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Divide and Conquer, Chapter 25: Bitter
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 18:29:57 +0000 UTCFirst Moon, 110 AD (9 AC)
The Legionary
There was an ancient stone bridge crossing the Mander River with a humble town and keep commanding the bridge. Rather unimaginatively, the bridge and its adjacent castle-town were both simply named Stonebridge, ruled by one House Caswell. Varos couldn’t help but snort at that plain name.
He was Tribune of the Third Legion’s Seventh Cohort, in the Royal Army of House Targaryen and his fellow commanding officer was Tribune Addam of the Third’s Tenth Cohort. Between the two of them, they had a thousand men at their disposal, a whole sixth of the legion’s total strength and they had been tasked by their Legate with the seizure of Stonebridge.
The capture of the town and its bridge would greatly ease their army’s logistics over the Mander as they continued the advance south to Highgarden. They had also received reliable reports that a great number of Faith Militant rebels were sheltering in the town and flushing them out would be his pleasure.
“It wouldn’t be realistic for us to besiege the town traditionally,” his fellow Tribune, a native Riverman noted, speaking in the Common Tongue of these lands, one Varos had long since mastered.
“No. Our orders are clear. The town must fall within a week if we are to secure the supply lines and rejoin the rest of the legion for the march on Longtable. Is the Fifth ready?” Varos inquired, asking after the other cohort in their detachment from their legion which had marched down the west bank of the river.
The castle and town on Stonebridge commanded the east bank of the river and controlled passage over the bridge but no such structure existed on the west bank and the town’s inhabitants could escape from the west gate over the bridge and river and disperse into the countryside. That is what the Fifth would be stopping if they had coordinated their march properly.
“They are, they’ve taken up positions at the west entrance of the bridge. The town is more than aware of their presence,” Tribune Addam answered.
“Then they know they are cornered and their desperation grows by the day. Even a rat will fight harder than you could believe once cornered,” Varos said as he continued to assess the settlement before him with a soldier’s eyes.
Neither the town nor castle were strongly fortified, their structures made from timber as much as they were stone. Yet timber was still enough to dull the advance of his legionaries and with hundreds if not thousands of fanatics within, they were due for a very bloody battle indeed.
He looked up in the sky, hoping to see the familiar and comforting shadow of dark wings but there was naught to be seen but white clouds and sunlight. No dragons would be present today but the banners that flew from their standards.
“The King and Prince won’t be coming unfortunately. I heard rumors before we set off that they have been distracted with serious Faith Militant raids near Grassy Vale,” his fellow Tribune said with a look of disappointment.
Varos shared his feelings. The siege equipment they had brought was more than capable of breaching Stonebridge’s defenses but it was slow and unwieldy, and it always cost many lives to storm a settlement the hard way. They had grown too used to the dragons always clearing the way for them whenever they assaulted fortresses and it showed.
Nonetheless, Varos steeled himself. The dragons couldn’t be everywhere at once, and this entire war had proven it. They, the Legion, had to step up and earn their keep as the soldiers they had been trained to be instead of always relying on the dragons to do the dirty work for them. Their allegiance, their oaths deserved no less. House Targaryen had brought freedom and prosperity to the Riverlands, they had given a home to exiles like him. Debts had to be honored and Varos never liked leaving them unpaid.
At his and Addam’s order, their archers and siege teams began their attack, loosing endless volleys of arrows and bombardments of scorpion bolts, mangonels, onagers, and other siege weapons.
His own Seventh Cohort was a heavy infantry cohort in the Third Legion, though they had enough horses for one of their five centuries to serve as mounted cavalry in a pinch. Tribune Addam’s Tenth Cohort were archers and the Fifth across the river were medium infantry. A well-suited combination for the storming of a town.
As their siege weapons broke down the gates and the archers crippled most of the defenders on the walls beside the gatehouse, Varos ordered his cohort forward with himself and the rest of the mounted century as the spearhead, a slow trot at first and then a full-on charge as the gates were broken open by a well-aimed boulder from their onager.
“ALL HAIL TARGARYEN!” Varos cried out and his cohort answered with a thunderous chorus as they charged into the town.
His sword sliced mercilessly through a man’s throat as his horse coursed down the street. He hadn’t had time to properly identify him before acting. In the heat of battle, there was no time for hesitation or mercy. Smallfolk should know better than idle around in the streets during a siege. Anyone who stood in their way was a potential threat, a Poor Fellow or Caswell sergeant, and they cut them all down without hesitation.
