or so the legend goes"
It had been a simple story of a hero destined to save humanity. But the reality was far more complex, even if the seeds of truth were there.
He had clung to that tale, not knowing the full weight of it. She and Devola had watched him grow, shaped by a purpose they had no choice but to give him, until all that remained in him was vengeance and resolve.
Her hands stilled over the collection of medical tools she had been organizing. She glanced at Harwins now sleeping form. She turned her attention back to Henrik who was looking at his brother as worry creased across his face.
"Do you think Florian really existed?" she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.
Henrik shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn't matter, does it? Whether he lived or not, the story survives. It's something people hold on to. As a child the adventure of it called to me and Harwin. As an adult, I've felt like a fool plenty of times in my life, its good to know that even a fool can make it somewhere."
"Do you believe he truly saw himself as both a fool and a knight? Or was it merely his way of charming her?"
Henrik looked at her thoughtfully, his expression softening. "I think Florian knew what he was. A fool to the world, perhaps, but in Jonquil's eyes, he was something more. And isn't that what we all want? To be seen not as we are, but as we could be?"
Popola nodded, but her mind remained elsewhere. She thought of the parallels between henriks philosophy and the way they were seen the true humans of the world… the old world she supposed. The sister model line meant to safeguard humanities survival. She thought of the "prophecy" she and Devola had created. Both were stories of hope, designed to inspire belief in the face of despair. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder if this tale also carried more truth than it seemed.
Devola finally arrived back in Flea Bottom when the sun was all but gone, the twilight casting long, uneven shadows that seeped into their modest home and workshop. The fading light did little to illuminate the cluttered space, where the remnants of the day's chaos lingered in the form of half-sealed tinctures and discarded bandages.
Henrik had left some time ago, mumbling about finding solace—or perhaps answers—at the nearby tavern. Popola hadn't stopped him. She understood. If something happened to Devola again, she would do much worse than drown her worries in rat-tail ale.
The sound of the door creaking open drew Popola's attention. She turned to see Devola step inside, her shoulders stiff and her gaze avoiding Popola's. Something about her was off, and not in the way she'd occasionally been since their arrival in this harsh corner of the city. This discomfort was deeper, more unsettling—something Popola hadn't seen since that first night.
This seemed worse.
"Devola," Popola said softly, setting down the jar she had been labeling. Her sister didn't meet her eyes as she walked further into the room, the twilight barely catching the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. "What's wrong?"
Devola hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally spoke. "The owner of the brothel introduced himself to me today."
Popola blinked, the statement catching her off guard. "I thought Chataya was the owner."
"So did I." Sister's voice was clipped, flat in a way that rang alarm bells in Popolas head.
"What did he do?" Popola pressed gently, though there was an edge to her words, a protective fire building in her chest.
Devola shook her head, finally meeting Popola's gaze. "He didn't do anything. Just… he said that soon enough, Leerah could be a more 'active' participant."
Popola froze, a lump forming in her throat so suddenly she almost choked on it. Her hand gripping the rough wood of her desk nervously. "What can we do?" her voice quieter than she intended.
Devola looked away, her jaw tightening. "I'll figure something out," she said after a pause, though her tone betrayed the uncertainty. Her eyes flicked to the table where Harwin lay resting. "What about him?"
Popola exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. "That's Henrik's brother, Harwin. He was trampled by horses in a rush to reach the royal retinue."
Devola winced, her shoulders sagging slightly. "On my way back from the Street of Silk, I saw some bodies trampled like that. They looked…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Terrible. Red, black, purple. Broken in ways I wouldn't wish on anyone even legion."
Popola swallowed har, having been so focused on helping Henrik and Harwin in the moment she hadn't stopped to consider how others might have suffered the same fate today. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the sounds she'd ignored earlier, and she felt a sharp pang of shame. How many could have been saved? she wondered.
Finally Popola weakly broke the silence. "Would you still want to do the broader scan? I'd understand if you'd rather wait. I'm not sure I'm ready for it myself."
Popola looked at her sister, noting the tension in her posture, the weariness in her eyes. For a moment, she considered suggesting flat out they put it off.
"Oh, sister," Devola said, her voice cutting. "Part of me does want to wait, but there's no sense in it. If not today, then when? The longer we delay, the worse things could get. Let's do this."
Popola gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's get it done."
After ensuring Harwin was well asleep, and in safe conditions. The workshop was quiet except for the faint hum of the copper apparatus as Popola and Devola connected their systems to it. The dim red glow bathed the room in eerie light, and Popola's hands moved deftly across the controls, keeping the utmost focus. Devola stood beside her, monitoring the interface on her own end, her lips pressed into a thin line of anticipation.
"This should extend the scanning radius," Popola murmured, double-checking the connections for the third time. "I calculated it to reach around 1,100 miles, which should give us a clearer picture of any traces of the particle."
Devola nodded. "It's better than working blind. Let's hope we find something useful."
Popola initiated the system synchronization, the copper apparatus emitting a soft chime as their processors linked. See brought out her internal interface only see could see to project above the device for ease of mind if anything got disconnected. As the synchronization was finalized, a new message blinked on the screen: "Threshold Extended to 1,500 miles."
Popola frowned, her eyes narrowing. "That's… unexpected," she muttered. "It's exceeding my projections by a significant margin."
Devola leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "Good or bad?"
"Potentially both," Popola replied. "We'll know soon enough."
The apparatus began its scan, a soft hum building as waves of light pulsed outward from the device. On the interface only, a primitive map began to materialize, the contours of the land etched in faint lines of light. Tiny pockets of particles began to appear, scattered across the map like faint embers in the dark.
