Blessed Baelor SI (ASOIAF)

[cosmicfox]

Those who wish to know in further detail of the First Great Deed, of Baelor's Revelation, the Hunt of the White Hart and the Holy Passage, must look upon the work of Archmaester Tommen, or if they are inclined to a more hagiographical work, they should read "The Seven Great Deeds, or the most holy life of the Blessed Baelor", written by Septon Bonifer of the Stoney Sept.

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If this First Deed is the standard by which all others will be measured, I have trouble seeing what the next six could be.
Just conquering Dorne wouldn't be as culturally significant.

Maybe truly unifying the whole of Westeros, meaning bringing Dorne, the Stepstones & beyond the Wall under the Iron Throne authority?

Maybe successfully travelling to Valyria to bring back magic & Dragons to House Targaryen?

Or even "invent" the compass & successfully sail West to either a whole new continent or just reach Asshai that way?

Make a prophecy on his deathbed, sent to him from the 7, about the return of the Others in 136 years.

I don't know, it still leaves 2 more.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

If this First Deed is the standard by which all others will be measured, I have trouble seeing what the next six could be.
Just conquering Dorne wouldn't be as culturally significant.

Maybe truly unifying the whole of Westeros, meaning bringing Dorne, the Stepstones & beyond the Wall under the Iron Throne authority?

Maybe successfully travelling to Valyria to bring back magic & Dragons to House Targaryen?

Or even "invent" the compass & successfully sail West to either a whole new continent or just reach Asshai that way?

Make a prophecy on his deathbed, sent to him from the 7, about the return of the Others in 136 years.

I don't know, it still leaves 2 more.

Click to shrink...

The Reconquest and remaking of Dorne is the second, the rest are various reforms he has in mind.

There will be no return of the dragons.

 

[Sebastipole]

There will be no return of the dragons.

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Well Viserys will be very disappointed (after Baelor brought his infant grandsons back to life, I'd expect him to be hoping he'd be bringing dragon eggs back to life).

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXIII: So, you want to be a courtier?​

To my lord and brother,

You have my congratulations in finding a knight at court in need of a squire to foist your son on. But if it is your ambition, as I most accurately suspect, to use his squiring as the first step of raising him to a higher position in court and in the king's favour, I fear there is much more work you will need to do.

You have praised at length your son's martial skills. But these skills alone would not find enough favour with King Baelor. The Young Dragon is dead, and all the young knights eager for glory are not our new king's friends, for they have not proven themselves beyond the shedding of blood. A place for such men can no longer be found even among Prince Aegon's retinue, for since his incident, he shuns knights for jealousy of their manliness. He only keeps the company of drunkards now, and that is a fate I do not wish upon the young boy.

One could say that there are several factions at court, though some people could be considered part of more than one. It is to men high in such factions that your son should seek to attach himself.

The oldest of these factions, to which I belong on account of being appointed as one of the Keeper of the Keys a dozen years ago, is that of the Hand of the King, Prince Viserys. Our days of glory are long past, even if king Daeron, and now king Baelor have kept many of their uncle's appointments. There is no security in our positions anymore. The king has changed men solely on account of corruption or incompetence, of which misdeeds I am not guilty. But when the Stranger shall take the Lord Hand in his bosom, we can only pray that fortune shall keep smiling bright.

From our faction, the position of Lord Hunter, the Master of Laws is the shakiest. The king loves greatly justice and disapproves of the haphazardly manner in which it had been dealt before.

The Master of Coin is secure until a more skilled man is found, and the few times he has shown a matter of incompetence, the king has threatened to give his position to his sister, the Princess Elaeana. This is surely a jest.

The king's uncle, Lord Velaryon steadfastly remains in favour, for he has proven himself time and time again at sea. Save for the granting of the Stepstones to his line, his star shall shine no brighter. He seeks not a greater influence at court, save for the affairs of his office. The king has pondered, it seems, to hand over the office to his cousin, the Lady Laena, if the gods take the Oakenfist, but has changed his mind, for he does not wish to keep the lady from the sea. When the times come, only the gods know who shall take the post.

The second faction is that of the King's Men. These are men appointed in posts by our new king, and have caught his eyes on account of competence, wisdom, and honesty. Chief amongst them is Ser Herman Harte. He does not owe his positions because to kinship with the king, for our sovereign has denied power to a closer cousin who has proven himself unworthy. He has served the king well in Braavos and now as deputy to the Master of Ships, and rumours abound that upon the passing of the king's uncle, his star shall shine the brightest in this constellation of courtiers.

Second and most martial of them is Ser Jonos Edgerton. Proven in service in Dorne and in Pentos, he keeps no steady position at court or in the king's employ, but he is ever the king's favourite. His father, the Master of Horse is a man whose council the king does not shun, even if he holds his office by hereditary appointment. One of his brothers is the King's Counter, and through this kinship his fortune shines bright. He might be our next Master of Coin. Alas, the gods do not smile upon me.

Among the same faction we count the septons closest to the king, who advise him in many matters, the septons Cad and Paul. The first knowledgeable in many worldly matters, the second of a most inquisitive nature. These hold a measure of power of some of the King's Men, the Knights Inquisitors. They are men honest and competent, ever eager to root out misdeeds among the king's officials. But some of them are accomplished in arrogance and that might be their downfall.

The strangest man of this faction is Bastyen, the king's fool. He entertains the king with his folly, he speaks with wise words in counsel to our king and is a more accomplished swordsman than many knights. He now rides to war at the king's side, and I am told he has yet to prove himself a craven.

The third faction of which I shall write, now growing stronger since the Holy Passage, is that of the Faithful. We are all faithful, but these are men that have earned the king's favour through their piety. It is curious a fact that these are the most martial of the royal favourites and that their captain is the self-same Jonos Edgerton. He now commands the Holy Hundred, which had guarded the Seven Stones, and which the king has decided to keep on. The Holy Hundred itself counts among the Faithful. But these are not only martial men, for the king is interested in conversation with pious men that hold some degree of intellectual acumen, to not bore himself with them. As with the King's Men, some are useful to the king for service, some for wise counsel.

Of all the king's favourites, Ser Herman and Ser Jonos are the most likely to benefit from the humbling of Dorne, and we might someday call them lords.

If your son is not particularly skilled in matters besides that of arms, I counsel him to read attentively the Seven-Pointed Star, be ever a pious man, and later seek admittance in the number of the Holy Hundred, of whom many shall undoubtedly die in Dorne. These men are not a company in the usual manner, for the king might send them to some errand of the other or grant them offices grander and farther than the Red Keep.

So, if your son has not taken to the vices of drink, gambling or whoring, has not spoken impious words, that is the path that the Crone's Lantern enlightens for him. Find him some septon for a tutor before you send him here. I shall be glad to receive my nephew.

Your ever loyal brother,

Balthasar Grell

 

[WinRarArchivist]

XXIV: Of Holy Matters

It is said that since the Seven Stones have crossed the Narrow Sea, the people of the southern kingdoms have grown more pious. That is certain of the smallfolk, which came as pilgrims to King's Landing in their droves.

Thousands, then tens of thousands made the journey to see for themselves the holy relics. From the Fingers of the Vale and the many river valleys of the Riverlands, from the Westerlander mountains and the fields of the Reach, from the Rainwood of the Storm lords and the mouth of the White Knife in the North. From Dorne came few, and only those who had acquired some license of safe conduct from a Marcher lord or the other, and thus risked not their life in crossing the Red Mountains.

Processions, miles long, led by barefooted septons, advanced upon the multitude of the roads in the realm. Men and women, young and old, filled with holy fervour. They were ordinary people, desirous of closer company with their gods. They were septons and septas, seeking the slightest measure of divine guidance and revelation. They were wretched sinners, of untold and many crimes, seeking repentance – at the behest of the village septon, sent here to do their penance.

They carried with them staves - wooden sticks with iron toes. They wore long, coarse tunics and scrips - pouches of leather, strapped to their waist where they kept their food and coin. The villages and the septs, septries and motherhouses along the road offered roof over their heads, the fire of their hearts, water, and fresh bread, knowing that the gods would reward them sevenfold. Lords sent their men-at-arms to escort them along the way and keep them safe from robber bands, and the most pious built large guest halls for the purpose of providing hospitality to the pilgrims on their way to the capital.

Still, not all had good in their hearts, for many an innkeeper profited of a pilgrim's plight, offering them cheap wine, bad fish, putrid mean, filthy beds, and hard bread for the road. Yet their punishment would surely come, for many of the pilgrims cried to the heavens against those who had thus defrauded them.

Some had joy in their hearts and upon their face, eager to be so close to something so holy. Some had terror and trepidation, the penance of confession in a place as close to the gods they could be frightening their heart and wits, and their rest was plagued by night terrors most sinister, playing upon their guilt, and making them wake having imagined more sins that they had indeed committed.

The innocent prayed to the Crone to light and guide their way to King's Landing, and the guilty tearfully beseeched the Stranger each night to spare their lives another day, so that they may do their penance, and acquire thus the chance of lessening their damnation, of making it into the lesser of the Seven Heavens, or even in the lesser of the Seven Hells – for it was the fate of those who had failed to confess and atone for their sins until their dying to be cast into an ever-deepening pit, where sinners suffered extremes of cold and heat, of ice and fire, their cries drowning under the sinister laughter of demons. The first hell, where people were gnawed at by venomous worms, sounded far more pleasant than that, and the seventh hell - where sinners would boil in fire and brimstone for eternity in that oven infernal, was a fate that none desired.

There was a septon seeking guidance from above, for a lightning had struck the village sept, and rumours and whispers of the punishment of the Seven abounded. There was a party of village elders who had seen a red sky at night seven times each following another, and now sought the truth of that omen.

There were others, who sought a different kind of relief. Driven by new rumours of the king bringing back his cousins' sons from the precipice of death, and by elder ones, of the king's father visiting those stricken by diseases, they sough the touch of King Baelor's healing hands. Septons spoke of the seven oils of anointment at the king's crowing, and how such imbued the royal touch with healing power, by making the king himself holy. And so came the blind, the deaf, the infirm, soldiers seeking relief from the pain of old injuries, people suffering from a myriad diseases, but carrying in their hearts and souls the slightest of hopes.

There were even others, who had brought along their children, healthy as they could be, not to be healed of some illness, but in hope of a king's blessing, so that their child might grow up a worthy one.

A heavy rain stopping the advance of one day was thought to be the work of some malignant, demonic power, come straight from the seventh hell, to prevent this exercise in piety and damn their souls. It only emboldened them further.

The most holy of relics were though to hold such divine might as to bring the desired joy to the pious and succour to the penitent and the sinful. Carved by the sanctified hands of the Blessed Hugor, the King upon the Hill, and in them residing the presence of the Seven themselves, the Seven Stones were the hope of many.

Besides the septons and the smallfolk, came wealthy merchants, dragged on the pilgrim's path by some wife or daughter with exceeding piety. Lord and ladies came also, but who can say that they came by reason of a pious heart or not to prove themselves less faithful than their neighbours?

And they arrived, and set their sights upon the Seven Stones, and fell prostate in adoration at their sight, praying and crying and singing hyms of praise. Some made to approach the statues with handkerchiefs and aprons to take some divine grace to heal their sick. Some took the dust on the floors of the Dragonpit. Each according to their wealth made offerings of coin to the almshouses and sept of King's Landing, as tithes to the Gods, in gratitude or penance, or in hope of a blessing.

The pilgrims sought the slightest glimpse of the king and great crowds formed every time the king rode through the city, hands seeking the royal touch. Those whose ills were lessened or cured, praised his healing hands, and those who saw no relief saw themselves to sinful, or where shamed by their fellows for not showing enough penance for whatever misdeeds they commited in life. More than once, King Baelor had to unclasp his cloak and throw it to the crowds, for they made to tear at it, as if the clothes of a king held the same power as his hands.