As the Tenth drew up their rear and entered the town as well, the flailing defenders’ spirits sank further into desperation. Some fled into the keep of House Caswell but others more fled out the west gate onto the bridge where the Fifth was waiting for them. They tried charging into the Fifth in a desperate attempt to escape but found no purchase as the Seventh and Tenth poured out from the west gate and trapped them.
Some began desperately jumping into the river, taking their chances in the snags and sandbars but the Tenth’s archers shot any who tried dead in the water, their life’s blood pouring out and staining the Mander. The remaining Poor Fellows and other defenders took up a last stand on the stone bridge then and they fought bitterly to the very end. Like cornered rats they waved their weapons erratically, crying and screaming desperately all the while.
Bodies began falling into the river as the legionaries cleared the growing piles of corpses out of their way to continue the slaughter. The stones of the bridge stained red and the blood seeped into the river beneath, dying it with a grim red hue that flowed downstream.
By the time the battle finally ended and the three cohorts met in the center of the bridge, Varos didn’t know how many had died. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
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The Reachman
Life had been a lot simpler once. Erryk couldn’t help but miss those days. Stonebridge had never really been close to the borders with the other kingdoms and the Caswells’ control of the bridge had meant the other neighboring lords had known better than to cause trouble.
There had been peace and a simple life. Do his duties as a farmer, pay his rents and dues to Lord Caswell and King Mern, pay the tithes to the Faith, and spend the rest of his free time looking after his wife and family. Their cozy little village had never had any reason to fear for anything and even winters hadn’t been too difficult to manage in the Reach.
Then the Targaryens had come, and everything had changed. The Faith and King Mern had called them up to war, and many of the more able-bodied men in their village had been levied to fight in the war and the farming work had become difficult with less hands. Yet it would all have been worth it they had been told, once the Targaryen heathens and abominations had been cast down.
That never ended up happening. Instead, almost all of their armies had been destroyed by the Targaryens and now the Reach itself was being invaded by them in turn.
The King, Lord Caswell, and the Faith had all called upon them to resist with all their hearts. Many of his fellow villagers had flocked to join the Poor Fellows and the village sept had received more donations and tithes than ever before. They and countless other villages, hamlets, and holdfasts all across the Reach had dedicated themselves to helping out the Faith Militant and the King’s lords and armies in any way they could, giving them shelter, information, and supplies, and helping them coordinate raids and attacks to fight back against the demons invading their holy homeland.
Yet slowly but surely the Targaryens had pressed onwards. Five dragons and seemingly inexhaustible armies closing in on the Reach from all directions. Rumors and whispers had come from afar of villages destroyed entirely for their defiance and aid to rebels, of lords all being stripped of their lands, and brutal sacks and desecrations. However, word had also come of mercy, of the generosity given to those who submitted or even gave them aid, of how holdfasts such as Tumbleton which had been occupied by the Targaryens for years now seemed to be thriving under their rule.
Erryk didn’t know what to think of. All he knew, was that he was scared. His whole family stayed in this village, everything and everyone he had ever known. His parents, his siblings, his wife, his children, his friends, even his rivals and enemies.
Some Poor Fellows were hiding in the village now, his fellow Reachmen having welcomed them with open arms and sheltered them in their own homes and the village sept, with the septon promising them all that they would have paradise in the seven heavens for their generosity and sacrifices. But was paradise even worth it?
He had heard what had happened at Stonebridge. The travelers were calling it ‘Bitterbridge’ now. The Targaryen armies had surrounded the town and bled the Faith Militant within dry upon the bridge in a battle so savage the Mander had run red for twenty leagues or so the stories went. Despite their merciless murder of all the Faith Militant however, Bitterbridge itself had been spared a sack and the townspeople had not been wantonly slaughtered as they had feared, as the Faith had claimed they would be.
It made Erryk wonder if all this fighting was even worth it. What was the point in fighting if they were going to lose anyway? If there was a chance, however slim, that surrendering would spare their lives.
Lord Caswell and the other nobles sat in their pretty castles and sent them all to their deaths so that their status could be preserved but since when had the smallfolk ever truly cared who ruled them as long as they were kind? Their taxes were higher than ever and they were struggling under the yoke of it all.