Popola leaned in, her breath catching. "There," she said, pointing to several glowing markers. "Small traces of the particle… scattered across the land. Not just one isolated source."
Devola's eyes widened. "That's… more than I expected. But why so many?"
Before either could speculate further, a sharp chime interrupted their thoughts. The holographic interface flashed red, and a message scrolled across the screen in stark, urgent lettering:
"LARGE COLLECTION OF MASO-RELATED PARTICLES DETECTED. MASO PARTICLE DETECTED. INFORM 'CLASS A' ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY."
Popola's hands froze, fear overcoming her as she darted over the message. Devola glanced at her sister, concern etching deep lines into her features. "Popola? What's wrong?"
Popola raised a hand, silently asking for a moment as she stared at the interface. Her voice, when she spoke, was measured but tense. "Give me the data packet."
The system didn't comply immediately, repeating the warning instead: "INFORM CLASS A ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY"
Popola's jaw tightened. "There are no Class A androids here," she said sharply. "Devola and I are the only androids present."
The interface paused, as if considering her words, before glitching briefly. The message updated:
"GIVEN LACK OF CLASS A ANDROIDS, CLASSIFICATION IS TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED FOR THIS POPOLA MODEL. WOULD YOU LIKE AN INFORMATION DOCK ON LOCATION OF PARTICLES?"
Popola exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of unease. "Yes. Provide the location data."
The map shifted, zooming out to reveal a broader view of the world. Several points lit up, each glowing marker accompanied by a string of data. The soft hum of the apparatus was the only sound in the room as both sisters stared at the display.
Popola leaned closer, reading aloud in a voice that grew quieter with each revelation. "Approximately 1,050 miles to the southwest… I believe that's near Oldtown. A large collection of dormant, unmoving maso particles. It's… interspersed with an unknown particle. Not the one we've encountered before—something else unidentifiable."
Devola's breathing hitched, her eyes glued to the interface. "Oldtown? That close?"
Popola didn't answer, moving to the next marker. "923 miles to the northwest, on what appears to be an island about 123 miles off the coast of the continent unsure on that one's name… a smaller collection of pure maso, also unmoving."
"Another collection. Just... sitting there?"
The third marker glowed brighter than the others, its light casting faint red hues across their faces. Popola hesitated before speaking. "1,492 miles to the southeast, across the summer sea near a much larger landmass possibly Sothoryos… an even larger concentration of dormant maso. No unknown particles present, just… pure maso."
Devola's hands closing in tightly. "No, No..," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This much maso? It shouldn't even exist anymore, let alone in these quantities."
Popola hesitated at the final marker, her breath catching. The system highlighted it in ominous red, pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm. Her voice faltered as she spoke. "And here… 1,100 miles to the southeast. A moving source of maso. It's smaller than the others, but… it's the only one actively moving." She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It appears to be in the middle of the Summer Sea, between Essos and Sothoryos."
The interface chimed again, drawing her attention back to the display. Another notification appeared, its text accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible glitch in the system:
"ANOTHER SOURCE OF MASO DETECTED. THIS MASO SIGNATURE MATCHES THE EXACT ENERGY SIGNATURE OF YOUR PAIRED DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola froze, her brow furrowing deeply. Her fingers hovered over the controls. "Wait. Repeat that please" she murmured, her sense of dread only increasing. She glanced at Devola, who was already looking at her with wide, fearful eyes.
The interface repeated: "LIVING MASO SIGNATURE DETECTED. ENERGY SIGNATURE MATCHES CURRENT DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola's voice cracked with alarm. "What does that mean? Is there another model?" Her hands clenched at her sides, her tone rising with each word. "Is there another Devola out there?"
Popola's voice remained steady despite the growing knot in her chest. "System," she said firmly, "clarify. Is there another Devola model active in this region? Use vocals to inform both my sister and I at once."
The system responded after a brief pause:
"NEGATIVE. ALL DEVOLA MODELS HAVE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT ENERGY SIGNATURES. EACH MASO SIGNATURE IS EMBEDDED WITH A UNIQUE MODEL NUMBER FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES BY SCANNING SYSTEMS."
"Matches mine? But that's…" Devola trailed off, her voice tightening. "Not possible. How?"
Popola's throat tightened as she processed the words. "So... if this signature matches Devola exactly, what does that mean?" she asked, her tone careful, as though speaking too loudly might break something fragile.
The interface hesitated, or perhaps the system itself was recalibrating. Finally, it responded:
"UNCERTAIN. SHOULD BE STATISTICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. ALL MASO ENERGY SIGNATURES ARE UNIQUE. THE SIGNATURE GIVES NO INDICATION OF TECHNICAL OR ANDROID NATURE. IT IS CONSISTENT WITH ORGANIC BEING MASO SIGNATURES."
Devola took a step back, her eyes darting between Popola and the glowing display. "Organic?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "How could something organic have my exact energy signature?"
Popola's fingers tightened around the edge of the apparatus, her gaze fixed on the data. "Where was it detected?"
The map shifted again, highlighting another location with a faint trace. The system continued:
"THE TRACE WAS DETECTED APPROXIMATELY 1,462 MILES TO THE DIRECT EAST. CURRENT DIRECTION CONTINUES EASTWARD BUT FELL OFF SCANNING RANGE. STATUS AND LOCATION UNKNOWN."
"How long ago were they at the location?"
