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The Grind (Book 2) Ch.29
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 22:51:37 +0000 UTC— The Stranger —
Turning, turning tides fell upon an old town by a sunset sea. IT watched. IT lingered, always out of sight. IT guided and guarded, damned and destroyed. IT was the end that came for all.
The people of that old town by that sunset sea were stuck, split, and shattered. Magicks meant to protect made the situation worse from within. More entered. None left. Foreign men trapped beside men whose ancestors had walked these lands since the Dawn. Shadows of Faith beside the Faith that rang true. The people of that old town by that sunset sea were far from legion against the threats that lurked in the dark, escaping even ITS eyes…
The learned men within, caught in chaos when they should’ve been shining the light of knowledge. The regular folk so small, haunted by horrors when they should’ve been protected by their Lord and Faith. And the Faithful of Seven stripes, inured to indecision when they should’ve been at the vanguard against the foreign Shadows.
Tensions rose and rose with only the barest hint of the climax being built toward. One night, same as all the others, yet reaching a peak. Many joined ITS embrace, sent by many others, and still Shadows hid from ITS sight. Little changed, for everything already had, with a spark and splash made by a new peer, ripples now felt across the world.
Despite the change and its consequences, ITS new peer was a welcome one. A lady. A castle. A catalyst. Just what the world needed with dark things now daring to come to light. Some of Her Faithful, though She didn’t call them that, had come to that old town on that sunset sea. Her ‘Adorable Little Darling Human-Creatures’ (Her words, not ITS…) would certainly play roles in the coming climax.
But for that night, they were preoccupied by visions of [REDACTED], half from another of ITS faces, and half from the nameless deities of stream, forest, and stone. Such preoccupation was necessary.
And so… IT simply watched. IT lingered, always out of sight. IT guided and guarded, damned and destroyed. IT was the end that came for all.
IIIII
— Acolyte Rogar —
Acolyte Rogar ran through the once-hallowed halls of the Citadel. A center of learning, of healing, of enlightenment, and of purpose where even bastards could find use and value; no more. There was little ‘peace and duty in study’ to be found these days. There was little peace at all… But in the quiet battleground the Citadel had become, there was still a certain sort of duty, the deadly sort…
Rogar fell into Archmaester Marwyn’s school of thought on The Issue. He felt magic could be used best by each and every man, not wrangled with leaden fists, not futilely suppressed back into oblivion, not picked apart until the very world turned on them. And he’d hoped to one day cast a spell of his own, for he hadn’t awakened any magic to call his own.
He was one of many who claimed Marwyn as master within the Citadel. But they kept their allegiances under their robes. Their master didn’t stay within the Citadel, not like the Ocley, Nymos, or Castos schools. Their school was many, to be sure, but disadvantaged. Often, they were the ones to feel the Citadel’s internal strife fall upon them.
Which led directly to Rogar’s flight through dangerous halls. Taunts and insults from his pursuers echoed after him.
“Craven!”
“Lackwit!”
“Talentless bastard!”
“Where is that damned magic you and your master claim to practice, boy?!”
“Good man, the little piss streak couldn’t manage a magic to save his life if certain death was on his heels-! Oh, wait! Hahahaha!”
Some of the calls cut deeper than the others. And the laughter cut deeper still. Rogar was still a boy, chased by older acolytes and maesters grown. Three and ten, he’d only forged a single link to put in his future chain. His eyes stung and his vision blurred as he ran.
He’d found he had little talent for magic. But then, he hadn’t had much of a chance to find that talent, either… Everything had been happening so fast. A spark set by Magic’s Return turned into a conflagration of strife.
One day, he’d been just another novice in the Scribe’s Hearth, hiring out his ability with letters and numbers like so many others to pay the Citadel’s tuition. It was a simple existence. One where he most looked forward to forging his first chainlink and becoming a true acolyte. That’d been his happiest day, the First Forging. Rogar’s sole link, the copper of history, was his most treasured possession.