The Faith always claimed their suffering was for a good cause, but Erryk was swiftly becoming disillusioned. He had seen it in how the Faith Militant almost demanded support whenever they passed through, not caring about how their actions endangered their lives or livelihoods. They would use their weapons, the weapons meant for the holy war, and demand they feed and water them.
At this point, Erryk just wanted it all to end, for the fighting to all stop, and he was starting to care less and less who won as long as someone did and his family was safe. And right now, it did not feel like they were anywhere near safe. The Poor Fellows hiding in their village made him nervous.
They were some of the few survivors of the Battle of Bitterbridge, and they hadn’t come from this village, any of them. Yet the septon and the elders had given them shelter purely because they were Faith Militant, not caring on how that endangered their lives to reprisals from the dragons or legionaries. Erryk had protested when he had overheard the Poor Fellows planning to conduct raids on the Targaryen forces, warning that it would bring retribution upon them all.
He had been beaten for standing in the way of the mission given them by the Seven, and even the village elders and other friends and family had rebuked him for it.
Why? Were they all so blinded that they would willingly throw away their own lives for this pointless cause? Erryk had once believed in it himself but he couldn’t care anymore. The Faith was still strong in the Targaryen lands; they just did not answer to the Starry Sept and gave exceptions to the Targaryens for their incest and bigamy. Vile and disgusting practices yet ones that ultimately mattered not to Erryk for clearly the Seven hadn’t cursed the land as a whole for the Targaryens practicing it and the highborn had always been most queer to him anyway.
Even here in the Reach, they had heard for many years whispers of how the Riverlands had thrived under Targaryen rule, and though it had been treasonous to have such thoughts, Erryk had sometimes wondered if the Targaryens were really that bad if their lands were so prosperous and peaceful. Now with the Reach embroiled in the fires of war, vengeance, and fanaticism, he found himself begging for that prosperity and peace.
His scattered and fearful thoughts dominated his mind as he plowed and weeded the common fields owned by the village. He couldn’t help worrying over the future and he couldn’t even pray either with how uncertain things were with the Seven these days and what their position on all of this truly was.
If the Seven were truly so opposed to the Targaryens as the High Septon claimed, why were they losing every battle? Why were the Riverlands and other kingdoms who were turning from the Faith thriving? Why was the Reach suffering for nothing?
Erryk’s thoughts were soon cut off as a terrible sound vibrated through his ears and he screamed in fear and agony. It was the worst sound that he had ever heard, like the screams of a thousand souls burning to death, a shivering hot voice, bright and baneful.
For a moment, Erryk thought the seven hells had opened right beneath his feet before somehow, an even more terrifying sound shook the land itself. The very earth trembled and Erryk almost fell to his knees as a fearsome and deafening roar filled every corner of the sky and choked the air in his breath.
And then there was darkness, the sun itself had been blotted out and it was like night had fallen. Erryk looked up in awe and more fear than he had ever felt in his life. There was no sun to be seen, no clouds or bright blue sky or even the stars and moon of the night. There was a pitch-black enormity, like the tar he used to help thatch his roof, or the charcoal that kept his children warm at night.
As he watched, the blackness moved and as quickly as they had gone away, the sun, the clouds, and the bright blue sky returned. And as they did, the blackness could more easily be seen, taking the shape of wings, claws, a long tail and a fearsome head. All pitch black.
Erryk’s heart froze in his chest. There was not a single soul in Westeros, maybe even the world entire, that did not know what that shape was. The Black Dread had come to his humble little village.
He threw his tools aside and ran desperately, not caring that he was running into danger. His whole family was in the village, he had to get them to safety and if the worst came to pass…he’d rather die with them than live alone.
By the gods! Erryk thought as the dragon flew overhead his village and it was all swallowed into the shadow cast by the beast’s wings. Everything that he had ever known, everything that he had ever lived, his whole life was smaller than this dragon.
It was so massive, from snout to tail its length was easily longer than the entire main street of his village, and two or more villages would be covered whole by the dragon’s wings when grounded, let alone the shadow they cast when aloft.
Another roar sounded then and Erryk realized with a start that he had been so focused on the dark enormity of the Black Dread that he hadn’t even noticed another dragon flying beside it, barely a quarter the size of the elder. All dark red and crimson, with a lean but powerful build. ‘The Blood Wyrm,’ Erryk realized.