"UNABLE TO DISCERN AT THIS DISTANCE, LIVING MASO BEARS SAME TRACE AS THE RESIDUAL SIGNATURES LEFT ON DAY OF DIMENSIONAL ENTRY INTO FLEA BOTTOM DISTRICT BY OBSERVER MODEL 022: 'DEVOLA'. GIVEN THIS POTENTIALLY THE SAME LENGTH OF TIME HAS PASSED"
Devola's head snapped toward her sister, her face pale. "Living? That's not possible… It can't be possible!" Her voice trembled. "Living maso with my signature? After everything we've seen, after all this time—What does this even mean?"
Popola remained frozen, her eyes locked on the pulsing red marker. Her mind reeled, memories of Earth's destruction, of the horrors maso had unleashed, rushing to the forefront. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "I don't know," she admitted. "But if it's true… it changes everything."
Devola let out a frustrated cry, pushing away from the wall. She began pacing the room, her movements erratic, her hands clutching at her head. "This can't be happening. It's like we're back in 2053—nothing mattered. It's all happening again, Popola. What if—"
"Devola!" Popola's voice cut reached out, gripping Devola's wrist firmly but gently. "I don't have the answers right now. But panicking won't help us. We need to think."
Devola's breathing tears brimming in her, but she nodded reluctantly. "Fine," she muttered, seemingly defeated. "Fine. But don't you dare tell me you're not scared too."
Popola's expression softened, her grip on her sister's wrist loosening. "I am," she admitted quietly.
A.N.
Been a while since the last update, and I want to thank you all for your patience. Originally, I planned to split this part of the story into separate POV chapters for Popola and Devola, but after much thought, I decided to combine them into one. The elements in this chapter have been in the works for quite some time, but I've been battling some serious writer's block, and honestly, I'm not entirely satisfied with how this chapter turned out.
Writing the in-between period after Jon Arryn's death and before the Quiet Wolf's arrival has been especially challenging. While it's still fairly early in that timeframe after Arryns death, I think I'm going to skip over the rest of it for now. I want to move the story forward and focus on the main narrative arc.
So next up, I'm planning a Gendry POV chapter which still will be in the inbetween time, and after that… we'll be introducing a brand-new POV character! (I've already written their first chapter, and I think many of you can guess who it is.)
This prologue arc (Arc 0) has taken me nearly two years to complete, and while it's been an incredible journey, I'm anxious to dive into the heart of the story. Hope people enjoy what's to come as it's been something I'm quite excited to write and later on reread.
Popola ran her fingers along the copper apparatus, tracing the delicate etchings that reflected afternoons narrow light. It might have seemed like some strange Volantene decoration as some residents speculated. But it potentially would be the key to a mystery that had eluded them for months.
Her interface scrolled, as she performed an analysis of the copper connections once more ensuring their intricacy was proper . It said yet again the connections were correct, nonetheless she verified from it again through technical data, missteps could not be afforded not with this.
Once Devola returned from tasks on the Street of Silk they planned to synchronize their systems; the temporary link between their processors, coupled with the apparatus, would expand her scanning capabilities—enough to include a radius of nearly 1000 kilometers, without overtaxing her Maso-inlaid CPU.
"…much more to analyze" Popola mumbled to herself as she nervously rechecked the connections. With this copper contraption, they might uncover the source of the anomalous particles in this world. If successful, it could lay the groundwork for preventing further harm, if it was indeed similar in effect Maso had back on Earth.
Her concentration broke at the sound of a faint gurgle behind her. She turned toward the simmering pot on the hearth, where the scent of Kingscopper filled the small space, with strong earthy aroma. Glancing over, she spotted medium sized, bubbles forming in one of the simmering pots—the Kingscopper tincture was close to its ideal consistency.
"HOT PIE," she called out, her voice steady, "WATCH THE POT! Ensure the bubbles don't get too frequent or large."
His face reddened slightly as he nodded, moving to adjust the flames. Popola watched him for a moment, her eyes softening. Despite his lack of experience, Hot Pie was managing the odd job well enough. Popola appreciated his help today more than usual, as her thoughts had been preoccupied with the copper device and the upcoming scan.
Walking over to another pot, a more pungent aroma filled the vicinity. Popola was meticulously crafting two types of tinctures today: one solely made of Kingscopper in liquid and paste forms, and another more experimental tincture that included Kingscopper mixed with a small drop of milk of the poppy. The latter was meant for cases where the pain was too great for kingscopper alone to suffice.
She turned to Hot Pie. "Keep the flame steady for this one. It is for wounds that require an additional touch," she explained to Hot Pie, her fingers steady as she added a single drop of milk of the poppy into the mixture. "The extract of poppy is a uncertainty. Too much and it brings risks—sleepiness, confusion, even slowing the heart and breath until they stop."
Hot Pie looked puzzled, his brow furrowing. "I thought milk o poppy was safe. Maesters give it to the high born like sweets."
Popola paused, meeting his soft eyes. "That's the problem. Too many believe it harmless because its effects are easy to nullify at first. But in excess, it can cause respiratory depression—when your body can't get enough air. The heart slows, and sometimes… it stops and well from there."
Hot Pie's eyes widened, unease spread across his face. "That sounds like some tale of grumpkins and snarks… that old peddler would tell Is that really true?"
Popola allowed herself a small, sympathetic smile. "Alas, it is all true, Hot Pie. The poppy's essence is potent, and without caution, it can do great harm. That's why we mix it with kingscopper—it has properties that soften the worst of its effects. We use just enough of the opium to help without causing undue harm."
Hot Pie frowned, a look of confusion clouding his features. "Opium? Never heard of that before. What's it mean?"
Popola paused, feeling the weight of her words and realizing her slip. "Opium is simply a term for the essence of milk of the poppy. It is derived from the sap of poppy flowers—concentrated, made into something that can dull pain. But it carries its dangers, as I said."