Then, chaos struck. Rogar remembered the first rumors of awakenings amongst the order. Little things that quickly grew impossible to deny. He’d been fascinated by the possibilities, by the quickly changing world. Others were… less so. But none could stop the incoming tide, not even the Conclave.
One rumor turned to five, and then to dozens and dozens. And not just tall tales, but proof, as well. Magicks of hex and spell and illusion and alchemy and divination and element. They were met with mixed reception within the walls of the Citadel.
News came from without, more of the same. Some of the maesters studied the new phenomenon. Others cowered from it. Others still embraced it all too readily, the taste of power giving way to ambition.
The Conclave was called to rule over the chaos. That… was the moment that changed everything, as far as Rogar could tell. Archmaester set against archmaester, and those battle lines drew in support from those below. Soon after, violence broke out between the various schools of thought, both within the Citadel and beyond into Oldtown.
Rogar had seen more death than he’d ever expected to. Some foe, some even friend. He’d heard more than enough tales to tell that the Citadel was tearing itself apart. He’d taken to arranging them in his mind like obituaries, records to help him cope.
‘Acolyte Dantis, a promising older boy on the verge of maesterhood. Grumpy but sharp of mind and tongue, and willing to lend a hand to the younger acolytes if he was pestered enough. He’d been torn apart by the Ravenwright, a now infamous enforcer of Archmaester Castos.’
‘Maester Stefon, who kept a secret family down by the docks that his peers turned a blind eye to. He doted upon the novices like they were his own children. He kept to Archmaester Ebrose’s neutral school of healing. But a stray fireball had still burnt him to a crisp.’
‘Archmaester Agrivane, one of the first to fall to the Citadel’s civil war. Rumor had it that Archmaester Nymos buried the man in unflinching stone during that fateful conclave when his blood ran hot enough to awaken a magic of his own. Ironic, considering Nymos’s stance of suppressing the very magic he’d used back into oblivion…’
‘The Acolytes Adian, Edgarth, and Kier, each cut down by entirely mundane means. They tried to slip away into the night, but were caught by a larger group of acolytes armed with blades. All Archmaester Ocley’s creatures, they mobbed the trio and stabbed them half a hundred times to uphold the order of law. Or so they claimed…’
‘Novices Sam and Aren, just boys. Younger than Rogar, even. They were caught when members of Nymos’s school came to the Scribe’s Hearth to ensure none were spreading writings about Magic’s Return and the internal workings of the Citadel. It’d been a raid, in truth. The raiders burned many a parchment and paper, novice and acolyte, before they were finally put down.’
‘Maester Jon, found frozen dead in his bed. Not for the conflict between the schools, but for a preexisting disagreement between rival scholars that escalated with the chaos and magic of the Citadel.’
‘Maester Lanc, drained to a husk. Maester Gidden, shattered like his flesh was Myrish glass. Acolyte Mal, bloodlessly separated straight down the middle…’ And so on. Rogar’s ‘records’ were tragically extensive.
But at least the Citadel wasn’t haunted by the Shadows that stalked the rest of the city… Probably. Maybe. Rogar couldn’t say that with any real certainty. He knew of quite a few deaths that hadn’t been explained by the Citadel’s internal conflict. No cause, culprit, or even body to be found. Just a disappearance, maybe into Shadows…
Rogar himself had been able to escape so far. Though he’d joined Master Marwyn’s school of thought and practiced the magical exercises he’d been given in his bunk at night, he kept his head down. He went about as if business were as usual, despite knowing business was anything but…
He wasn’t alone in that strategy. The enforcers and fanatic followers of each Archmaester’s school were the exceptions, practicing violence and magic more than their maesterly duties now. Those not-so-few exceptions were still more than enough to bring conflict and danger to the rest of the Citadel…
Most of the Citadel still scribed, researched their treatises, and worked toward forging additional chainlinks. They tended the ravens (those not claimed by the Ravenwright), and by some unspoken agreement, the Citadel’s situation was kept from the replies. If some went against that unspoken, Ravenwright-enforced rule, they certainly didn’t speak of it aloud. To the rest of the realm, the Citadel continued to function as it always had…
But it was all a collective mummer’s farce. Civility to mask the civil war beneath. The majority of the Citadel accepted the mummer’s farce. They had to if there was any hope of coping and continuing, any hope of slipping beneath the notice of the enforcers and fanatics. Then, there were those who subscribed to that mummer’s farce individually, but still acted against it when given enough numbers and courage.