His heart pounded in his chest and he screamed as the Blood Wyrm suddenly descended from where it and the Black Dread had been circling overhead. In his mind’s eye he could see his village, his home, his family all being turned to ash and he closed his eyes even as he continued to run.
But when he opened his eyes, the feared hell flames had never emerged, only a loud thud as the dragon landed at the entrance to his village.
By the time he finally arrived in his village, he saw a fearful crowd had gathered at the entrance, summoned by the rider of the dragon, his family among them. The dragonrider sat perched upon his mount, a figure arrayed in a pristine suit of red armor as dark as dried blood.
Erryk knew who this was. The Crimson Prince, someone so fearsome and cruel that he had killed tens of thousands when he had just barely passed his thirteenth nameday. A monster they defied at their peril, a deranged beast who answered to none but his parents and lieges.
“Wh-what do you want from us?” The village elder choked on his words in fear. Erryk held his family tight as his children began crying in terror.
“I am Prince Aerion of House Targaryen! Heir to King Aegon! I come representing my realm and my house. It has come to our attention, that villages in this region have been sheltering members of the Faith Militant. Survivors of the battle at Bitterbridge. These Faith Militant have been raiding our supply lines and attacking our brave soldiers.
“I offer you one last chance at clemency. Surrender any information you have on these rebels, stop supporting them and turn them in, and you will be spared and rewarded generously. Refuse and you will die,” the dragon prince replied, his voice cold and raspy.
“They’re not here! We don’t know anything! Please don’t hurt us!” the village elder denied, begging for mercy.
Erryk didn’t know how he knew, but he knew the prince was smiling cruelly behind his helm.
“Is that so? I’m afraid I don’t believe you. We know for sure that they are here.” There was a calculating cruelty in the dragonrider’s tone.
He turned his hand where he stood, and suddenly the village elder’s body started contorting and he screamed in pain, his muscles and limbs twisting and convulsing in unnatural ways before he was suddenly lifted aloft by an invisible force to the shocked screams of the rest of the village. “And if you continue to insist on defying me, then everyone here will pay the price. Starting. With. You.”
The village elder screamed from the pain as the red dragon opened its maw and fire began glowing ominously at the back of its throat. Erryk’s whole family were screaming and sobbing, as were the rest of his village, and he held his wife and children tight as they braced for the end. He was desperate for anything, anyone that could save them when a voice suddenly cried out.
“THEY’RE HERE!”
Everyone froze and the dragonrider stood there, waiting expectantly. It took Erryk far too long to realize the voice had been his own, stunned looks on the faces of everyone around him. He had acted instinctively to protect his own however he could, but he didn’t regret it, not for a moment, not if it meant his loved ones would be safe.
He rose to his feet while everyone else continued to cower, some even having the audacity to glare at him for his betrayal.
“The Poor Fellows. Five and ten of them. They’re hiding in the village sept. I…we can bring them to you. Just please don’t hurt us! Don’t hurt my family!” he begged.
The dragonrider’s hand relaxed and the village elder dropped to the ground in agonizing relief. “There will be no need for that,” he said simply before red tendrils burst forth from his hand and rushed towards the sept at blinding speeds.
The Poor Fellows screamed as they were pulled out and dragged through the air towards the dragon and as soon as they neared, they were seized by the same invisible grip that had held the elder, their bodies twisting and convulsing in the air as they screamed in pain.
‘Sorcery’, Erryk realized with horror. The Crimson Prince was a sorcerer and a dragonlord both. Were all his family like that as well? The stories were all true. How could they even hope to stand against such foes? Why had they even dared?
As they watched, red tendrils (blood??) continued to wrap around and bind the screaming Poor Fellows and imprison them.
A bag of coins was suddenly thrown at Erryk’s feet, fifteen silver pieces clinking and scattering along the ground. He looked up at the dragonrider in shock. “W-what is this?” he choked out.
“Your reward,” the dragonlord said, his voice magnanimous but the tone felt condescending. “As the bounty promised. A silver drake for the head of every Poor Fellow, and you have given me five and ten.”
“This is the reward for obedience and loyalty!” the prince began saying to the rest of the village now. “Serve and obey us, and you will have prosperity and riches beyond your wildest imaginations! Defy us and give aid to our enemies however,” he said before he snapped his fingers and suddenly one of the Poor Fellows was consumed in an intense crimson blaze, screaming as he burned to death, “and that will be your punishment.”