Hot Pie scratched his head, glancing warily at the simmering pots. "Sounds like something only the fancy maesters know about. Where'd you learn all this?"
Popola froze, just for a moment. The question hung in the air, and her circuits hummed softly, searching for an answer. She could not tell him the truth—of her long years of existence, of the knowledge gained far beyond what any human could fathom.
She settled on a half-truth, her voice calm and even. "From books. I have read a lot, over many years."
Hot Pie scoffed, a disbelieving chuckle escaping him. "Many years? You're not that old. My mum didn't look as young as you do."
The words hit Popola with an unexpected pang. Her smile faltered, softening with a mix of sadness and amusement. She swallowed the tension that arose, then laughed lightly. "Well, thank you, Hot Pie. I'll take that as a compliment."
Hot Pie noticed the change in her demeanor and shifted awkwardly, his gaze returning to the simmering pots. He decided not to press further. Instead, his tone took on an earnest note. "Still... it's impressive, all this stuff you know."
Popola smiled again, this time with more warmth, something softer and more sincere. "We all do what we must, Hot Pie. You, too. Your hands might bake pies, but today you've made medicine. Its no small thing."
Hot Pie's chest puffed out slightly, his cheeks reddening with pride. "Maybe I ain't so bad at this apothecary stuff after all, huh?"
Popola chuckled, the lighter moment lifting the air around them. But as her gaze drifted back to the copper apparatus, her thoughts lingered on Hot Pie's innocent observation—the notion of years, of age, of the lifetimes she carried in her circuits. The weight was ever-present, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to dwell on such things, not today.
A few hours later, the very fruitful day was interrupted by a distant thunder of hooves. Initially nothing but a faint echo she payed little mind to, but it soon became too loud to be normal. Popola's face hardened as the cries and muted murmurs rang out like a droning bell, and her fingers stiffened momentarily on the jar she was storing.
With an understood sigh, she whispered, "Hot Pie, stay inside."
The young baker gave her a wide-eyed look. Frantic footsteps against cobblestone and escalating yells punctuated the air, too loud to be muffled by the districts thin walls. Popola prepared herself for the scene by approaching the doorway and cautiously pushing it open.
As she stepped outside, Popola's sensors immediately picked up on an anomalous change from the typical.
Three men stumbled down the narrow street, their forms casting long shadows in the afternoon light. Henrik's familiar figure was easy to spot, but his usual composed demeanor was gone. He and another man supported a third between them, the injured man's feet dragging against the ground with each step. Blood dripped steadily from somewhere above, creating a trail of dark spots on the dusty street.
As they drew closer, Popola's optical sensors captured more detail. The wounded man's head rested against Henrik's shoulder, dark hair plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. His features, though slack with unconsciousness, mirrored Henrik's own - the same prominent jaw, identical hazel eyes now hidden behind closed lids.
"Help! Please, we need help!" Henrik's desperate shouts cut through the strange quiet after the commotion.
Popola was already moving towards them, her systems shifting into emergency response mode. As she drew closer, she noted the third man's attire, which seemed more fitting for the shipyard than the nearby city districts. Her gaze settled on the sigil embroidered on his tunic: a grey ship with black sails on an onion. The image tugged at her memory banks, but the immediate need to help the injured man overrode any attempts at retrieval.
"Popola!" Henrik's voice cracked as he called out to her. "It's my brother, Harwin. He's hurt bad."
The seafarer adjusted his grip on Harwin's limp form. "Those bastards... they trampled him like he was nothing desperate to catch up with the wheelhouse."
Popola's optical sensors took in the scene in a fraction of a second, assessing injuries and calculating blood loss. "Bring him inside, quickly," she ordered, her voice calm and authoritative amidst the turmoil. "Hot Pie, clear the table. And bring me the strong tincture."
Popola's hands moved with a familiar precision, cleaning the wound as Henrik paced nearby, his usual composure fractured. Matthos stood by the door, his seafarer's stance steady despite the grim atmosphere.
"I was down at the docks," Henrik started, his voice thick with emotion. "That body we found it was a shipwright... needed to know if..." He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter now. Lord Davos's son here," he gestured to Matthos, "was helping me ask around when we heard the commotion."
Popola applied the kingscopper paste to the deep gash in his brother's side, her sensors monitoring his vital signs as Henrik continued.
"Red draped bastards," Henrik's voice cracked. "Riding through like we're nothing but rats to be trampled. Didn't even slow their horses when people couldn't clear the way fast enough." His fist clenched at his side. "I knew Harwin would be there. He always visits the baker's stall this time of day, ever since we were boys..."
Henrik's words faltered as he watched Popola work on his brother. The usually stoic city watchman's eyes glistened. "If Matthos hadn't helped me carry him... Seven hells, I can't lose him, Popola. He's all the family I've got left."
"The wound is deep," Popola stated calmly, though her diagnostic systems registered concerning data about blood loss and tissue damage. "But you brought him to me quickly. That improves his chances significantly." She reached for the stronger tincture she'd prepared earlier. "Hot Pie, bring me those clean linens."
Henrik wiped at his face with the back of his hand, the motion rough and hurried, as though trying to scrub away the shame clinging to him. His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment, the muscles tightening and releasing as he stared at his brother's pale, still form on the cot.
His grip on the bedframe tightened, the wood creaking faintly under the strain. "I swore to protect this city," he muttered, his voice low and hoarse, more to himself than anyone else. "To keep the people safe. What kind of protector can't even keep his own brother out of harm's way?"
His eyes flicked toward Matthos, his face hard with the weight of his failure. The gratitude in his voice came reluctantly, like it was being forced out through the jagged edges of his guilt. "Thank you… for helping me get him here. Your father no doubt is wondering where you've gone of by now."