They… They were just as dangerous as the violent exceptions, the blooded enforcers and fanatics loyal to their Archmaester’s vision. For they were unpredictable. Like the ones who chased him now, acting more like a petty street gang than maesters and acolytes of the Citadel. Rogar couldn’t have known to avoid them like he avoided the Ravenwright of Castos, the Grey Bull of Ocley, or the stone experimentation of Archmaester Nymos himself.
They’d likely gathered in a chamber to drink and converse, and just so happened to get each other’s drunken blood up in the name of their Archmaester’s school. Then, they’d set out with a malice of boredom in their hearts, an arrogance found in strength and numbers, and the group’s momentum pushing them forward. Like men at war during a sack, truly. Conflict on this scale brought out the worst in men.
“Don’t trip! Don’t trip!” One of Rogar’s pursuers taunted, cackling.
“I’ve got a blade to slip between your ribs, little mage boy!”
“And I’ve got a touch of shocking pain to introduce you to!”
Rogar ran and ran, chased by the ugliest sides of men. He threw himself into a room and hurried to lock the door behind him. There was a back exit to the room. Rogar didn’t stay.
He quickly found himself thanking the Crone for that wisdom. Behind him, the door’s lock turned open, seemingly on its own. The older men barged through in an instant to continue their chase.
The halls were dark with night just fallen. At ordered intervals, sconces meant to guide the way had already been lit.
Rogar seized the torch from one as he ran, barely noticing how the flame flared higher in his hand. He pitched it behind him. For a brief, fleeting instant, the flames spread to cover the stone hallway.
But it faded fast. And Rogar’s pursuers had been made mad by their momentum. They pushed through the fading flames and chased on. Rogar’s blood ran hot in his veins. Burning. Frantically, he reached for the flame within. He tried to grip it firmly but not tightly, as Master Marwyn’s exercises taught.
In his distraction, the older men gained ground. One of them threw a blade. It flew unnaturally straight and true. Something lanced into Rogar’s back, right between his ribs, somehow both white-hot and numbingly cold at once. The feeling spread as he stumbled and fell.
His pursuers came to stand over him, panting and laughing like lords on a hunt. Rogar’s breath caught on something in his lung. Even without a silver link, he knew he was doomed to meet the Stranger now. But he didn’t let go of that flame within.
One of the older men — a boy not much older than him, Rogar now saw… — made good on his earlier taunts. He reached down with static on his palm. Rogar’s nerves lit up, not with the burning of the flame he still held tightly, but something else, something even more excruciating.
Rogar’s spine arched with the pain. Agony scored into his very soul. His scream came out as a wheeze. And still, Rogar didn’t let the flame within slip his grip.
The dagger-thrower pulled his blade from Rogar’s back. Rogar felt air escape his lungs, not through his throat, but through the hole between his ribs. Firmly but not tightly, he held on. Rogar could’ve laughed at the fools… So much pain that they couldn’t inflict any more…
Blade in hand and likely with a taunt on his lips as well, the dagger-thrower leaned in to finish the job. Rogar wouldn’t give him the last word. With a voice pulled from his soul, not flesh, Rogar croaked his last.
“Burn…”
In the early hours of that night, firmly gripped and newly awakened flames escaped in a final roar of defiance… and Rogar knew no more.