Once the seven moons had passed, and the Seven Stones where returned to the Royal Sept and the King took his Holy Hundred and marched to Dorne for war, pilgrims came still. The highborn came to give coin to the king's new almshouses where septons and septas were in service to the poor and the sick, the old and the infirm, the widow and the orphan. Whetever they did so out of pious inclinations or seeking royal favour, only they know in their hearts.

The smallfolk kept coming for a different purpose. In ages past, the Poor Fellows from their lot had wandered the roads of the Seven Kingdoms, escorting pilgrims, carrying axes and cudgels. Now came artisans and craftmen, masons, stonecarvers and woodturners, blacksmiths and goldsmith, and people of many other professions, or those only of hardworking hands, that sought not the favour of the Warrior, but of the Smith. Wearing habits of course wool or hairshirts, they came and swore the service of their craft to the king, and called themselves the Confraternity of Holy Works, or the Smith's Apprentices.

For the king, once the seven moons had passed, had ordered the clearing of the ruins of the Dragonpit, intent upon building there a Great Sept, one whose like none had ever built or seen. He sought to make holy again the place that had been desecrated by Maegor, when he burned the Sept of Remembrance in dragonflame, and to build a suitable house for the Seven Stones.

The sept was to be built on the foundations of the Dragonpit, from the pale red stone that could be quarried close to the city, and clad in white marble from the isle of Tarth. It was to such a great and holy work that the the Faberards gave their service. The king housed and fed them at his own expense while they worked, and, loath to see their works go unrewarded, gave them wages from his own coffers. Though some would not accept it, King Baelor accepted no refusal, and as such, some gave the coin received to alms, and some kept them, but accepted only coin with Baelor's face, using them as amulets to ward of accidents or illness.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXV: Painting in Blood


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Yronwood would not fall as easily as Wyl did. The siege had gone on for more than a fortnight, the royal troops ferried by the king's ships while the Stormlanders laid siege to Skyreach, hopefully with aid from Reachers coming up the Prince's Pass, though Kingsgrave was still in their way.

In the king's pavilion, amidst the lords gathered in council of war, one was fool enough not to think a plan through, and fool enough to make it heard. Though no lord of fame and bold deeds, nor commander named by the king, he had somehow found his way into the councils by dint of how many lances he had gathered to battle in his name. He went by the name of Albin Peake, and an office of some worth held previously in King's Landing was the reason he was not presently amidst the hosts of the Reach.

Instead of giving counsel on the taking of the castle, the knight spoke of matters outside such purview and greater than he ever had right to give counsel:

"Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to offer Lord Yronwood dominion over Dorne, if he renounces his rebellion and begs for mercy and renews his fealty. Surely, he has allies of his own amid the Dornish, and the Bloodroyal have always made claim of paramountcy south of the Red Mountains. It would surely help us pacify this kingdom, if Your Graces names one of their own as lord over them."

Amid the jeers and lords calling the unfortunate fool craven, the king banged his fist upon the table, asking for silence, and with a measured voice, answered him:
"I had thought of a plan myself, if you would care to learn it?", he said, and the knight could only nod. "Let us gather our host and go round the walls of the castle once for ever six days, seven priests singing hymns to the Warrior before our men. And upon the seventh day, we shall go round seven times and then all men shall shout with great shouts, and make blasts out of trumpets and horns, and the walls of the castle shall fall down flat."

Murmurs arose in the council, and none dared to speak about such an audacious plan. At last, Ser Jonos Edgerton dared to ask the king: "Sire, was this deed revealed into you in a vision in the night by the Warrior?"

"By the Seven, no, Jonos" cried the king, with sudden anger. "I know you to be pious but use your wits for but a moment. Nay, it is but a jest. But having heard the words of a fool drip into our ears, I had thought we were making fun, not speaking of a serious matter. To name Yronwood Lord Paramount of Dorne instead of the arch-rebel Martell? He has with equal measure rebelled against us, fought against his rightful liege, and knew of the planned treachery that led to my brother's death – I will show him no mercy, for I hold the most violent and deadly hatred against him. So, I had thought to make my own joke, so monumentally amusing that none would take it but for such. It seems I was wrong. So tell me, Ser Albin, are you such a fool that you do not think before you speak, or you are a different sort of fool, a jester who tried to lighten our day with your buffoonery?"

Ser Albin thought for a moment but had not the heart to confess himself foolish in matter of politics or warfare, so he confessed himself to be a jester, and apologized for the misplaced levity of his words.

"Well, if buffoons we must have among our council", said the king, "I could have summoned one of my own employ. Begone from my sight, Ser Albin, and summon before me the fool Bastyen. Perhaps he'll speak wiser words. And you would do to remember that now we're waging war, not settling peace."

And wiser words Bastyen spoke. The king's jester knew the moment for levity, and the moment to speak of serious matters. And having once sold his sword in the Free Cities, he knew of warfare.

Sitting amid lords and generals more highly elevated than he, he spoke sound advice: "It seems to me, sire, that for all your late brother, King Daeron, has said that the Dornish could summon fifty thousand men to war against him, this is no longer the truth against you. Some say that your brother has exaggerated his words, and they numbered less, but many fell against his might, castles were sieged and fell, fields and orchards burned. The Yronwood no longer have the might of their full banners, their castle has been slighted in a previous siege, and your royal brother had wisely refused to allow the Dornish to repair their castles."

"And from what I have heard of the whispers of Maester Rowley, Your Grace's Lord Confessor, since the Submission of Sunspear, they had not the time to fill their granaries for a long siege. They had not done so when they feigned loyalty, as to not seems suspicious in the eyes of Lord Tyrell, and they have not done so since they treacherously cut down your brother, for they viewed your surrender of the hostages as the abandonment of all plans for Dorne. And their false sense of security only grew when you made war with Pentos instead. Only of late have they sought to prepare for sieges, but the time of the harvest was not near and so they had little success in it."

"This is my advice then, Sire. If you wish to starve them out, it shall not take too long. If you wish to storm the castle, it will fall easier than most castles, for lack of repairs. And Yroonwood has no tunnels or caves where the defenders might hide. I judge either decision to be a wise one – for we can be resupplied at sea, and we have also asked fines of produce from the villages of Yronwood's lands, and they have sent victuals to our camp, to save themselves from looting. And they do not seek to give aid and countenance to their liege, for they hold dear their immunity from war."

No one of the council saw fault with his words, and by the king's decision, the next day, Yronwood's castle was to be stormed.

The next morning siege towers were prepared, tens and hundreds of ladders readied to escalade the walls. The walls had been mined under in the previous days but had not collapsed yet. The other engines of war now stood silent and resting, for if they were to storm the castle, it would not do to hit their own men.

Among the men that volunteered to be first upon the walls were many knights and lords of the Crownlanders, men who bore the livery of the Holy Hundred, chief among them Ser Jonos, joined by his brother Symon, and the two fools, Bastyen, and Ser Albin, the latter eager to wash away his shame in blood.

Men gathered in files in front of the ladder, climbing one after the other. Man after man fell under bolts and arrows, under boiling oil and under rocks that smashed the helmeted heads of soldiers and threw them into the moat. From the king's own archers, some fell from the siege towers to their doom – damnation or salvation in the next life. Not all died, but some limped away with grievous wounds and burns.

It was a day of corpse-making, and blood flowed freely as the battle waged on, under the watchful eyes of King Baelor, sat upon his horse a safe distance from the walls, the Kingsguard gathered around him.

But not all that died were of the king's men. Symon Edgerton was first upon the walls, slaying half a dozen defenders, before one had grappled him upon the wooden hoarding and thrust a dirk into his eye. At that sight, Ser Jonos, who had come second after him, carved a dozen or two more Dornishmen with a great axe, as if he were a butcher slaughtering piglets for a lord's feast. After him, was the third man, Bastyen the jester who showed no lesser a valour that many a great knight that fought for the king.

The king had a great more men that he could afford to lose than Lord Yronwood and by nightfall, the castle was taken. His men had entered the castle by climbing with ladders on the walls, but King Baelor entered it through the open gate, to find the Yronwood bound and awaiting his sentence, surrendered men-at-arms kneeling around him, disarmed under the sword and spears of royal soldiers, and his hall burning behind him.

"Tell me, my lord Yronwood", asked Baelor, "why did you have to pain and wound us so? Could you not have kept your oath and stayed in your castle while Dorne rebelled? You might now be ruling Dorne by my generosity if it were so. But my cousin Aemon spoke of you joining the treacherous curs that betrayed my brother under sacred banner. Why choose such folly?"

"I am the Bloodroyal! Why should I bend before you, son of an abomination of incest?" spat Yronwood. "I have the pride of my line to uphold. Kill me and be done – you'll hear no penance from me."

"Yet you knelt before Martell as if you were a pup taken from the bitch and raised with milk by his own hand. You have humbled yourself before him far more than you would have done before me or my brother. And for no gain."

"You see the banner that stands behind me, Yronwood?"

The Dornish lord tried to keep his silence, but the armoured fist of Jonos Edgerton and a few missing teeth washed away his stubbornness. "It is the red banner of war without mercy" said he, with gritted teeth.

"It is more than a hundred years. Some maesters say it was a white one, until Maegor the Cruel drenched it in the blood of the Faith Militant. Perhaps I shall need to use another white banner, and being a royal one, dye it with the Bloodroyal."

The king turned to one of his men: "Fetch me the linens of Lord Yronwood's bed." Once they had been brought forth. The king took them and threw them on the ground. He grabbed Lord Yronwood by his long hair, took his dagger and cut his throat, the blood dripping upon the fabric, pale white turning to bloody red. Once the last of the blood spilled upon it, and the traitor's corpse was carted away, the king asked that the linen be made into a banner, to be carried from now in war.

His attention now solely upon the remaining prisoners, he ordered the hanging of the remains of the garrison. Lord Yronwood's sons, good-sons and grandsons faced two fates. Those who none present witnessed being part of the great treachery that led to the death of Daeron had a chance at their life. If they begged the king for mercy and confessed themselves traitors, they were given the chance of taking the black, spending the rest of their lives as brothers of the Night's Watch. Those who were present at that murderous meeting, or those too prideful to beg for mercy had their throats slit, a deed for which Ser Jonos and his father, Lord Manly Edgerton were quick to offer themselves. In that deed, they imitated the king, but instead they dyed in blood white surcoats, and swore that they would wear such bloody garments on their armour until all of Dorne were pacified and they would have returned the bones of their kin to Moorcastle, to the grieving lady Elissa.

The daughters, good-daughters and granddaughters of Lord Yronwood were to join the silent sisters. A fitting fate, for half of them had been already rendered mute, witnessing the cruel fate of their male kin that was the king's will.

And then the king and his army marched towards the Tor. In the weeks and months following, news came of the fall of Kingsgrave and Skyreach, of Blackmount, Starfall and High Hermitage.

The Stormlanders, after leaving garrisons in the castles they took, embarked upon the ships of the royal fleet, eager to once again join the king. The host of the Reach split in twain, half braving the dunes of the Dornish desert, to wreak vengeance upon the Qorgyles, and half marching up the Brimstone River to take the Hellholt. None envied them, for their part in war would be the hardest of all.