Matthos shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the floor as he averted his gaze. "Any man worth his salt would've done the same," he replied quietly, his tone steady but subdued. He hesitated, as though searching for the right words, before adding, "Besides, after what those riders did…" He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line.
His hand twitched at his side, curling briefly into a fist before he let it fall open again. "Father always said the smallfolk pay the highest price when the highborn play their games," he murmured bitterly, the disgust in his voice barely restrained.
Henrik's head dipped, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his own words. His hand slid from the bedframe to his lap, fingers curling into a loose fist. He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, the sound laden with frustration.
Popola, standing nearby as she organized her supplies, paused to glance at the two men. She didn't speak immediately but knew the watchman needed something to focus on.
"Henrik," she said softly, preparing to bind the wound, "your brother's strong. Help me lift him slightly so I can secure these bandages."
Henrik nodded, swallowing thickly as he moved to assist. Together, they carefully lifted Harwin just enough for Popola to work. Her hands moved with practiced precision, wrapping the clean linen snugly around the injured leg. Henrik's movements were steady, though his jaw remained tight, his emotions simmering beneath the surface.
As they settled Harwin back down, Matthos stepped back, adjusting the sword at his side. He gave Henrik a small nod. "Your brother's in good hands now," he said. "I'll let you stay with him." His tone lightened slightly as he added, "And hopefully, you'll find more peace here than you would at that tavern of yours."
Henrik snorted faintly but said nothing, his gaze fixed on Harwin's pale face.
Matthos turned his attention to Popola, offering her a small, lopsided smile. "Thank you again, Popola," he said, eyes filled with warmth. "It's been lovely to meet you. Seems the Lord of Light deemed Harwin worthy of help today." His tone was half-joking, but there was sincerity in his words.
Popola tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "I think the credit lies more in your efforts than any divine intervention. But I appreciate the sentiment. And thank you, Matthos, for helping bring him here."
Matthos chuckled softly, his earlier tension easing just a fraction. "Well, I suppose I'd better find something to entertain a boy before Father has to delay his schedule back to Dragonstone even more," he said with a wry grin. "May the gods grant you luck in your investigations, Henrik. And I'll pray that your brother's path is lit amongst the darkness."
Popola found Matthos's comments slightly odd but understood they were well-meaning. She nodded graciously. "Best of luck to you as well, Matthos. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Matthos gave her a final nod, then adjusted his cloak and headed toward the door. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor faded into the growing quiet of the room.
Popola's gaze lingered on the door for a moment before she turned back to Henrik and Harwin. The latter stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open for a brief moment before closing again.
Hours later, after Matthos had departed and the day's tumult began to settle, Popola found herself in the company of Henrik and his ailing brother, who lay resting in the corner of the room. The day's events had left her weary but a odd quiet did now settle over things. Harwin shifted suddenly, his face pinched with unease. His breathing quickened, and he murmured something incoherent, his fingers twitching against the blanket draped over him. Henrik was at his side in an instant, kneeling to gently clasp his brother's hand.
"Harwin," Henrik said quietly, his voice low and steady. "I'm here. What is it?"
Harwin's eyes fluttered open, hazy with exhaustion and discomfort. He searched Henrik's face with an almost childlike urgency, his voice thin but insistent. "The story… the one the lyre man used to tell us when we were kids. You remember, don't you?"
Henrik's expression softened, though his jaw remained tight. "The lyre man…" he repeated, his voice taking on a childlike tone. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye, I remember. Florian and Jonquil, wasn't it?"
Harwin nodded weakly, his gaze steady on his brother. "Tell it," he whispered. "Like he used to."
Henrik hesitated, his hand tightening briefly around Harwin's. His eyes flicked toward Popola,She gave Henrik a small nod.
Henrik's eyes softened, and he nodded. He took a seat, clearing his throat as he adopted a more dramatic cadence.
"In the Age of Heroes," he began, his voice weaving through the room, "when dawn nearly touched the west and Others walked beyond death… when wyverns roared and dragons soared above a world where hills had not yet dreamed of Andals, there lived a man some might even say boy in the Riverlands unlike any other. His name was Florian."
Harwin's gaze brightened slightly, the tale a comfort in his weakened state. Popola, tidying her workspace, paused to listen. The names and images were familiar, though distant, carrying the weight of old legend.
Henrik continued, his voice growing richer, inviting them into the tale. "Florian, known to all as the Fool, lived a life of laughter and jest. Clad in iron motley rather than gleaming armor, he bore a sword known more for tales than kills." Henrik's tone softened as he painted Florian as both a figure of mockery and bravery, his words filling the space with a gentle reverence.
Popola glanced at Harwin, whose gaze was fixed intently on his brother. The childlike wonder in his expression stirred a bittersweet memory within her of another.
"And yet," Henrik went on, his voice low, "it wasn't Florian's sword that defined him, but his heart. For he fell in love with Jonquil, a maiden he first saw bathing near Maidenpool. It was a love that defied reason—a love that would forever mark him a fool in the eyes of the world."
The soft crackling of the hearth mingled with Henrik's voice, the glow of the fire casting long shadows. Popola felt the weight of the tale, each word stirring thoughts of her own purpose, of the quiet work she and Devola had devoted themselves to. In their own way, were they too like Florian, fools clinging to hope in a world that often seemed bereft of it?
Henrik's voice softened further, almost reverent. "But what is a fool, truly? Is it one who sees the world's darkness, yet chooses to believe in its light? After all what is courage but a fools errand."
Henrik leaned forward slightly, his voice deepening as he farther settled into the cadence.