IIIII
— Jaske the Jack —
It was a warm summer’s night, and despite the current troubles, there was still plenty of coin to be won in Oldtown’s winesinks, beerhalls, and taverns. And if there were a coin to spare in any pocket, Jaske would see it won into his.
“That’s three, Uncle. Pay up.”
Yes, Jaske was card sharking his uncle by blood, his father’s brother. Yes, his uncle’s coin spent just as well as any other. And, yes, Jaske got his cunning from his mother’s side of the family.
Uncle Phi was, put bluntly, a drunk. Not an irresponsible one, for he kept coin enough to take care of himself. But he always put aside a few copper stars for every silver stag he earned. A budget for his nights of drinking.
It didn’t leave him much spending coin otherwise. If Uncle Phi wasn’t livin’, he was drinkin’. That made him a good mark by Jaske’s reckoning. If anything, he was helping his older kin not succumb to rotgut too early. It kept the drunkard that little bit more sober, and it was all coin that would’ve been spent anyway.
“Bah! Nay! Best four outta seven, as the gods intended!”
“Uncle. Dear uncle. You’ve never even seen the Starry Sept, despite living in Oldtown your whole life.”
“Ah! Don’t need no fancy sept to know the gods and their ways!”
“Don’t let the Faithful hear you say that, Uncle. They’re a mite testy these days.”
“Aye, that they are, Jaskie-boy. Aye, that they are… Don’t see why, meself. Magic, no magic, it’s all from the gods. Don’t need to make such a tiff ‘bout it. We’re all men, ain’t we? Sons of the Father and Mother, nay?”
“Well said, Uncle. Some are saying that those against are out of touch. Don’t know the common man they claim to serve. Ma’s got the magic, too. None of the brutal stuff, it just helps her sew and mend. Now, Ma and Pa have coin to spare and spend for the first time I can remember.”
“She’s a good woman, your ma. Can’t see myself up and turning on her, no matter what those Starry Septons say. It’s a blessin’, innit?”
“She thinks so. Got a few merchants and the like asking after her work now. Good fortunes, in unfortunate times.”
“O’ course, o’ course. Seen the uglier side of it, too. Two of those maesters got into a scrap while I was lugging barrels and crates from the docks. Nasty business. Killed each other dead with fire and summoned blades. But us Smallfolk, us regular men, we just keep on livin’.”
“That’s the way, isn’t it? Helps that the ‘Puffs came in and cleared out the crime lords before they could start getting ideas.”
“Hgn. Good folk, far as I can tell. This winesink used to pay stags and took in groats under ol’ Sash-Slasher’s so-called ‘protection’. Now, they keep all that coin to themselves, and the drink here is better for it.”
“Not nearly as much trouble going around under the ‘Puffs. People fear the Devil’s Snare will come around and set things straight. Keeps the protection rings playing nice, and all.”
“Aye, ‘Puff watchers have been making things right fair. Offering opportunities for cleaner coin, too. Less men drinking themselves sick to cope.”
“There are other reasons for a man to drink himself sick, these days.”
The conversation fell silent at that. They both knew it to be true. Dark things, with the city caught on the dagger’s edge. The Faithful were fine enough. Some even looked out for the simple people caught in between. The maesters were less so, but now, everyone in Oldtown knew to get out of the way when they started dueling in the streets. It was the… other things… that would haunt a man at night.
Jaske shook his head to rid himself of the shivers, “Alright, Uncle. Pay up. I’ve still got more work to do tonight. For you, it’s looking like last call has come early.”
Uncle Phi guffawed, “Work, he says! You’re just swindling us who actually work! My poor brother should take you over his knee to teach you right, boy!”
“Not my fault if men can’t hold onto their purses,” Jaske shrugged.
“Alright, alright, boy, just stay safe,” Uncle Phi said. “The rest of these drunks don’t know your ma and pa like I do. They don’t owe you nothin’. Careful you don’t find that out firsthand at the pointy end of a blade between your ribs.”