After the Tor, Ghost Hill had Spottswood had fell, king Baelor and the Oakenfist joined and soon ravens would feast upon the flesh of the slain all along the Greenblood. Meanwhile, the longships of the Iron Isles reaved all across the southern coast of Dorne. But the Dornish coast was hundred of leagues of whirlpools, cliffs, and hidden shoals – hardly a place to make a safe landing. The Ironborn who made it to the shore were half likely to drown with their loot upon their leaving, and many said that such was precisely the king's intent upon unleashing those murderous reavers.

 

[Fallout5368]

You know I can't help but wonder how the Dornish sources look at Baelor. Everyone is the Hero of their story and I can see Baelor being turned into a monster.

 

[zecorezecron]

You know I can't help but wonder how the Dornish sources look at Baelor. Everyone is the Hero of their story and I can see Baelor being turned into a monster.

Click to shrink...

"Oh come on! All we did was violate hospitality, commit perfidy, and kill his brother. Why does he hate us so? It's so unfair."

But, you know, unironically.

 

[Fallout5368]

"Oh come on! All we did was violate hospitality, commit perfidy, and kill his brother. Why does he hate us so? It's so unfair."

But, you know, unironically.

Click to shrink...

You know I could actually see Oberon talking like this, and believing every word.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXVI: The Follies of Green Boys
​

Digging hundreds of graves on the Milkwater, seeking the ancient tomb of Joramun, and his fabled horn, could become pretty boring after a while. Fortunately, the lands beyond the Wall proved to be one of the finest hunting grounds on the continent. Snow bears, shadow cats, mammoths and elks.

His party had made camp at the Fist of the First Men, from where they ranged forth periodically, while being occasionally harried by wildlings, though not in numbers so great as to overwhelm them. Jonnel thought that the wildlings were more curious than hostile, wondering what men wearing the direwolf livery sought so far north, when no one north of the Wall had called itself king.

When they had made their camp amidst the ruin of that ancient ringfort, one of his men had found a old, cracked war horn amid a bundle of weapons of dragonglass – daggers, spearheads, and arrowheads. Jon Umber had spoken in jest, claiming that they had already found that fabled Horn of Winter. Jonnel believed him not, but had kept the war horn, out of an abundance of caution.

When Jonnel tired of watching over his men digging grave after grave, he went hunting. He had already faced a great snow bear, and won his pelt, which awaited now in his tent for the day he'd gift it to his wife. In their camp were also a multitude of other pelts – from wolves, a few shadow cats, and mammoth ivory taken from those they had stumbled across. Their meat had already made its way into his men's bellies, though choice morsels were being kept in brine, to be taken to Winterfell.

It had been two months when they had stumbled upon the grave of what seemed to be a great chief or king among the giants once – for his skeleton could not be that of anything but one. Amid his remains were a golden ring, a silver brook, bracelets of gold, a belt buckle of the same, and silver armbands graven with runes. Most striking of all though, was a war horn, eight feet in length, black with golden bands, and engraved with ancient runes. He had studied the runes, and they seemed to be suitably old, and spoke of words of protection.

The Stark heir was not entirely convinced that this was the fabled treasure he sought, but his mean had grown weary and tired of digging, his wife was soon to give birth, and he would not return home with empty hands. That horn would do.

That night, Jon Umber had drunk too much ale, and a most unwise thought (given the legends surrounding the horn) entered his head. He gave way to those thoughts, in his addled state, and took the horn and blew it. A great sound, loud and piercing blasted all through the camp, and a foreboding feeling filled the hearts of all. Some even worried that mayhap the Wall had fell, as legend spoke, and counselled sending men to check upon its state. But at last, the men had calmed and went to their rest.

That night, at the hour of the ghosts, disaster struck. A great ruckus woke up Jonnel, and as he went out of his tent, in the light of torches, he saw giants with enormous clubs striking at the makeshift palisades that surrounded the camp and crushing men beneath their feet. Twice the height of a normal man, covered in shaggy fur, their clubs made short work of men-at-arms just woken from their sleep, unarmoured and barely armed.

Jonnel looked around and saw Umber, with a dumbstruck face. Remembering the moments of their earlier revel, he yelled at him: "Umber, you dumb fuck, you should have listened better to your nurse's stories. This is all your damn fault."

"What? What the fuck did I do?" asked Jon Umber, more dumbfounded.

"The Horn of Winter was used by Joramun to wake giants from the earth. I guess we've found the right one, but your lack of wit just doomed us to our deaths".

Jonnel could have argued longer with that fool of an Umber, but the strike of a club just a foot behind him reminded him of the current situation, and he began to run. And run he did, with naught but his shirt and breeches, a fur covering him, and a sword in his right hand. Yet a strike from a giant still met him.

Thrown away what seemed to be half a hundred feet, his ribs bruised, maybe broken, bleeding from his head, and limping, he managed to find his way to the forest.
He did not know even in which direction he went, but as the hours of the night went by, the pain and the cold became unbearable, so he stopped, wrapped the pelt tighter around his body and went to sleep.

---

When he awoke, after what seemed an eternity, he was no longer in a forest. In the darkness, he saw the face of a creature, with dappled skin, and gold and green, catlike eyes, her fair full of wines, twigs, and flowers.

"You're one of the children" he said, in wonder.

"Our true name is those who sing the song of earth, human" answered the creature. He gave him a bowl, full of a blood stew, with barley and chunks of meat, and bade him eat.

"I'm Jonnel Stark" said the boy, mindful of the courtesies instilled in him at Winterfell. If but for a moment, he thought he saw satisfaction in the face of the singer, but it passed as soon as it came, and his visage returned to its previous state.

"My name is in the True Tongue, which man cannot speak." was the singer's reply.

"But then, by what name should I call you?"

"You cannot speak my name. Why call me by another?" retorted the singer, and in his state of health, Jonnel could not find a fault in his logic.

He looked around and saw white roots all around him, and that he was laying on a bed of moss in a cavern, the floor around him full of bones – of bird and beast, skulls – of beasts, of men, and mayhap of giants too. In the distance, he heard the sound of rushing water and a song of earthly tones.

"We found you in the forest, half-dead and delirious. We brought you here and healed you," said the singer.

"And for that you have my undying gratitude," said the Stark. "How might I repay you?"

A quick look of satisfaction flitted across the singer's face; this time mixed with incredulity. It passed as sudden as it came, and Jonnel gave it no further thought.

"Come" he said and would speak no more. Jonnel rose from his sick bed and followed him. They passed a river swift and black, and he saw passaged going deep into the earth, bottomless pits and deep shafts. until they reached a tangled nest of roots, where another singer laid enthroned, amid a score of others, who looked mostly dead.

The half-corpse spoke: "You asked of a reward, Jonnel Stark. We ask of you nought but to give us, when you return home, what you did not expect. But you are but a man, so I will ask an oath of you."

"When I shall return to Winterfell, I shall give to you or yours that which I had found and expected not. This I swear, by the Old Gods of Forest, Stream and Stone." That was Jonnel's oath, given quickly and without much thought, the boy prickly at the perceived insult towards his honour.

When at least the time came for him to leave the cavern, the singers gave him the war horn he had wandered beyond the Wall to find – the ornate one, and the old and cracked one, and bade him keep it safe with solemn words. And by the same token, a direwolf bitch, fat and pregnant, followed behind him, and the singers counselled him not to turn her away.

---

It took him a week to find his way to Castle Black, and as he reached the Wall he was met by Jon Umber and by Edwyn Stark, his father's cousin, now a man of the Night's Watch.

"We thought you dead and buried, cousin. Well, not buried, but eaten by some wild beast. A snow bear or a shadow cat. Maybe even by a pack of wolves."

"Or perhaps a direwolf" smiled Jonnel, and the bitch came from the trees to the cries of the black brothers.

"Something like that, I suppose. She's big enough to eat you whole, though I wonder how long you'd keep her fed."

"I will keep her fed 'till her dying day – I'm taking her with me, to Winterfell. It does not do to ignore such a good omen from the gods." answered Jonnel.

"Cease that talk of death and beasts feasting on the flesh of the fallen, Lord Edwyn. You have not told Jonnel the joyous news." intervened the Umber lad.

"Aye, I forgot for a moment of that." said the Lord Commander. "Your princely wife has given birth. Guess to whom?"

"There are only two guesses are there not. Do I have a son, or a daughter?"

"You have a son, Stark," said Umber. "Healthy and hale, black of hair and grey of eye. The rumours are he looks just like your lord father."

"Praise the gods then. It was high time for Daena to give birth."

"There is more news" said the black brother, "one's you'd least expect". And at those words, Jonnel's face paled, and his knees began to tremble.

"You have another son – this one silver haired, and red eyed, which is most peculiar. I had thought the Targaryens had eyes of purple, not red."

Jonnel sat in place, struck dumb and only one word found its way beyond his lips: "Fuck!".

"What's so bad about it?" said Jon Umber, utterly clueless. "You've got an heir and a spare the first time."

 

[zecorezecron]

This is why you never make deals that are that open ended. With that definition, damn near anything can be not expected.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXVII: Pandemonium in Oldtown



To my lord and brother,



You have no doubt heard whisperings of the comings and goings of Oldtown, most probably warped by going from mouth to mouth. Allow me to humbly inform you of the truth of the matter.

The king's uncle and brother to Lord Hightower, Ser Martyn had died when marching with Daeron into Dorne, leaving the lady Rhaena widowed with six orphaned daughters. She and her daughters had remained in Oldtown, the lady judging the city a healthier one than King's Landing, ever mindful of her daughter.

Emboldened by rumours coming out of Planky Town of the death of Baelor at the hand of an assassin, Lord Lyonel Hightower saw fit to bypass the word of the king he now thought dead, and betrothed his eldest niece to his heir, and made plans to hold the wedding with great haste.

The High Septon, mindful of the king and his wishes, barred the doors of the Starry Sept before the Hightowers and their party, forbidding the wedding to go through. In rage at such an affront, Lord Lyonel found a drunken septon and forced his niece to speak the wedding vows. No doubt, he thought, that by outliving one High Septon who did not approve of his deeds, he would be likely to outlive another – and indeed he did, but not in the manner he expected.

Alas, at the news of Lord Hightower's folly, the High Septon's heart gave out, and the Faith remained without a head. In his daring, the lord of Oldtown gathered all among the Most Devout in Oldtown and shut them into the Starry Sept, intent on them choosing his kin Abelar, and ignoring the requisite wait of seven and seventy days for all of the Sacred Conclave to gather, and denied them any victuals until they at last made their choice.

It took them a week to make it, and the choosing was as great as testament against the Hightower as it could ever be. They had chosen a Valeman out of their lot, and not that wretched Abelar.

But once the doors had been opened, Abelar came out – feet first. The new High Septon claimed that his frail constitution could not survive the seven days of fasting that Lord Hightower had imposed upon them. No sane man would accuse the Voice of the Seven of lying, but witnesses claim that it was clear that the body had been rotting for days, and marks of strangling were visible around his throat. It is my own belief that that Stormlander giant of a septon among the Most Devout had given way to his rage and dealt with Abelar, and the rest of the Conclave had sworn itself to silence on the matter.

Not even Lyonel Hightower would dare slay a High Septon or the Most Devout, but his anger was great indeed, brooding in his high tower and continued to claim the marriage of Alyssa Hightower and his son as legitimate.

Some time later, Knights Inquisitors, carrying a decree of our Prince Hand, came to escort the king's aunt and her daughters to the Red Keep, Prince Viserys' writing making it clear he did not recognize the marriage of the eldest.

Lyonel Hightower most assuredly knew that he had overplayed his hand, and that, since Viserys did not call himself king, our blessed Baelor was still alive. He dared to raise his hand against the most holy, but not to rebel against a beloved king. He relinquished thus his nieces.