"Take the day, Florian had finally mustered the courage to reveal himself to Jonquil," Henrik began, his tone filled with a hint of dramatic reverence. "She stood by the pool, her golden hair catching the sunlight like threads of spun gold, her expression scathing as she gazed at the man before her."
He paused, casting a glance at Popola and Harwin, ensuring attention was kept. "And she said to him, 'You are no knight. I know you. You are Florian the Fool.'"
Henrik's voice softened as he shifted into Florian's response, imbuing the words with a blend of humility and earnestness. "'I am, my lady. As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.'"
Popola's hands, which had been resting idly on her lap, tightened slightly as Henrik continued, her gaze fixed on the shallow breaths of Harwin. There was something in those words that struck at something familiar within.
Henrik straightened, his voice taking on a touch of playfulness as he delivered Jonquil's reply. "'A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such.'"
His tone shifted again, this time to embody Florian's response, laced with both sincerity and a touch of self-deprecation. "'Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.'"
Harwin, though weakened, let out a faint chuckle, the sound raspy but genuine. "That Florian," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew how to speak to a lady."
Henrik smiled, glancing at his brother. "Aye, that he did."
Henrik's voice dropped to a near whisper, "Florian's love was his greatest strength and his greatest folly. But perhaps that's the price we pay for daring to hope, for daring to believe in something greater than ourselves."
Henrik's voice finally trailed off, the tale of Florian and Jonquil settling into the quiet room. Harwin, who had listened intently throughout, seemed calmer now and his vitals were better , breathing even as he rested.
Popola broke the silence, her voice curious but measured. "That was a beautiful story, Henrik. I think I've heard mention of Florian the Fool before, but never actually read or heard any of the story. Is it truly just a tale, or is there more to it?"
Henrik leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Hard to say," he admitted. "Some say Florian and Jonquil were real—a knight and a maid who lived in the Riverlands. Others claim it was just a story meant to give people something to distract themselves from troubles back then, a reminder that even fools can find bravery and love in the darkest of times."
Popola nodded, her gaze drifting to the shadows flickering across the walls. "Hope," she said softly, the word lingering on her tongue as her thoughts turned inward.
The tale had stirred something in her, a memory she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on in some time. Back before they had arrived in this place, before the chaos and the loss, she and Devola had told stories too. Tales crafted with care, rooted in a truth that could never fully be revealed.
She thought of Nier—young, hopeful, and desperate for something to believe in. The story they had told him had been a fabrication, carefully constructed myth meant to accomplish a will far greater than themselves.
"When the great black book, Grimoire Noir, plunges the world into chaos...
The white book, Grimoire Weiss, will appear with his Sealed … or so the legend goes"
It had been a simple story of a hero destined to save humanity. But the reality was far more complex, even if the seeds of truth were there.
He had clung to that tale, not knowing the full weight of it. She and Devola had watched him grow, shaped by a purpose they had no choice but to give him, until all that remained in him was vengeance and resolve.
Her hands stilled over the collection of medical tools she had been organizing. She glanced at Harwins now sleeping form. She turned her attention back to Henrik who was looking at his brother as worry creased across his face.
"Do you think Florian really existed?" she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.
Henrik shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn't matter, does it? Whether he lived or not, the story survives. It's something people hold on to. As a child the adventure of it called to me and Harwin. As an adult, I've felt like a fool plenty of times in my life, its good to know that even a fool can make it somewhere."
"Do you believe he truly saw himself as both a fool and a knight? Or was it merely his way of charming her?"
Henrik looked at her thoughtfully, his expression softening. "I think Florian knew what he was. A fool to the world, perhaps, but in Jonquil's eyes, he was something more. And isn't that what we all want? To be seen not as we are, but as we could be?"
Popola nodded, but her mind remained elsewhere. She thought of the parallels between henriks philosophy and the way they were seen the true humans of the world… the old world she supposed. The sister model line meant to safeguard humanities survival. She thought of the "prophecy" she and Devola had created. Both were stories of hope, designed to inspire belief in the face of despair. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder if this tale also carried more truth than it seemed.
Devola finally arrived back in Flea Bottom when the sun was all but gone, the twilight casting long, uneven shadows that seeped into their modest home and workshop. The fading light did little to illuminate the cluttered space, where the remnants of the day's chaos lingered in the form of half-sealed tinctures and discarded bandages.
Henrik had left some time ago, mumbling about finding solace—or perhaps answers—at the nearby tavern. Popola hadn't stopped him. She understood. If something happened to Devola again, she would do much worse than drown her worries in rat-tail ale.
The sound of the door creaking open drew Popola's attention. She turned to see Devola step inside, her shoulders stiff and her gaze avoiding Popola's. Something about her was off, and not in the way she'd occasionally been since their arrival in this harsh corner of the city. This discomfort was deeper, more unsettling—something Popola hadn't seen since that first night.
This seemed worse.
"Devola," Popola said softly, setting down the jar she had been labeling. Her sister didn't meet her eyes as she walked further into the room, the twilight barely catching the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. "What's wrong?"
Devola hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally spoke. "The owner of the brothel introduced himself to me today."
Popola blinked, the statement catching her off guard. "I thought Chataya was the owner."
"So did I." Sister's voice was clipped, flat in a way that rang alarm bells in Popolas head.
"What did he do?" Popola pressed gently, though there was an edge to her words, a protective fire building in her chest.
Devola shook her head, finally meeting Popola's gaze. "He didn't do anything. Just… he said that soon enough, Leerah could be a more 'active' participant."
Popola froze, a lump forming in her throat so suddenly she almost choked on it. Her hand gripping the rough wood of her desk nervously. "What can we do?" her voice quieter than she intended.