“I’ll keep it in heart and mind, Uncle. I prefer my guts whole and hale, not parted by cheap steel,” Jaske nodded.
“Good bo-… Nay, good man, I should say…” Uncle Phi paused for a moment of thought. “Gods, but you’re growin’ up fast… Leave me to savor the rest of this grog with my thoughts, Jaske. You’ve ensured it’ll be my last of the night. Go on, now, go do whatever it is you call work.”
He pushed Jaske’s winnings on the table between them. Jaske swiped them as he stood, and laid a pat on Uncle Phi’s shoulder as he passed. Good man. He just needed some help from kin to keep him from drinking himself foolish.
Leaving his uncle to the last drink of the night, Jaske looked around the rest of the winesink. It was a rundown place, suppressed by Oldtown’s undercity for too long and only now having the coin to spare for repairs with the ‘Puffs moving into town.
That Lady Devil’s Snare had been surprisingly good to the people on the darker side of life. She and her ‘Puffs offered real protection, for the protected’s benefit, not her own. But, it seemed, that policy was making those she protected rich and grateful, which paid her in turn. The ‘Puffs were doing well for themselves by doing well by everyone else. An odd and new arrangement… but if it worked, it worked.
The night’s darkness tried to creep in through the winesink’s windows, tinted green like everything seemed to be these days. A reminder of what lurked beyond… Light and company and plenty of cheap drink kept those foreign, wicked, terrible things at bay. They hadn’t grown bold enough to raid a packed hearth. Not yet…
Jaske spied another game of cards going — young players, easy marks — and wandered over to see himself dealt into the next round. His coin was a welcome addition to the pot, and Jaske set about his usual way of playing. A few losses to see him welcomed more fully. Then, starting up a conversation, to distract from the fact that he began winning more often than not.
He heard the usual tales, the ones becoming almost routine lately. A Faithful septon blessing the orphaned and desperate, only to be confronted by another Faithful and sucked into a rather spirited debate, by the sound of things.
“Sevenfold!” One boy declared the septon’s blessing. “Found justice for Jot, cured Big Sister Marella’s mornin’ sickness, strengthened our arms, summoned wooden shields for the boys and chaste protections for the girls, guided that fool Tip to stop drinking at seven and join the Faith, and struck that cruel matron dead where she stood! Don’t quite know how the other one argued with all of that.”
Dueling maesters, painfully unaware of what the people thought of them and their internal struggles. A boy at the table claimed to have run off one of the duels with a gang of fellow youths. The robed and chained men didn’t seem to realize that Oldtown was getting rather put up with their shite, to put the shared feeling lightly.
“Craven cunts were causin’ trouble for everyone else, blocking the street, and all,” He said. “Well, the boys and I had e’nough. Took up clubs and poles, we did, and smacked ‘em until they didn’t know which way was up! Sent ‘em scampering like cats. Think I’mma keep a walking stick on me from now on, just for maester beatin’!”
Then came the tales of Oldtown nights, not days. Whispers after dark. Of Shadows that shifted, of goods and services taken by force and fear, of ambushes in dark alleys, and people disappearing without a trace. Come night, Oldtown traveled in packs, now. The Hightower guards and Oldtown Watch still patrolled, but they kept their eyes out for worse things than thieves and thugs…
Those nightmare rumors and retellings were rare… but growing more common by the night. Everyone at the table knew someone who knew someone who’d gotten got… Or knew someone who’d heard the tale from another… Or had heard a tale or two for themselves… Or even, seen the Shadows at work with their own eyes…
“A boy I knew was swallowed whole by a shadow a few nights back. I’m not ashamed to say that I ran. Haven’t seen or heard from him since, Stranger rest his soul.”