But the Lady Rhaena and her brood did not leave alone. The High Septon and the entirety of the Conclave present left too for King's Landing, claiming a wish to oversee the work of building our king's sept, leaving the Starry Sept into the care of an Arch-Septon, in an unprecedented decision. Never had that Great Sept been governed, in the absence of the High Septon, by any other than one of the Most Devout.

More unprecedented than that, by the whisperings at court, I believe that the High Septon has no intention of ever returning to Oldtown, into the grasping hands of Lord Lyonel. Furthermore, he has, after "careful consultation" of the sacred texts and the casuistry of sacred law, came to the conclusion that the marriage between Lord Lyonel and Lady Samantha was invalid and thus every fruit of their union illegitimate. Lady Samantha was proclaimed a fornicator and commanded, as penance, to join the Silent Sisters and Lord Lyonel to make a barefooted pilgrimage, in a hairshirt, to the Seven Stones.

The matter of Lord Hightower's sons is not that one easily unknotted. They had been born in the years when the Lady Samantha was still his paramour. They had been legitimized from bastardry in a separate decree by a High Septon agreeable to the Hightowers and could not so easily be called bastards again. But our High Septon has so cunningly concluded that a decree of legitimisation, having effects upon the fiefs of the realm, required further royal approval to be valid, and since the seal of Aegon, Third of His Name, was not present upon it, its words and proclamations were moot. And so the legitimised became base again.

And if those young men cry: "Why bastard? Wherefore base?" they have but their father to thank. The lady Alysssa, her marriage annulled, since her vows were spoken at sword point, is now the heir to Oldtown – the second born topping the firstborn, and already many lordlings are gathering around her, seeking her favour.

Lord Hightower now suffers to effects of his folly, and time will tell if he relinquishes his "wife" (or whore?) to the Faith and make his pilgrimage. But his pilgrimage will be the least of his trouble, for after facing the wrath of the sacred, he will face the wrath of the secular. King Baelor, by the will of the Seven still living, shall return from Dorne and all at court know he never held any fond thoughts for the brood of Hightowers, who brought such strife for the realm, and only his fair cousins have ever found favour in his heart.

For all that the Hightower did not fall that high from grace following the Dance of Dragons, now they shall fall further, and those who had once sought to put a half-Hightower upon the Iron Throne, will find a half-Targaryen of Daemon's blood ruling in Oldtown. If I stand still, I can hear the cries o dismay of Alicent Hightower and her father all the way from the seventh hell.



Your most loyal brother, Balthasar Grell.

 

[Jarrik32]

It took them a week to make it, and the choosing was as great as testament against the Hightower as it could ever be

Click to shrink...

I can't help but wonder what Lyonel was smoking when he came up with that scheme. Did he really think locking some of the most powerful men in the kingdom into a room and starving them wouldn't have consequences?

Hell if anything their retribution is on the mild side* considering how far over the line the hightowers sprinted, especially considering that even if Baelor was dead, all that means is his uncle takes over. Someone who'd be even less amused by such a naked power grab.

*I'm not sure if the concept of excommunication exists in their faith but after a stunt like that I bet they'd be happy to add it to the books. Especially as Baelor would likely back them to the hilt.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXVIII: Deadly Sins​

Once the Oakenfist had secured the Planky Town, our army had made its camp there, awaiting further orders. The Tor, Ghost Hill and Spottswood had fallen, and they had sailed past Sunspear to first take Planky Town. Part of the army was sent towards Lemonwood to secure it and allow no thorn in our back. Once that was done the castle along the Greenblood would find themselves besieged - Godsgrace and Vaith would fall in their turn. The Ironborn, against all odds, had managed to take Saltshore, and had killed the Gargalens.

Gathered one night in my pavilion along with my captains, lords Caron and Velaryon, ser Jonos Edgerton and Ser Oscar Tully chief amongst them, we argued back and forth over my decision to parley with the Orphans of the Greenblood, to make sure our advance up the river would not be hindered, and other matters alongside.

Lord Hayford, who had not yet distinguished himself enough to warrant a great reward, proved himself reluctant to my plans regarding Dorne:

"It is wise, Your Grace, to unmake Dorne so utterly and attaint every lord and house without mercy? The lords of the realm might grow weary of such ruthlessness. I do not deny that Wyl and Yronwood and Martell are deserving of their fate, but your advisers that argue for no mercy might be guided by other things than good counsel."

Lord Caron rose, and with a grave voice, accused: "And you, Hayford, do you not speak from envy? You claim that I desire honours so I counsel the king to be as cruel and unyielding as he can be? It is not greed that moves me so, my lord. It is hatred, the uttermost hatred. It is not greed that is my mortal sin, milord Hayford, though envy might be yours. It is wrath, unyielding, everlasting. If Wyl and his ilk had not fallen at His Grace's hand, and instead died peacefully in his bed, I would have descended myself into the Seventh Hell, by whatever foul deed I would need to commit, and begged its demons to allow me to torture him myself."

"I was a young boy many years past, playing with the smallfolk children from the village under the shadow of Nightsong. We were playing men-at-arms and reivers, fool children as we were. My brother Willem – he was the firstborn, my father's heir, and the apple of his eye – he was one of the reivers, and I played the lord of Nightsong, gods damn me, defending my lands. In our game, we caught him and tied a rope under his armpits and hoisted him up an old oak, as if we were hanging him. He was laughing, like any young child playing with his friends."

"Then the true reivers came. To my everlasting shame, we fled, one and all. We left my brother behind and ran. My brother did not laugh anymore – he yelled after us, he sobbed, he cried to be let down. I can still hear his screams in my night terrors. When I reached the safety of the castle's walls, I was quick to tell of it to my father. He rounded up his household knights and rode forth to slay the reavers."

"It was darkest night when he returned – the witching hour. His face was cold as the heart of winter, unmoving as if carved from stone, silent tears glistening on his cheeks. In his arms was my brother, shot by a hundred arrows, dead."

"From that day, my father never looked upon me with love, or pride, or any kind of kindness. I put away the misdeeds of childhood, listened to the septon and maester. Learned the martial arts dilligently from the master at arms. And when I grew and my jousting was better, I rode in tourneys for glory. For glory, but a glory that would get me a kind, or proud word from my father."

"Not even on his deathbed did he show mercy to me. He died and I remained, unforgiven. The only words before his last breath were to ask to be buried under that oak tree – with his son."

"After I lowered him into the ground, I swore an oath. An oath that I would take one of Wyl's kin and hang him from the same oak. In the year since, I have been great in wrath against the Dornish and their reivers – as every Marcher can attest – unmerciful, cruel, unyielding. I have judged even the innocent guilty in my great zeal, have killed men without judgement, showing disdain for the king's justice. I have spent many nights in drunken stupor, cursing the gods. When Daeron came to conquer Dorne, I relished the opportunity. But it was not meant to be – Wyl bent the knee. When the Dornish rebelled, I hoped again. Then Daeron died by perfidy. Then the king came, and Wyl's doom was the king's vengeance, not mine."

"And here I must ask His Grace's pardon. When my king asked that Wyl's sons be thrown to the scorpions, I snuck away one of them. My men took him to Nightsong and hung him upon the oak. I judged it that the king would be more forgiving if I hanged one of the boys he wished dead, and not the one he swore will be spared – for if the youngest would have been the only left alive – I would have slighted the king more greatly and stormed Ghaston Grey to fulfil my fell oath. I have now fulfilled my oath, and I can only subject myself to my sovereign's mercy. I am old and weary of my days and prepared to face my doom in the Seven Hells." he said and knelt before me.

Suddenly, I heard a harsh and loud voice that said "Beware." Startled, I jumped to my feet and drew Blackfyre forth from its sheath, the lords bewildered – thinking I would slay Caron then and there. A sudden gust of wind blew in, and the candles guttered, and darkness came. A cold shiver went through me and a shadow flowed forth through the doors of the tent and flew straight at me. It was fortunate for me that Caron rose and turned, and it flew straight at him. Once he fell dead, the shadow dissolved upon the wind, one life all it was meant to take.

Once the candles had been lit again, the lords and commanders clamoured: "What was that?", "A demon!", "That thing came straight out the Seventh Hell, I swear to you." "The Martells consort with demons now?".

"Silence" I yelled over their loud blathering. "That was the work of a shadow binder, no doubt a red priest of R'hllor, the so-called Lord of Light, and God of Flame… and Shadow."

"The shadow city of Sunspear has a Red Temple," said Ser Jonos. "My father told me of it. It is most certainly the work of a Martell."

I turned towards the Oakenfist with orders: "Find learned men to write down my words, and send letters to my seal to every port in the realm: Any red priests that sets foot in our realm, shall be slain without judgement, for they are consorters with demons, masters of malice that seduce good men from the Faith and corrupt the morals of the innocent. On further thought, have them thrown back into the sea – their god is one of flame, let us throw them in water, to the sea and its gods instead."

"And if they learn to swim?" asked Bastyen, now present in every council, to sanction any possible foolishness spoken aloud.

"Then we'll tie a mill stone to their feet before we throw them to the fishes" I answered him, returing his jest, before reverting to my prior, sombre demeanour.
I turned then to Aemon: "Find me that red priest, or priestess with all haste! Whoever they were, they could not have fled very far. And once we take Sunspear, that Red Temple needs to be destroyed. But burn it not by fire, for their Red God loves his fire, smash it all to nothing."

I returned my attention to the council of war and spoke with them: "Lord Caron is dead, putting himself in front of his king to defend him. Naught but good will be spoken of him. I need men for an escort of honour to Nightsong. Let his bones be buried under that oak and mayhap he'll find some peace."

"Tell his son to burn that tree – it's fate is fulfilled and tell him that I will buy that land from him and build there a grand septry out of my own coin, their brothers forever bound to pray for Lord Caron's soul."

"And, my lord Hayford, I shall hear no unkind word from you of him. Lord Caron might have been a great sinner, but no doubt there were such among your line. Even my father was guilty of that great sin of sloth, not of body, but an indolence of the mind – that melancholy that led him to refuse joy and lack of care for his duties towards other, lack of feeling about others. He ever lived in a winter of discontent."

"I too have shown myself a sinner in this endeavour of war, for I showed great wrath in my vengeance, and shall make penance for it for the rest of my days. If you would judge Lord Caron a great sinner, my lords, judge me no lesser of one than him."

---

Discord link: Join the WinRarArchive Discord Server!

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXIX: A Houseboat on the Greenblood​

The fact that, on a sudden whim, I introduced to this new world the game of chess had hilariously worked against me. I knew the rules of the game, where each piece on the board should be. What I did not have was any particular talent for the game, the mind for chess strategies or the knowledge of them – I had scarcely played the game when I lived before.

My uncle, who had taken a great liking to the game, had at first been eager to play with me, thinking that if I "invented" the game, I would be proficient at it. But after his many and repeated victory, he sought a better partner. Of course, that genius of chess, who had captivated his free time since, was my sister Elaena, and that was quite humbling for me. But Elaena took those opportunities with her uncle, emboldened by me, to ask of him, in the curious manner of children, of the affairs of the realm, and he was more often than not content to indulge her.

I had returned to the game during my campaign in Dorne, for the most sycophantic commanders had taken to portray their proposed battle plans in term of chess, as if to endear their ideas to my mind – but they were more skilled at it than me. And it was a pleasant enough pastime to whittle away at the many hours of boredom that accompanied the multitude of sieges. And many they were. It was said among the soldiers that Daeron had come to battle with the Dornish, and I to siege them, he had made short work of the Dornish, while I was more found of "prolonging their sufferings".

Even now, I fiddled with the game, while awaiting a response from the Orphans of the Greenblood, to whom I sent envoys.