“I do not ever want to hear that this man nor any of his friends and family have been punished or ostracized by the rest of you for his actions today. Today he saved the lives of every single soul in this village and his bravery and righteousness should be honored, not resented,” the dragonlord pointed out Erryk.
“Now dawns the era of House Targaryen! Loyal servants shall be rewarded generously and traitors and enemies will be given only fire and blood!” he proclaimed before he shouted a command at his dragon that Erryk did not understand.
The Blood Wyrm gripped the remaining fourteen Poor Fellows in its claws before beating its massive wings, the dragon’s tail almost crashing into them as it took off into the sky overhead the village.
As the red and black dragons flew away into the distance, Erryk could not help but breathe a sigh of relief that he and his family had all made it through the day. He wasn’t sure what to think after that terrifying experience, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Targaryen rule would bring to his village in the years to come, the good and the bad.
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Aerion
With the captured Poor Fellows in tow, Aerion set off with his father back for their new operating base in the newly rechristened Bitterbridge. If Aerion was being honest, he didn’t think that his father had to follow him on every mission he flew on but he could understand why he was doing it. He was just grateful he had been given a second chance to prove himself again after everything that had happened.
The year after he and Valaena had been attacked had been the darkest days in his life. Days in which he had struggled to recover from his mental and physical injuries, the blows dealt to his pride and self-esteem, and the fraying ties he had with his family.
Even now, just thinking of how he had lashed out at Aegor and mocked his disability and injury, an injury he had gotten trying to save him, made him wince. His younger brother had forgiven him for it, but words once spoken could never be taken back and it would always hang like a shadow over their relationship.
After that however, after they had found the vault, everything had started looking up. Their parents had returned to them; their family had been reunited and whole for the first time in so long and together they had thrown themselves into their studies. They had learned magics they hadn’t even dreamed possible, magic that had healed all of the injuries and scars they had been dealt by the skinchangers but one, Aegor’s lost eye. All the stories his mother had long told all of them had finally become true, no longer just dreams to imagine but fundamentals to study.
The tricks he had shown off on the village elder and the Poor Fellows earlier had simply been a practice exercise in a few spells, a fraction of what he would one day be able to do once he mastered all the magic there was within the vault. Perhaps one day instead of using his own blood as a whip to pull people like the Poor Fellows closer to him, he might be able to control their blood and bring them towards him directly. Or use his pyromancy to do it instead, or the combination of both arts in bloodfire (which he particularly enjoyed using).
He wasn’t the only one learning either. Aegor and Rhaena were both doing so well in their studies, all of his siblings and parents were really. And Valaena had been pushing himself further than anyone else except perhaps Rhaena. Intent on never being crippled by skinchanging or any other magic again, his beloved ‘twin’ had studied even further than he and mastered the glass candles in a way he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
She had even begun a personal project studying the passive effects and immunity long-term glass candle use gave and trying to replicate and enhance it for use in enchantments on objects that could allow them to better protect their minds even without glass candles. She had ideas to use the ruby necklace he had given her all those years ago and shaping it into a powerful artifact that could protect her and any future wearers from poisons, mental and magical attacks, and enhance their own magic. A project Aerion very much approved of for obvious reasons.
If she was successful, perhaps it might even become an important heirloom passed down amongst their children one day, something more than just their mother’s jewelry.
He wouldn’t lie and say he was pleased to be separated from Valaena so much after they had been together all their lives, but he could understand the reasoning. They had gotten distracted with each other last time, and this time it was better for them to watch and learn at the side of their parents. They still talked every night using their glass candles, and with how much faster than he Valaena was progressing, he wouldn’t be that surprised to find her appearing to him one of these days as a projection without his own glass candle even being lit.
Glass candles had also become crucial to their invasion and conquest of the Reach and what remained of the Stormlands.
Valaena and his Aunt Rhaenys had led an army down from the Westerlands, striking south towards the mouth of the Mander and securing Red Lake, Old Oak, Coldmoat, and Goldengrove, while Aerion and his father had secured Norcross and marched down the Mander from Tumbleton securing Grassy Vale, Bitterbridge and more and his mother Visenya had conquered Cape Wrath and was marching into the Dornish Marches that were controlled by both the Reach and the Stormlands.