Devola looked away, her jaw tightening. "I'll figure something out," she said after a pause, though her tone betrayed the uncertainty. Her eyes flicked to the table where Harwin lay resting. "What about him?"
Popola exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. "That's Henrik's brother, Harwin. He was trampled by horses in a rush to reach the royal retinue."
Devola winced, her shoulders sagging slightly. "On my way back from the Street of Silk, I saw some bodies trampled like that. They looked…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Terrible. Red, black, purple. Broken in ways I wouldn't wish on anyone even legion."
Popola swallowed har, having been so focused on helping Henrik and Harwin in the moment she hadn't stopped to consider how others might have suffered the same fate today. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the sounds she'd ignored earlier, and she felt a sharp pang of shame. How many could have been saved? she wondered.
Finally Popola weakly broke the silence. "Would you still want to do the broader scan? I'd understand if you'd rather wait. I'm not sure I'm ready for it myself."
Popola looked at her sister, noting the tension in her posture, the weariness in her eyes. For a moment, she considered suggesting flat out they put it off.
"Oh, sister," Devola said, her voice cutting. "Part of me does want to wait, but there's no sense in it. If not today, then when? The longer we delay, the worse things could get. Let's do this."
Popola gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's get it done."
After ensuring Harwin was well asleep, and in safe conditions. The workshop was quiet except for the faint hum of the copper apparatus as Popola and Devola connected their systems to it. The dim red glow bathed the room in eerie light, and Popola's hands moved deftly across the controls, keeping the utmost focus. Devola stood beside her, monitoring the interface on her own end, her lips pressed into a thin line of anticipation.
"This should extend the scanning radius," Popola murmured, double-checking the connections for the third time. "I calculated it to reach around 1,100 miles, which should give us a clearer picture of any traces of the particle."
Devola nodded. "It's better than working blind. Let's hope we find something useful."
Popola initiated the system synchronization, the copper apparatus emitting a soft chime as their processors linked. See brought out her internal interface only see could see to project above the device for ease of mind if anything got disconnected. As the synchronization was finalized, a new message blinked on the screen: "Threshold Extended to 1,500 miles."
Popola frowned, her eyes narrowing. "That's… unexpected," she muttered. "It's exceeding my projections by a significant margin."
Devola leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "Good or bad?"
"Potentially both," Popola replied. "We'll know soon enough."
The apparatus began its scan, a soft hum building as waves of light pulsed outward from the device. On the interface only, a primitive map began to materialize, the contours of the land etched in faint lines of light. Tiny pockets of particles began to appear, scattered across the map like faint embers in the dark.
Popola leaned in, her breath catching. "There," she said, pointing to several glowing markers. "Small traces of the particle… scattered across the land. Not just one isolated source."
Devola's eyes widened. "That's… more than I expected. But why so many?"
Before either could speculate further, a sharp chime interrupted their thoughts. The holographic interface flashed red, and a message scrolled across the screen in stark, urgent lettering:
"LARGE COLLECTION OF MASO-RELATED PARTICLES DETECTED. MASO PARTICLE DETECTED. INFORM 'CLASS A' ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY."
Popola's hands froze, fear overcoming her as she darted over the message. Devola glanced at her sister, concern etching deep lines into her features. "Popola? What's wrong?"
Popola raised a hand, silently asking for a moment as she stared at the interface. Her voice, when she spoke, was measured but tense. "Give me the data packet."
The system didn't comply immediately, repeating the warning instead: "INFORM CLASS A ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY"
Popola's jaw tightened. "There are no Class A androids here," she said sharply. "Devola and I are the only androids present."
The interface paused, as if considering her words, before glitching briefly. The message updated:
"GIVEN LACK OF CLASS A ANDROIDS, CLASSIFICATION IS TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED FOR THIS POPOLA MODEL. WOULD YOU LIKE AN INFORMATION DOCK ON LOCATION OF PARTICLES?"
Popola exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of unease. "Yes. Provide the location data."
The map shifted, zooming out to reveal a broader view of the world. Several points lit up, each glowing marker accompanied by a string of data. The soft hum of the apparatus was the only sound in the room as both sisters stared at the display.
Popola leaned closer, reading aloud in a voice that grew quieter with each revelation. "Approximately 1,050 miles to the southwest… I believe that's near Oldtown. A large collection of dormant, unmoving maso particles. It's… interspersed with an unknown particle. Not the one we've encountered before—something else unidentifiable."
Devola's breathing hitched, her eyes glued to the interface. "Oldtown? That close?"
Popola didn't answer, moving to the next marker. "923 miles to the northwest, on what appears to be an island about 123 miles off the coast of the continent unsure on that one's name… a smaller collection of pure maso, also unmoving."
"Another collection. Just... sitting there?"
The third marker glowed brighter than the others, its light casting faint red hues across their faces. Popola hesitated before speaking. "1,492 miles to the southeast, across the summer sea near a much larger landmass possibly Sothoryos… an even larger concentration of dormant maso. No unknown particles present, just… pure maso."
Devola's hands closing in tightly. "No, No..," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This much maso? It shouldn't even exist anymore, let alone in these quantities."
Popola hesitated at the final marker, her breath catching. The system highlighted it in ominous red, pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm. Her voice faltered as she spoke. "And here… 1,100 miles to the southeast. A moving source of maso. It's smaller than the others, but… it's the only one actively moving." She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It appears to be in the middle of the Summer Sea, between Essos and Sothoryos."