At last, I saw the ornate, carved and painted pole boats of the river nomads approach Planky Town. My brother had once called their homes "hovels bult on rafts", but he most likely had suffered from the blazing sun a bit too much and had not seen straight, or it had been a needlessly untruthful, and malicious jest.

The Orphans had always held themselves separate from the rest of the Dornish, and in their blood flowed the purest of Rhoynar blood. They sailed up and down the Greenblood, singing laments for the cities of the fallen Rhoyne. Laments were not all that they sang. If one stood on the banks of the river on a clear and warm night, one could hear the songs of courting couples, lullabies, and dancing melodies, and bask under the starry and enjoy the pleasant tickling of one's ears.

They called their laments "the songs of the Rhoyne" and they sang of their old princes and princesses; of the Mother Rhoyne, the Old Man of the River, and the Crab King. They sang of lost and fallen cities: of Ar Noy, Chroyane, Ghoyan Drohe, Ny Sar, Sr Mell and Sarhoy. They sang of the Rhoynish Wars and Garin the Great's curse, and of the ten thousand ships of Nymeria.

I could understand their yearning for their lost past. I had walked past the banks of the Little Rhoyne, were Garin's curse did not reach, and it was a wondrous river. I had seen Ghoyan Drohe with my own eyes, and even if the canals were choked with reeds and mud, and pools of stagnant water were filled with swarms of files, one could still see the broken stones of temples and palaces, sinking back into the earth – the few and paltry remains of old glory. Few and paltry they were, but when I looked upon them, I could see the beauty and the skill that had been brough low by my ancestors and their beasts of war.

Then there were the sweet-water songs, songs performed in rhythmic talking or chanting by men, and with flourishes and elaborations by women. They were often improvised, singing of love or marriage. They were sung between courting couples, or at weddings – the man singing a couplet, and the woman answering, and so on – songs that could go on and on, often for hours. The weddings were full of songs – to welcome the gods and men to the ceremony, songs to invoke good luck upon the bride and groom, and the highest point of the feast being the attempts to encourage the bride to sing a bawdy song.

The Orphans more often that not duelled with song, not blade. Instead of insult that referred to one's lack of martial valour, or cowardice, they levied insult concerning one's lack of repertory, or ability. They then competed in their skills, singing all the songs they knew – the one who had exhausted his songs first was the loser. This song-battles led to one's rise in prestige, and often were conducted in the presence of the fairest of their maidens.

They also sang while rowing, and working, or at feast – nostalgic songs sung by elder men of the halcyon days of youth. They sang of lovers departing – bemoaning their abandon, bidding them to stay, or cursing them for their obstinance in leaving.

The now-wed maiden departing the house of their parents sang her parting song to her parents and kin, them answering in kind. She sang of wifely duty, of the wretched pain in her heart at the thought of leaving home – her mother giving her advice on wedded life in verses sung.

Then there were the laments of present pains, of death of kin, of friends or lovers. This were the most natural of song, unbound my usual structures, words and music flowing freely from the pain in one's heart. Heart-wrenching melodies, mournful words sung by choirs of women.

That is not to say that singing was all they did – their way of life was not but of word, but of deed too. Many of them were fishermen or worked on the fields and orchards along the banks of the river come harvest time. The Rhoynar who had come with Nymeria had been skilled in metalcraft, but the best of them had made their living on land and sand, and among the Orphans you could find but tinkerers – their trade more useful though to the smallfolk than the skill in crafting the best arms and armour in Westeros.

Yet even their skills as tinkerers they held close to their blood, taking apprentices but of their own blood. Not unlike the Orphans, the best of the Dornish smiths had the purest of Rhoynar blood, for they wed among their guild and took as apprentice but their firstborn sons, whom they married to the daughters of other smiths, keeping the secrets of their trade close and safe.

At last, word came of their agreement. But it was I who was supposed to go to them, for they would not treat on land, but on water. My knights protested, but I prevailed over their will and, joined by a few of my Kingsguard, I found myself in a houseboat with their chiefs. They were clad in colourful clothes, the richest among them wearing satin or silk.

They were understandably reluctant in treating with a "dragon prince" as they called me, though the fact that the first words I said were "Εὖ ἰδεῖν, ὦ τιμητοὶ ἄρχοντες." ("Well met, honoured chiefs"). They had laughed, and replied "Φύλαξον ἀπὸ δράκοντος καὶ ἐν τῷ φέρειν δῶρα." ("Beware of dragons even when bearing gifts"). Yet they did not reject my gifts, for the gifts were not a Trojan horse, but ancient manuscripts of their own culture, some bought centuries ago from Ny Sar itself, before its fall.

We conducted our talks in the Rhoynish language, which I was fortunate to know, having learned it for the purpose of studying whatever remained written of the works of the Rhoynar, to see what influence they had left on the sacred writings of the Faith, when in ancient times Andals and Rhoynar met. It was also a show of goodwill towards them, for it was the dragon prince who spoke their language, while the Red Princes of the blood of Nymeria had forbid their native tongue.

My offer was simple. I asked of them to do naught to hinder the advance of my army in the Greenblood Valley, to not aid, through word, or deed, my enemies in Dorne and to accept me as their ruler. For that, I offered to strike down the odious edict of the Red Princes, allowing them forevermore to speak freely their language. I offered to name no lord over them, to allow them free reign upon their river, to pay their taxes to the Iron Throne only, and to grant their chiefs the permission to bring their pleas for justice before the king – they would answer only before the king of the Rhoynar and his men. I offered not to burden their trade and trades with manifold taxes and customs, and not to summon them for war – allowing their peaceful nature to flourish.

I claimed myself in front of them king of the Rhoynar, as it was my title, to allow them such privileges, but I did not count among them the Dornish, in whom the Rhoynar blood was lesser – more among the Salty ones, and paltry among the Stony. I had come to claim the lands of Dorne and fashion them anew, but I left the water of the river to the Orphans of the Greenblood – but they were not to deny those living upon its shore the right to sail it or to fish in it, though those who wished to ferry goods upon it were required to pay a fee to the Orphans.

I had called myself king of the Rhoynar, and the Orphans the Rhoynar to allow them to worship their Mother without trouble or septons preaching and raving about heresy. The Andals had their Seven, the First Men their Old Gods, and the Rhoynar would be free to worship Mother Rhoyne.

It took me many hours to convince them of the truth and sincerity of my words, or of the power I held to make it the law of the land:

"We may trust your oath, dragon prince, for we have heard you hold great love for your seven gods, and they shall surely strike you down if you prove false. But your grand castle is far beyond the Red Mountains, and the lords of Dorne close to our waters. You might leave, Valyrian, but the great men who hold the lands of the river valley have long been accustomed to fine us for speaking what our mothers taught us and we have grown tired of singing our work songs in a foreign tongue. Does your sword arm reach across the Red Mountains to strike them down?"

"I am the prince who decides the destiny of rolling rivers, I keep on the straight and narrow path the righteous who follow the One's counsel. If I fix a fate, who shall alter it? If I but say the word, who shall change it?" I replied to them. But fine words as they were, taken straight from an ancient tale of my old world, they were not enough to calm the worrying hearts and minds of their chiefs.

"I shall break and sunder Dorne, give the Red Mountains and the Desert to other kingdoms and keep the lands of the Greenblood for my own. I have struck down and I shall strike down the rebel Dornish lords, those faithless, treacherous, despicable dogs. I shall name new lords from my own lands, who know and obey my will, and over them shall rule in my stead a man whose blood is kin to me and holds dear to his heart my words and edicts. They shall be my hands that shall keep the peace, the justice, and these promises that I would swear to you and yours."

They had argued long and loudly among themselves, before agreeing to my proposal. The long and tedious hours of our summit were enlightened for but an hour, as a chieftain had just now though the time and place proper to challenge another to a song-battle based upon some perceived insult. Instead of singing old songs, he had made a melody and lyrics improvised then and there, spoken and sung at great speed, throwing at him further and rhythming and rhyming insults, the other answering in kind.

At last, they were all of one mind, and I swore an oath to them to keep forever, me and my heirs, the privileges I had granted them, and they swore oaths of fealty on behalf of their people and kin. And our oaths and promises were written down, with my seal and their signatures upon them. Thrice they were written, as insisted by them – once in Rhoynish, the language of the Orphans; once in High Valyrian, the language of the dragon prince; and once in the Common Tongue, for all the men of the Seven Kingdoms to understand and abide by.

It was done, and I broke bread and salt with those in Dorne who once had greater reason of undying hatred against me and the Valyrian blood that coursed through my veins, and my path up the Greenblood was clear, without need for the Oakenfist to force it.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXX: Debellatio​

Marching through the Red Dunes was a torturous task. They marched to Sandstone, who had the only source of water around for fifty leagues in the dunes. Many had perished of thirst, or from the scorching sun, of scorpion bites and tales had spread through the camp of the Noonwraiths, creatures and demons of myth, that caused heat stroke and brought madness in the minds of men, taking the form of a cloud of whirling dust and carrying a scythe, appearing at midday.

The desert and its many horrors were not the only foes the Reachmen faced, for Lord Qorgyle often sent his spearmen to harass the host. Yet, the Reachmen advanced, even if they dwindled by each day. The Tyrell's wrath was no lesser than that of their king, and Lord Qorgyle had invited his doom, which slowly advanced towards him.

Some could say that Qorgyle's doom advanced at the pace of a snail, but on that day when Qorgyle treacherously killed Lord Tyrell, winning the "liberation" of Dorne, that snail was birthed, and inexorably lived and breathed with but a task in mind – to bring about the ruination of the Lords of Sandstone, be it now or in a hundred years hence.

Lord Bernard Tyrell had not joined the host, having lived too few years upon the earth. He remained at court, the effect of being claimed as a royal ward, getting to know his betrothed, while in Highgarden, his mother and a lord seneschal named by the king ruled and administered his lands and incomes. The king had decreed that since the usual holder of the Wardenship of the South – by blood and custom – was not of age, and the military might of the South was called to arms – that a man of age and equal rank, coming from the same district of arms, was to hold the office for seven years.

Fitting that condition was only one man, and so did the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands become Warden of the South, if but for a time. Lord Baratheon had not joined the king's army in the war.

King Baelor's army had been composed of Crownlanders and valiant knights from the rest of the kingdoms, and banners from the Stormlands who had easily subjected themselves to Lord Caron's orders.

But the lords of the Reach were a quarrelling lot, and prideful, each desiring command over all, if their lord were not to come to war with them. There was only one man who had authority over them and was no lord of the Reach to awaken a feud old or new amid the many houses that claimed descent from the Greenhand. And so did the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands lead an army of the Reach into Dorne.

At last did the armies of the Reach gather under the walls of Sandstone. And the castle fell, for the last time.

Seven days did Lord Baratheon linger at Sandstone, and Lord Qorgyle was to be delivered to Highgarden, for no Tyrell was present there to demand a vengeance of some manner – Lord Bernard's kin being busy trying to claim some measure of influence at Highgarden while he was still underage.

Lord Olyvar had not claimed the chambers of the lord of the castle, preferring to sleep outside in the chill of the night. While in the day, Lord Qorgyle was present in chains before the Baratheon, at night, he had been given the courtesy of sleeping in his own bed, albeit his doors were heavily guarded.

Six nights did Qorgyle spend in his own bed, under that heavy velvet canopy, a sash near the pillows. Qorgyle thought, perhaps not entirely without reason, that the same death he had given to Lyonel Tyrell would no doubt be his.

Each night he spent awake, exhausted and alarmed, awaiting the dozens of scorpions. His breath deep and rapid as if the room was devoid of air, his heart beat fast as a galloping sand steed, his limbs trembling and slow to move. He grew dizzy and pains wracked his body while his head felt it was going to burst, he was sweating from every orifice, he was feeling like he was chocking. He remained awake, expectant of his death, frightened and terrified.