Everywhere they had gone, they had coordinated their attacks and ensured none of the three fronts had been lacking for anything with glass candles, communicating with each other and back with Summerhall as well. In the actual fighting, the Faith Militant and their allies always without fail dispersed into the countryside and attempted to use guerilla warfare to fight back.
Fortunately, they were more than prepared to fight such a war. Their Rangers, Eyes, and Dragonguard were all meticulously trained in espionage and counterinsurgency and some with the aptitude and the trustworthiness had even been given glass candles and trained in their usage. That allowed Aerion and his family to root out the Faith Militant and their allies with ease, hunting them throughout the countryside down to their hideouts using their advanced spy and scout networks and glass candles to scry and interrogate.
They would go systematically through every region, burning out enemy castles and destroying their armies and guerilla militants before occupying the regions with their own forces, installing their loyalists as new lords and pacifying the people. Their manpower was significantly greater now than it had been a few years ago, with more legions, mercenaries, levies, auxiliaries, and the like, but manpower for occupation was still limited and they had done their best to win the begrudging support of the people.
The promise of reward and the threat of punishment was enough for many to fall in line, with the abolition of the First Night and instatement of many policies favoring the commons winning support while Exceptionalism and other religions were preached to pry the people away from the Starry Sept’s brand of the Faith.
Unfortunately, many villages and towns were still too far gone, fully believing in all the lies and slander that had been spread about Aerion’s family and thinking them abominations and demons. Their new practice of sorcery, however beneficial it had been for them, had only seemed to confirm the stories to some of these people and they had made examples out of them as a warning to others what the price of defiance would be.
Just as he had in the Vale, Aerion had taken to that task with a grim and ruthless efficiency. He had more than earned his epithet as the Crimson Prince over again during the Reach campaign, and Valaena had done the same over in the western front. Their names were forever stained with blood now, but Aerion had long gone past the point of caring.
He didn’t need the Reach or the rest of Westeros to love him as long as they submitted to his house. Let him, Valaena, and their parents bear all the hatred of the commons. One day, when Westeros thrived under the rule of their empire and all the grief, sorrows, and ashes of the Conquest had been forgotten, his children and their children would be as beloved as House Gardener or any of the other royal houses were now, if not more, and House Targaryen’s rule would forever be solidified.
When he returned to Bitterbridge, where the bridge was still stained in red even if the blood had washed away from the river, he handed the fourteen remaining Poor Fellows over to the Eyes that had secretly accompanied the army.
“Process them,” he ordered, knowing they knew what he meant.
The Poor Fellows’ minds would be utterly rent and torn apart for every piece of information they had on other Poor Fellows or Warrior’s Sons in the region and their hideouts, plans, and activities, and once they had extracted everything of use from them, they would feed Caraxes and Balerion.
As he walked away however, he was a little surprised that one of the Poor Fellows still had the presence of mind to ask him a question. He had thought him dazed from the pain and fear.
“Do you fear nothing at all? Are there no gods or men that you will answer to for all your crimes?” he demanded.
Aerion stopped in his tracks. For the briefest moment he thought of Valaena’s screams as the white arrows slammed into her back, the sounds Rhaena’s cat made as he strangled it, and then he crushed it. He was past that now, stronger now, and he would never let himself be in that position ever again.
“I answer to neither gods nor men. The only ones that may command me are my father and his queens.”
That was the only reply he gave the Poor Fellow before he walked off and left him to his fate.
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Author’s Note: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Struggled with writing some parts of it! Really hope y’all liked how I blended the new magic capabilities of the Targaryens into the greater narrative! Aerion really pulled a Darth Vader/Amon/Hama lmao.
Let me know your thoughts, suggestions, and questions in the comments below or over on Discord! https://discord.com/invite/NSEwuzpcWm
Comments
Tertius711
I'm glad you liked it! I felt the need to bring the iconic quote about answering to neither gods or men in the story.
Amerdism
“I answer to neither gods nor men. The only ones that may command me are my father and his queens.” Literally the kind of quote tha'll end up in a historical text
Tertius711
Well I'm glad you enjoyed it! Wdyt of how the other characters reacted to the magic?
SteveH
I always like POVs from minor or common born characters! Keep it up!
Tertius711
Nice. What did you like about it?
Odysseus
Fuck yeah! Im so high rn this js exactly what i was hoping for!. Nice one shag