The interface chimed again, drawing her attention back to the display. Another notification appeared, its text accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible glitch in the system:
"ANOTHER SOURCE OF MASO DETECTED. THIS MASO SIGNATURE MATCHES THE EXACT ENERGY SIGNATURE OF YOUR PAIRED DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola froze, her brow furrowing deeply. Her fingers hovered over the controls. "Wait. Repeat that please" she murmured, her sense of dread only increasing. She glanced at Devola, who was already looking at her with wide, fearful eyes.
The interface repeated: "LIVING MASO SIGNATURE DETECTED. ENERGY SIGNATURE MATCHES CURRENT DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola's voice cracked with alarm. "What does that mean? Is there another model?" Her hands clenched at her sides, her tone rising with each word. "Is there another Devola out there?"
Popola's voice remained steady despite the growing knot in her chest. "System," she said firmly, "clarify. Is there another Devola model active in this region? Use vocals to inform both my sister and I at once."
The system responded after a brief pause:
"NEGATIVE. ALL DEVOLA MODELS HAVE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT ENERGY SIGNATURES. EACH MASO SIGNATURE IS EMBEDDED WITH A UNIQUE MODEL NUMBER FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES BY SCANNING SYSTEMS."
"Matches mine? But that's…" Devola trailed off, her voice tightening. "Not possible. How?"
Popola's throat tightened as she processed the words. "So... if this signature matches Devola exactly, what does that mean?" she asked, her tone careful, as though speaking too loudly might break something fragile.
The interface hesitated, or perhaps the system itself was recalibrating. Finally, it responded:
"UNCERTAIN. SHOULD BE STATISTICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. ALL MASO ENERGY SIGNATURES ARE UNIQUE. THE SIGNATURE GIVES NO INDICATION OF TECHNICAL OR ANDROID NATURE. IT IS CONSISTENT WITH ORGANIC BEING MASO SIGNATURES."
Devola took a step back, her eyes darting between Popola and the glowing display. "Organic?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "How could something organic have my exact energy signature?"
Popola's fingers tightened around the edge of the apparatus, her gaze fixed on the data. "Where was it detected?"
The map shifted again, highlighting another location with a faint trace. The system continued:
"THE TRACE WAS DETECTED APPROXIMATELY 1,462 MILES TO THE DIRECT EAST. CURRENT DIRECTION CONTINUES EASTWARD BUT FELL OFF SCANNING RANGE. STATUS AND LOCATION UNKNOWN."
"How long ago were they at the location?"
"UNABLE TO DISCERN AT THIS DISTANCE, LIVING MASO BEARS SAME TRACE AS THE RESIDUAL SIGNATURES LEFT ON DAY OF DIMENSIONAL ENTRY INTO FLEA BOTTOM DISTRICT BY OBSERVER MODEL 022: 'DEVOLA'. GIVEN THIS POTENTIALLY THE SAME LENGTH OF TIME HAS PASSED"
Devola's head snapped toward her sister, her face pale. "Living? That's not possible… It can't be possible!" Her voice trembled. "Living maso with my signature? After everything we've seen, after all this time—What does this even mean?"
Popola remained frozen, her eyes locked on the pulsing red marker. Her mind reeled, memories of Earth's destruction, of the horrors maso had unleashed, rushing to the forefront. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "I don't know," she admitted. "But if it's true… it changes everything."
Devola let out a frustrated cry, pushing away from the wall. She began pacing the room, her movements erratic, her hands clutching at her head. "This can't be happening. It's like we're back in 2053—nothing mattered. It's all happening again, Popola. What if—"
"Devola!" Popola's voice cut reached out, gripping Devola's wrist firmly but gently. "I don't have the answers right now. But panicking won't help us. We need to think."
Devola's breathing tears brimming in her, but she nodded reluctantly. "Fine," she muttered, seemingly defeated. "Fine. But don't you dare tell me you're not scared too."
Popola's expression softened, her grip on her sister's wrist loosening. "I am," she admitted quietly.
A.N.
Been a while since the last update, and I want to thank you all for your patience. Originally, I planned to split this part of the story into separate POV chapters for Popola and Devola, but after much thought, I decided to combine them into one. The elements in this chapter have been in the works for quite some time, but I've been battling some serious writer's block, and honestly, I'm not entirely satisfied with how this chapter turned out.
Writing the in-between period after Jon Arryn's death and before the Quiet Wolf's arrival has been especially challenging. While it's still fairly early in that timeframe after Arryns death, I think I'm going to skip over the rest of it for now. I want to move the story forward and focus on the main narrative arc.
So next up, I'm planning a Gendry POV chapter which still will be in the inbetween time, and after that… we'll be introducing a brand-new POV character! (I've already written their first chapter, and I think many of you can guess who it is.)
This prologue arc (Arc 0) has taken me nearly two years to complete, and while it's been an incredible journey, I'm anxious to dive into the heart of the story. Hope people enjoy what's to come as it's been something I'm quite excited to write and later on reread.
FireWalkWithMe99
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Well the "unknown particle" is the magic. The locations that arn't moving with Maso all correspond with something in particular in the GoT lore.
Thats all ill say.
ATP
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So,something in Hightower castle,Iron Islands,and near Sothorys.
And living Maso - probably Dany.
FireWalkWithMe99
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If you are curious given its not a massive spoiler just might provide a little better idea.
The sources of dormant Maso are someone in oldtown, The isle of toads (a island of the basilisk isles near Sothryos), and Somewhere on the iron island of Pyke.
That should give a bit of an indication.
ATP
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Thanks! there were cursed ruins in Sothorys,Yeen i think,when notching grow and people vanished if they try to settle there.You could use that,too.
Maybe city of Valyrian convicts,Golgossos i think.But - they were too late,and only used flesh alchemy,so maybe not.
And Hightower was built on some ancient ruins,too