And in the morning, he looked upon Lord Baratheon's face, serene and joyful and wondered if Wyl blood was coursing through his vein to torture him more with his life than with death.

By the fourth day he begged from dawn to dusk for death, and Lord Olyvar had to order him gagged.

In the seventh night, upon the ending of the Stranger's Day, he once again sat awake in his bed, waiting for his doom. In the impulse of a moment, as the hour of ghosts drew nearer his hand reached the sash and pulled.

Suddenly he felt his chest squeezing and a hundred ghost daggers stabbing him, all at a time. His heart burst as if into flame, the pain flowing from heart to throat. His breath grew shorter, and he felt fainter by the moment, a cold sweat drenching his body, nauseous beyond compare.

He felt his chest and left shoulder wracked with pains, the pains flowing to his arm and to his jaw. He felt his consciousness slipping. And then his heart burst and the Stranger came for him.

But the scorpions never came.

---

Beneath the walls of the shadow city of Sunspear, Baelor's war in Dorne would end. The news of Sandstone's fall had come and Martell, the arch-rebel, stood alone in his defiance.

In the king's camp, lingering near death from a poisoned spear in the taking of Lemonwood, Manly Edgerton, the lord of Moorcastle finally entrusted his soul to the Stranger, serene in the face of death, his last words reminding his son of the creed of their house: "As restless as the wind and still as a stream, Steadfast in unsteadiness, We rejoice only in death, For then we contemplate the face of God."

It was with renewed fervour that Ser Jonos assaulted the walls of the city, the Dornish in turn sallying forth in one last stand. It was well pleasing for a lord or high commander to be first in the attack, armed, upon his horse, unafraid, for he makes the men take heart by his own show of bravery. It pleased the men to see that strong city besieged, the broken ramparts caving in, the army closed in all around. The men followed him, smiling – for no man is worth a thing till he has given and gotten blow on blow, as the minstrel sang. And thus did the marten of Moorcastle spoke:

"Now, men, to sword and shield and horn!
'Twas bad enough that we were born;
But he is free to go whose fright
Makes him too dastardly to fight,
And if there is someone foresworn,
Let him avoid our sight!"

Maces and swords and painted helms, useless shields cut through were seen. Men-at-arms striking and wandering wildly, and every man of spurs or noble blood thought only of breaking arms and heads, for a man is worth more dead than alive and beaten in the songs and tales of glory afterward.

They screamed "There they are! Let's get them!" on both sides, and riderless horses neighed in the shadows. Men fallen and falling cried "Help! Help!" in the ditches, little men and great men, stumps of lances fixed in the flanks of their corpses.

Lords and knights that had not joined the king in war would have pawned their castles, their villages, and their cities for the chance of being there, in that day of glory.
But for all his might and his wrath, Ser Jonos was not the first to enter through the gates of the city. It was the king's fool, who found himself swept away by the forlorn hope, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the abruptness of his situation did not hinder him, fighting most ferociously, his skill with a blade shown to all.

Second was Ser Jonos the Sharp-Witted, of whom the common men of King's Landing spread word all through the Crownlands of the uncommon luck the gods had blessed him with.

The two of them were entitled to a grand reward: the best house of the common men in the city, a thousand gold dragons for the first, and the second-best house and five hundred gold dragons for the second. Once the city had been secured, the two of them had taken to wandering the streets, debating amongst themselves, in good faith or not, on which was indeed the best house or second best to which they were entitled.

The three massive Winding Walls, the narrow alleys and hidden courts would have taken several days to be won. But to the Old Palace the threefold gates were lined up in a straight passage upon a brick path. And once it fell, the resistance in the city would be moot. For the cause of the Dornish had drawn its last breath.

But the armies that advanced had orders to bring as much ruination upon the city as they could, making it an easier job after the battle to clear out the many hovels built against the walls – allowing for a true city to be built anew by the king's men.

Once the city and the palace had been captured, in the Tower of the Sun, the king sat upon the high seat of the Princes of Dorne. Or upon one of them – for one had the Martell spear inlead upon it, and the other the blazing Rhoynish sun, and the king chose the later.

Before him were dragged the captures sons of the House Nymeros-Martell, some whimpering and afraid, some defiant to the end.

The Prince of Dorne's bastard sister, who thought herself once a warrior equal in valour to Nymeria of old, and took arms in defence of the city, was among the later:

"You're naught but a tyrant, and Dorne shall never yield before you, as long as Rhoynish blood flows in the veins of our people. We will hide in the desert, and one day the last of you shall perish under the scorching sun, and Dorne shall be free. Murderers, rapers, villains!!" she spat at the king.

Seized by a sudden wrath, the king rose in great fury and took the maiden, or not a maiden most likely, grabbed her by the hair, and with a quick move, drew his dagger from its hilt and cut her throat, watching impassively as the blood flowed freely, her mouth moving but failing to speak, as her limbs trashed about and life flickered out her eyes. He sat again upon the throne.

"Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. Fine words they were, but she spoke not of oaths sworn, of broken faith and perfidy. The liberty of Dorne died in the laws of gods and men at the Submission of Sunspear. She called me a tyrant, but the Prince of Dorne proved himself thus by ordering his banners to fight and die for a forlorn cause. I only crushed rebels and dealt justice for perfidy, for treason, for offense against the Seven. "

"She spoke of unyielding resolve, but only warriors and lords showed such, and barely half of them. The lowborn pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. They care not who are their high lords, as long as they are left in peace. And I mean to give them peace."

"She spoke of Rhoynar and blood, but those with purest blood and custom have made peace with me gladly."

"Prince of Dorne, I have set my vow to tear the pride from your heart, the laurels from your brow. Prince of Dorne, your house calls itself unbowed, unbent, unbroken. But you bowed and bent your knee once, and now I've broken you. And you'll be broken even more upon the wheel."

"The sigil of your house is a red sun pierced by a golden spear and you shall die impaled by a wooden spike underneath the scorching sun of this land." he finished and ordered him taken away and punished."

Then he addressed the gathered crowd in a grave voice: "I have broken Martell and I have broken Dorne. There is no more Dorne. There is the Red Mountains, the White Desert and the Red Dunes, the Greenblood and the Broken Arm."

"The Dornish are no more. There is no Dornish. I am the king of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar. Call yourself thus, but not Dornish."

"Accursed be Dorne and Dornish. Speak not to me that foul name. Strike it down from your parchment – let it not be written down. Perfidious Dorne slew my brother, and now I slew it. And I shall make a better thing of it, if the Seven will it."

Then in a more cheerful voice, he adjourned court and said "It is time to choose my plunder out of Martell's library.", but as he rose his limbs acquired a rigour as if of death, and he fell beneath the throne, his face ecstatic, and none and nothing could wake him.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXI: The Settling of the Conquest​

In the aftermath of the fall of Dorne, the kingdom beyond the Red Mountains was changed beyond measure, the old customs, laws and great houses thrown into the crevices of history.

To the Marcher lords were given the greatest of bounties. Three castles for the Stormlords: Wyll, Yronwood and Kingsgrave were given to lesser sons of Caron, of Dondarrion and Swann, all houses of the Marches, though lesser fiefs were carved of them to reward a knight of House Buckler and another of House Fell.

The Reachers were given Kingsgrave and Blackmont, Starfall and High Hermitage, and Sandstone. The younger brother of Lord Tarly lords now over the former lands of House Blackmont, the black vulture replaced by the huntsman. Kingsgrave is now ruled by the second son of Lord Alan Beesbury, Starfall by a grandson of the late Sea Lion of House Costayne, High Hermitage went to kin of Lord Meryweather. Sandstone was given as blood price to the Tyrells, for the Qorgyle's treachery. Astute men would recognise that such honours followed the allegiances of decades ago, and those who do not wish to offend with their words, say only that that part of the Red Mountains blackened in spring, instead of blooming green.

These lands became part of the kingdoms of the Stormlands and of the Reach.

Hellholt upon Brimstone became seat to Ser Oscar Tully, who among his new honours counted that of Grandmaster of the Order of the Holy Hundred.

The rest of the former realm of the Martells remained under the direct authority of king Baelor. The great castles were given to loyal men, proven in battle, though some of their lands were carved up, parts becoming direct domains of the king, administered by his stewards. Scores of villages were granted to newly built motherhouses and septries, though their feudal rights and duties were held by proxy by neighbouring landed knights and lord, while the brothers and sisters of the Faith enjoyed but its incomes.

House Edgerton benefited most greatly of all from the king's war. For his many and valiant deeds in service to His Grace, Ser Jonos Edgerton, that knight of great renown, was given choice of remaining lands and castle. As a further example of his loyalty to his king, Ser Jonos choose the Tor, for its proximity to Ghaston Grey, vowing to keep an eye for escape attempts from its prisoners. Chief among these prisoners was the Wyl boy and his mother, and the young sons and the daughters of House Martell, who the king judged to dangerous to entrust to the Night's Watch or the Faith, and had instead send them to that dreary place to waste their days.

For the losses of his father and brother in the war, the king showed a great favour to his house, granting Ghost Hill and Spottswood to his brothers Damon and Criston.
Ser Herman Harte, who had not fought in the war, was also rewarded, becoming Lord of Godsgrace, the rest of the lands and castles being given as rewards to noble sons and knights of the Crownlands.

The lands that remained under the direct administration of the king were known now as the Greenblood, after that great river, or Chroy Ychor, as the king took to call it in the Rhoynish tongue.

Ser Herman Harte left his position as court for Sunspear, where he ruled as the King's Palatine of Sunspear, being entrusted with administration and justice over all of Chroy Ychor, with power as great as a Lord Paramount's, though the title remained the king's to give and take.

Lord Jonos Edgerton was named Warden of the Greenblood and given authority over its banners and the men that remained garrisoned in its many castles, the two hundred hobelars from Crackclaw Point that he had once led in battle in Pentos acting as his guard, each rewarded with a knight's fee.

Lord Edgerton was given also the office of Grand Inquisitor over these lands, with power to appoint and replace the Knights Inquisitor who would serve under him. His brother Criston was given the office of Lord Treasurer of Chroy Ychor, under the authority of Herman Harte.

His brother Damon, once a merchant and envoy to Braavos, served now as head of the House of Trade. The royal designation of Sunspear as a staple port for all spices and luxuries flowing from the Summer and the Jade Seas, diverting many merchants from Oldtown, served as the opportunity to found this new institution.

The House of Trade collected all trading taxes and duties, approved all voyages, licensed captains and administered the Law Merchant. Lord Damon was entrusted with the mission of building a fleet for it, one that would escort merchant ships in convoy in exchange for a third of the gold, and which would embark on expeditions of its own – mainly to the Summer Isles, to which the king reserved as his right to trade iron and tin.

Lord Damon also had in his charge the yet to be founded factories in these isles, which would serve as markets and warehouses, and gathering places of Westerosi merchants, and would trade on behalf of the king. Their settlement would have to wait until after the king's envoys had settled terms with their princes.

Lady Laena was named as Lady Admiral of the Summer Sea. She had stood a night in vigil in the sept before King Baelor had summoned her into his presence, and she had come in rich garments of silk. His Grace had put a ring upon her right hand, as a token of the honour conferred upon her, presented her with a sword, bestowing her authority, and had placed in her left hand a standard, emblazoned with his personal arms – the seven headed white dragon, the seahorse and the Crone's lantern.

She had promised that she would not shun death in defence of the realm, and in the aggrandizement of the rights and honour of her king, and the common benefits of his country; and that she would perform all her duties according to the best of her power.

The king had long praised her seamanship, lineage, valour and loyalty to those who had voiced their doubts. His Grace's praise of her gave rise to rumours among the flighty maidens and ladies at court, eager to hear of a romance, real or invented, that the king held more than fondness for his lady cousin. That he would have ten thousand swords leap from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.

They spoke of blossoming love between the dragon and the seahorse, of the king offering to make her his queen. They spoke of her tears and her heart breaking, of the call of the sea louder than that of the heart. They spoke of the king overheard in private conversation, saying that he did not wish to shackle her to the binding of queenship, of preferring her free amid the waves, happy and carefree, not miserable in the Red Keep. They spoke of two realms dividing them apart – his of earth, hers of sea. They called her the sun and him the moon, who chase in vain after the other, and when at last they are together the moon would only eclipse the sun.

Who can find the lore of truth in such a tale? What is truth and what is rumour can never be found, for the king neither spoke, nor wrote of it, and neither the lady Laena. Such did not stop the bards and minstrels to sing of it, or noble maidens to sigh over the tale. I've heard tell that even in distant and misty Braavos the tale had spread, and it has been played upon the stage in their great mummer-houses to great acclaim.

One thing is certain – after being proclaimed admiral, Laena Velaryon set on the first of her journeys, to seek the island Elyssa Farman had once discovered, and the only thing that openly marred her joy was the fact that her father denied her desire to travel across the Sunset Sea while he still drew breath.

Spoiler: Map

https://imgur.com/a/new-map-of-seven-kingdoms-pZwytvt#0E9Cx8T

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXII: Revelation​

From the throne of Martell, I had fallen into a dark and misty valley, in which I walked, guided by a lantern's light, to which my feet led me, never reaching it. And I came before a great black and gloomy gate, and the voice of wizened wisdom proclaimed: "Thou shall behold the people dolorous."

And I entered that great and dreadful cavern, its great doors opening before me and the miserable sounds of the damned – sighs, complaints and words of anger and agony – reached my ears, and from on high, a luminous figure descended to guide me.

With crown of seven stars, a warrior great in stature and clad in iron plate bade me follow him into the darkness. As I beheld him, I could but think that he was the Blessed Hugor of the Hill, of ancient deeds and fame.

"Come and behold the fate of the sinful, the wages of sin, the wrath of God that falls upon the wicked. Your journey is by the Crone ordained – it is so willed that you should come – and question this you shall not." he spoke with grimness in his voice and entered through the gates.

We walked upon rocky and abrupt precipices, upon river stones that made a way across a great Stream of Sorrow, and I was bade to drink deeply of despair so that as living I might pass. And we passed through a great gathering of the guilty, depraved souls awaiting their doom – all hope lost of looking upon the heavens, their teeth gnashing together and they weeped bitterly.

And Hugor spoke: "Those who perish unforgiven and unrepentant, shall face the wrath of the Unmoved, and pass beyond the river, and shall be dealt the justice of Heavens."

We walked into the first of Hells, where people were gnawed at by worms venomous, and I beheld the fates of the least of the sinful – of those whose minor and manifold sins had, unforgiven and unrepented, reaped the harvest of punishment. This was the doom of those who had never contemplated good or evil but had lived and had committed no great or fell crimes, but showed a wretched disregards for the words of the Seven-Pointed Star.

There too were the Lustful, who in their life gave their will to passion, malefactors of the flesh, swayed by temptation from reason. In a terrible storm they wandered without rest, the winds fiercer and biting and smiting – ripping flesh from bone, for the defilers of innocence, who has sated their lust through the unwilling, and had condemned maidens to sinful practice. There too were those tempted by ill desires, by temptation towards kin, and those who in the pursuit of Passion, had abandoned the laws of gods and men. There too were those whose lust were not of the flesh – but those who lusted for power, or for the inflicting of pain on another.

No hope of comfort or repose was there for them.

"Fear not", my guide spoke, "for thou have mortified thyrself against flesh and its passions, and you shall not fill the biting touch of this infernal hurricane."

From this dismal land we thus advanced. And into the second of hells we walked, were the gluttonous wallowed into a freezing rain, cold and heavy and unending, a great storm of putrefaction. Here were punished those that grovelled through the mud of their world, to sate their appetites. I briefly wondered in which of these two hells Aegon would find himself.

"Fear not of the icy drops of snow, of hail, of frozen rain" Hugor spoke again, "for tou have mortified thy flesh, and many times in fast denied thine appetites, shunning the intoxicating fruit of wines and the many delights of food wrought by man's hand."

And then we descended into the third and beheld the punishment of greed. Here were the miserly and avaricious, the hoarders, and the prodigals, who had squandered wealth born of industry. They were punished by labouring at great and tiring works that undid before their eyes, for they had gathered or squandered the efforts of the work of many, and now they laboured manifold eternally over that which they had not worked for once.

"Fear not" the warrior of the seven stars proclaimed, "for thou have mortified thyself against greed through a simple life and through your many alms and charitable deeds. You have eased the works of the needy, have neither hoarded nor wasted, and you shall not labour without reward."

Deeper into the foul abyss we went, and we descended into the fourth of hells. Here did ice and fire give battle, heat giving way to cold, and cold to fire – a marsh half frozen, half burning – the sinful half-sunk in boiling water and in ice, angry and smiting at each other. This was a place of hatred and wrath.

And with a terrible look and a commanding voice the Blessed Hugor turned to me: "O king and sinner, behold now the souls of those by anger overcome. Now fear this fate, fear, tremble, shiver, and despair. And repent, for in the sin of wrath greatly thou have fallen. It falls to the hand of the king to deal death to those who grievously have acted. But a king's justice only sends a man to the Mover's justice or mercy. It was not for thee to turn grief into anger and wrath and turn punishment into cruelty."

And trembling did I walk on, following in the train of that great king, descending yet again, into the fifth of hells. Here laid those given to sloth in life, of body and of mind. Those who refused the rewards of good work, and the joy of the words of the One. They were in a great pit of snakes, strangled, and bitten again and again, their very blood turned to poison that brought great pain and uttermost agony.

Hugor spoke to me: "Here would have been thine father – for he was indolent a father, and too much given to melancholy, to sluggish thought and lack of feeling, despair and grief. But the Father beheld that he did not neglect the duties of charity and of rule, and that great pain had gathered in his heart, and he has received his just reward, and dwells among the blessed."

"But fear not, for greatly thou have laboured, and in rightful pursuits, and thou need not fear the bite of the snake."

The sixth hell awaited, and even lower we descended, I and my conductor. I did not look upon to foul place with envy, for there were most grievously punished the envious. This was the place of men and women that looked with hatred and desire upon other's men gods and good fortune, who greatly wished in mind and deed to deprive other of them, those who were livid at another's happiness. Their eyes were sewn shut with iron wire, and they're backs bent with heavy burdens as they walked a rocky land, w led only by the feeling of their fingers, falling into a myriad abysses, their limbs of rotten bone broken, and under the whips of demons forced to climb again.

"Fear not" I heard again, "for never did thou look upon thine brother and desired his crown and the wretched throne of swords, even if by the Stranger's will it has come to thee. This doom awaits you not."

Then the nether, seventh hell awaited. Were in great cauldrons of fire, of boiling blood and brimstone were punished, boiling and burning ever and ever. Here were the prideful, the vainglorious, the ones who had scorned peace and not led by the sin of wrath, but by foul desire and feeling had brought violence upon the innocents. Here were the murderers, plunderers, and tyrants. Here were the arch-heretics, the blasphemers.

For the most grievous of sinners – the breakers of guest rights, of truce, the slayers of kin, of maidens pure and mothers most loving, of children unmarred and the servants of the Divine, a different punishment awaited. They were roasted upon great fires, and their flesh carved by demons, only to grow again, to be brought to the Lord of the Damned sat upon a throne of bones, who feasted eternally upon their bodies, and they felt uttermost agony as the Arch-Demon bit into their flesh.

And I was led before his table – and from the throne of Martell I was now in front of the throne of Hell, and that great beast spoke: "Who is this that without death goes through the kingdom of the people dead?"

"It is by the biding of the ones on high that I led one of the living in the realms of the fallen." cried Hugor. "Neither he, nor I lay in your power, and feast upon us you shall not – for we have not fallen prey to this deadly sin of pride. Now let us depart, lest thou be smitten and take share into the doom of the damned."

And depart we did, as we turned back on our way, and passed through the Seven Hells again and reached the Gates of Damnation and entered again the Valley of the Shadows of Death.

I was grabbed tight by the ancient king and from this deep valley we flew, aided by a most mighty wind higher than the clouds beyond the sphere of the Earth. I would not speak nor write of the Heavenly Spheres, for those sights of marvel are only for the reward of the blessed – no mortal is permitted to portray what he has seen. I am most humbled to have seen those sights, for I judge myself least of the worthy.

I dearly wish to speak of the music of the spheres – but words fail to describe the sounds, and not even the most skilled of bards cannot pluck the strings of a harp to bring forth melodies a thousand thousand times lesser. A sound filled my ears, so loud and sweet, produced by the impetus and movement of the sphere themselves, blending sharp tones with grave and in unvarying harmony made changing symphonies. The highest of the spheres moved with sharp sounds, the lower with deepest imitations – which bards of skill copy with their instruments. And I fear that from such heavenly harmony my ears have dulled forevermore to the sounds of the living. Only the earth remained unmoved – silent and still.

In this realm beyond the living, but not of death I met the Crone. She was not embodied, but I felt and heard her presence amid the darkness and the star – ominous, with wisdom greater than the ages, her presence greater than the world entire. In the croaking of ravens and the shadow of death did I hear:

"Hear my words that I might teach you -The servants of the One have silenced the words of Our wisdom – out of folly, out of neglect, out of malice, from greed. They have sat upon their throne and their words of guidance have sat silent in their throats. The shepherds of the Faithful have slumbered in drunkenness, well feasted, and the sheep had fallen into the maw of the beast, hungry and circling."

"They ordain deeds with tongue of men, proclaiming revelation. They have denied and abandoned wisdom for the envy and pride and vainglory of men. They have cloaked themselves in silks and gold, in finery and jewellery and forgotten that all should hear the words of wisdom."

"Now hear my words and write and proclaim them, for unto you I call, and my voice is to the sons and daughters of man: How long shall you delight in the scorning and hatred of knowledge? Heed my words of reproof, for I make known my words unto you!"

"I have stretched my hand and called forth my instrument. You shall call upon me, and I shall not heed your prayer. For the instrument of wisdom, that which roots out that which is rotten and corrupted lives among you, and those who have not heeded the word shall obey the sword and the crown – for counsel I gave onto him as reward – by me does the king reign and decrees, by me he brings sound judgement and peace."

…

".. incline your heart to the wisdom which written it is and from written word spoken, turn your heart to understanding, seek for the path as one seeks great treasure, for from heaven comes wisdom, and the path of the fools is the path of damnation."

"…. keep the path of the just, do not rejoice in the doings of evil, and deliver the Faithful from the way of the malefactor. Preserve the paths of the blessed, in righteousness and good judgement."

"And banish the fool and the foul and the wicked, and cleanse the house of the One from the mold of damnation..."

…

"Let seven pillars of wisdom be hewn, and a house of the wise to be built… eat of the bread, and drink of the wine of the wizened and wise…"

"Gather the brother, the sister, the mother, the father and heed the words of your ruler... for his heart is in the hand of the Crone – I turn it however I will, and his eyes always follow my lantern… Tear out the ruins of foul deeds upon yourselves fallen, tear out the tare from the wheat – for you have torn away name, but not ties to the world."

…

"Heed these my words, repent and build on the founding stones and let the capstone be made out of marble most pure."

"Let not those devout fornicate with the world and the worldly, for the Faith's doings are serenely divine. Take out the staff and the crystal from the place of imprisonment and be pilgrim to gather in sight of the One and the Seven…"

"Blessed is the one that hears and obey, and one who hates me damnation embraces."

And at long last the harmonies of heaven were silent, and She spoke no more, and I awoke, but the vision that was planted in my mind still remains, within the sounds of silence.

 

[BenMalek]

Baelor came out easy. He did not have to witness the end of the world. That makes me wonder, does the Faith of the Seven have anything remotely close to Judgement Day? Or is man to toil and live and die on Planetos forever?

 

[Fellwinter]

That was some dope story writing. It almost woke up my old half-dead belief in God.

Briljant work.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXXIII: In the Seventh Year of His Reign
​

168 AC

"Today marks seven years since His Grace's coronation. Do you think there'll be a feast tonight? Or he might knight you at last?" asked a young lordling an even younger prince.

"I am very much in doubt. It is the sixth day of the week, and my cousin always fasts on the day of the Crone – it would not do for the court to feast while the king fasts. He'd rather be holed in his solar with his septons, listening to one of their lot recite the Seven-Pointed Star, or ponder on the meaning of one word of Old Andal in some ancient manuscript of the Scriptures, or discuss again the matters of the Synod." answered the young prince Daeron.

"As for knighthood, you forget that I should have stood vigil last night if it where to happen today, and I have not. And His Grace has sworn not to grant me my spurs until I could recite the Book of the Warrior from memory at every time of the day or the night. Alas, I have failed to do so until now, and I grow weary of Ser Olyvar waking me at the hour of the wolf and bidding me to recite it." he continued. "I am half-convinced that cousin Baelor was only jesting, but Ser Olyvar likes to take the king's jests seriously, if they're likely to provide him some entertainment."

"Do you think he wishes to knight you on your sixteenth name day mayhap? When you are a man grown?" inquired his companion, curiously. Walter Caron was his fellow squire, but while Daeron's knight was his uncle, the Dragonknight, young Caron's was the Ferren Kingsguard, and the boy had spent many hours hoping to listen to deeds of arms from him, but instead was regaled with tales of woe and lost love. He did not care for it, but a word spoken without care had led to his sister to know of this, and now, as a dutiful brother, he carefully penned every word of the knight's tales to his sister and send them dutifully to Storm's End, where his sister was handmaiden to its Lady.

"It might be so, though he told me not. But even my great-grandfather, of great fame and greater infamy, was not knighted before that age, and so were the Old King's sons. I have certainly not proved myself better than them, and I am no equal to my namesake." said Daeron, his words forlorn, and mixed with resignation.

"Well then", Caron said, "if there's no chance of a feast or a knighthood perhaps the Lord Hand might be persuaded to let you hunt in the Kingswood. We will tell the king we shall give the meat to the poor – after all, they still feast from his coin when he fasts. He will not think long on it – for he is always concerned with the affairs of the Synod these days. Seven years of reigning and we get no tourney, no feast – it speaks poorly, as if there were nothing to be celebrated."

"Cousin Baelor had nothing against a tourney. But alas, Lords Edgerton and Tully of Hellholt had affairs that take to long to settle, and most of the Holy Hundred have offered themselves as escorts for holy men and their Grand Inquiry. A tourney without them would make a poor showing, and a poor showing is no way to mark seven years of a great reign. Let us hope that when they are ten in number, the gods would smile upon us. We would be knights then, and our joy would not be in admiring greater men than us but showing our own mettle."

"If there's no fun to be had at court today then let us make merry – go to a tavern or a brothel." suggested the mischievous boy.

"The king and grandfather would surely smell the drink on me and the Goldcloaks are the most eager of snitches. As for brothels, you know it well that when Father tried to make me sample of such pleasure, the king granted a dowry to every whore in King's Landing to allow them to marry well – and the brothels remained derelict, with nobody to allow me to fall into temptation. Nor the notables of the city, nor the masses would thank me if I forced the king's hand again." replied the young prince, secretly amused at Caron's various suggestions of staving off boredom.

"And if Ser Olyvar hears you speak of whores and brothels, he would scold you and tell you again his past romantic misfortunes and that old advice – It is better to have loved and lost… "

"… than never to have loved at all," said the young squire." I have heard it a thousand time. Though if my sister would hear it a thousand more, she would still sigh over his words. I thought courtly romance was the realm of knight who cannot attain the love of a lady – but my sisters sighs over a man whose love she can never win. And he is thirty years her older. Perhaps I should tell mother, so she can send a couple dozen suitors to needle her. That would certainly earn me her ire. Speaking of our fun though – you did not gainsay hunting. Would you ask the king or the hand for their leave, or you would rather bore yourself until the sun sets?"

"Then let us go, and bother the king and his business, to ask permission to make our fun." was Daeron's mischievous answer.

"I did not mean that we should go. It would not do for me to go into the king's presence without asking for an audience." stammered his friend. "I meant for you to intercede with your royal kin. While I await on the other side of the door."

"Do not speak such folly." said Daeron, as he dragged the young Stormlander by the arm. "The king would be quite eager to hear your petition. Or I should tell him of your other proposal – you know how my royal cousin looks upon such vices."

And so, they went towards the king's solar, one eager for a well thought jest, one reluctant and dragging his feet, but too afraid to flee. Ser Karyl, the white cloak trailing the prince, snickered in their wake.

In one of the castle's many corridors, they stumbled upon the king's sister, the princess Elaena, and Daeron could not help but play another jape (for japes were never too many):

"Dear cousin, have you heard the news?" he asked his cousin with a voice sickeningly sweet.

"What news, Daeron? Has the king granted you your spurs, or you and Caron here will keep brooding around the castle awaiting that blessed day?" she answered in the same vein – with words of honeyed poison.

"No such thing. Alas!" said Daeron, smiling broadly. "His Grace, your brother has ordered that an addition to the Red Keep should be built – and a beautiful one, a house of whitest marble, a vault to safekeep the greatest of his treasures."

"And why does such concern me?" asked Elaena, her mind confused.

"It is kin not the greatest of treasure?" replied Daeron. "And since you have become a maiden grown, many knights and lords have tried their suit for your hand, even if it is promised, but the know it not. As such, our king, in his gracious and great wisdom, has decided to safeguard you from evil intent and built a home for you, far away from covetous eyes and men with ill intent. Despair not, dear cousin, it is but two years before we wed, and you might at last escape your confinement." In truth, the king had ordered an addition to be built to house his greatest treasure: his ever-growing library – books from all corners of the realms, scrolls and manuscripts of Old Valyria, of fallen Sarne and Rhoyne, and the oldest manuscripts of the Seven-Pointed Star.

Elaena's face paled: "Surely Baelor has not thought of such? I will strangle him with my bare hands and no white cloak can stop me." Seeing her intended try in vain to stifle his bouts of laughter, she realised Daeron's jest – "I will strangle you, you half-witted buffoon.", and gave chase.

Elaena either grew tired of the many corridors and stairs, or her septa caught up with her and scolded her. But what was certain, was that the two boys reached the King's Solar unfollowed.

They were joined there by the Grand Maester, who was in a hurry, his breath laboured.

"Have you too a princess hounding your steps that you hurry so, Grand Maester?" laughed Daeron.

"No." he answered, slightly confused. "I come here with ill tidings."

At those words, Daeron became sober. He knew when time for jests was and when it was not. His companion was not so wise, so he had to punch him in his side to stop him from speaking without thought.

They were received together by the king, though Caron was to wait outside. His grandfather was there, no doubt discussing some grand affair of state.

"Your Grace, we have received a raven from the Eyrie." said the Grand Maester with solemn words and a grim face. " The sea was turbulent of late, so the Vale delegation took the mountain road. They were beset by mountain clans, and half their number were felled. It seems uncaring to say it in the same breath, but the Grand Inquiry has survived intact. The hill tribes are not interested in coffers of parchments, and had no inkling of what they contained, as to make them burn it out of spite."

His cousin Baelor rose from his seat, his face contorted with rage. He did not speak though but banged his fist on the table and gritted his teeth. Suddenly, he trembled as if a shiver went through him, and in the next moment he took a handkerchief and wiped his brow, who had become inexplicably sweaty.

He sat down into his seat, for a moment or three, which seemed more. At last, he spoke, his voice deceptively calm: "Lord Arryn most assuredly roused his banner in retaliation. Yet there are two sides to the Mountains of the Moon."

"Uncle, send word to Frey, Charlton, Erenford and Haigh, to Roote, to Hawick and to Harrenhal – I want their banners gathered at Harrenhal where they shall await their commander."

He turned towards Daeron: "Daeron, you shall ride to Summerhall and gather the knights sworn to it and then march to Harrenhal. They are Marchers, they know their way around the mountains and if you'll do well to become closer to them. Ser Olyvar will join you."

His grandfather made to protest: "Surely the boy is too young to be given such a command. He has not even earned his spurs. It is folly."

The King silenced him with a raised hand: "He will go. My brother was his age when he went to war with Dorne and led and fought must admirably. I hope that my cousin shares his valour besides his name."

Daeron preened at the compliment and at the authority Baelor had bestowed upon him. He imagined great battles and tales and songs that will long be told after his death – like how they spoke in taverns of the king returning from Dorne with the skulls of Martell, of Wyl, and of Yronwood, and laying them under Daeron's tomb, with the words "Daeron, your work is done."

Baelor continued: "When you shall return, you will have your knighthood, which you so greatly crave. It is better to have gained it in battle than how I did – a formality, to allow me to be crowned as a knight. Before you leave – do not forget to ask for Elaena's favour publicly – it would fit for a minstrel's song. Now be off."

Daeron left the room. Walter Caron was lounged against the wall – he sprang up at his sight: "Did the king grant you leave to hunt?"

"Aye, but I was given another quarry. We're to hunt the mountain clans in the Vale – they've slain and robbed two dozen septons, after we gather Summerhall's knights. But first I must find dear Elaena, beg her forgiveness, and ask her favour – the king fancies to make the maidens swoon over my deeds of arms."

---

"That was not wise nephew" said prince Viserys. "Daeron is still a boy, still prone to jests. He has no experience in command."

"Fear not uncle, I shall not deprive you off a grandchild. Let the people of the realm think he led the host. Aemon and Olyvar shall join him. They will command in truth, not him. But it will be well for the future Protector of the Realm to have a reputation akin to my late brother."

"When he shall return, I shall knight him and invest him as prince of Summerhall along Elaena as princess of Dragonstone and shall announce them betrothed before all the court."

---

Brother,

You had your son squired and knighted at court – that is well. He has gained no position or office and no friendship of worth – that it is not so well. The king sent Prince Daeron to lead a host of Rivermen against the wildlings of the Vale. Quickly send the boy and a dozen men-at-arms with him to join the host at Harrenhal. Blood and battle make more lasting friendships than peace, and Prince Daeron would rise quite high in future years. Do not let this opportunity pass you by – your son must grasp it with both hands.

Your always leal brother,
Balthasar Grell

 

[Fallout5368]

His cousin Baelor rose from his seat, his face contorted with rage. He did not speak though but banged his fist on the table and gritted his teeth. Suddenly, he trembled as if a shiver went through him, and in the next moment he took a handkerchief and wiped his brow, who had become inexplicably sweaty.

Click to shrink...

If I had to guess Baelor here is about to go the route of The Leper King.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

If I had to guess Baelor here is about to go the route of The Leper King.

Click to shrink...

Nah. He just had a flashback on Hell's punishment for wrath.