“Whore I know, my sister’s sister, said her matron had to cut a deal with the Shadows… She sacrificed herself so none of her girls had to. She said there was a whole bunch of noise in one of the rooms come midnight. Men and whore alike stayed well away. When they opened the room in the morning, there was just a note in broken Common: ‘Thank good cooperation’…”
Jaske shuddered at that story, and even dared to pray to the Stranger for that matron’s sacrifice. With the Shadows, however, there was no telling if it’d be enough to satisfy them for long.
“Strange foreign men have been pressin’ my pa’s shop. Dressed up in dark robes like the maester fools, but always with their hoods up and their faces cast in Shadow… They’ve been forcing him to get queer, queer things for them.
“Blood from half a dozen still living goats. Dornish spices. Hemlock, nightshade, and foxglove, all three of those poisons. Rose thorns pricked and coated in virgin blood. A glove used to beat a wife, a son, and a daughter. A faithful woman’s piss, even.
“He tried to refuse, o’ course. He’s just a shopkeeper. He can’t get anything or everything. But then, they just added a shopkeeper’s copper counting hand to their list…”
Their table began to attract a crowd. Not for the games they played, but for the tales being told. The drunks, the working men and women, the serving wenches, and even the owner came ‘round to share the tales they’d heard and seen for themselves.
“I’ve seen ‘em lurkin’. All deadly and dark like. Never spied a face from ‘em. But I remember the sounds they made… Unnatural, that. Damned and unnatural.”
“They came round here once, too. That drunk Yohn disappeared when he stumbled out to take a piss. No one saw nothin’. But we all know, don’t we?”
“What in the Seven Hells are they doing…? Takin’ people, takin’ strange things, takin’ the whole city along for their cruel ride, dragged along behind the horse. Can’t say what Shadows want. Can’t even say if they’re still men, not really.”
Terrible tellings. No one was safe. The nights of Oldtown had become more dangerous than any lord’s battlefield. At least then, one would know what happened to their loved ones. With the Shadows, none could even guess. Something cruel and magical, no doubt. And none of the good magic that the rest of them had come to know. They certainly weren’t magically sewing and minding their own like Jaske’s ma was…
“Heard a group of Shadows ran into a Faithful late one night. The Faithful, one of the magic-hatin’ type, too, shone with the Seven’s light, and the Shadows burned.”
“Me ol’ nanna did ‘em just the same! Oldest, littlest lady you ever did see, but she’s got the fight of true faith in ‘er! When those Shadows came callin’, she took out her dagger, asked the Smith and Warrior and Crone and Stranger to bless it all nice like, and started stabbin’! She says that even Shadows bleed red.”
But the tales and rumors weren’t all ones of woe. There was hope there. Hope and faith. Oldtown was still the city of the Faith. Always would be, no matter what those morons wallowing in King’s Landing’s corruption claimed. They might’ve been haunted by horrifying, foreign things (Men…? Demons…? None could say…), but the Seven’s light would always shine down upon Oldtown, as if cast by the Hightower.
“What’s a man to do in these times?” Jaske asked the table, his voice low and wary.
“Pray,” Someone suggested. “Even to the Stranger.”
“Stay indoors, in the light of a hearth. They haven’t dared to go that far yet. Guest Rites still keeps ‘em at bay. There’s something magical in that…” Another said.
“Keep yourself armed and deadly, boy. The least you can do is put up a fight before they take you to meet the Stranger,” The winesink’s owner grunted out his two groats.
“I don’t think it’s the Stranger they’re taking you to meet…” Jaske muttered — heard and agreed with by all.
In the end, Jaske had to call his night early. He didn’t manage to clean out the pot. Something more important than won coins reared its head.
He saw his uncle finish his drink and get up to leave. Poor fool, poor family, would be walking the streets alone. Jaske couldn’t let that be. The tales at his table had left him… rightly spooked. Two might not be enough to scare off the Shadows… but it was a damn sight better than one. Anything was better than walking the streets alone on these nights.
Jaske made his excuses, collecting the coin he’d managed to win. None stopped him, not even the other players who might want to win back their losses. They all nodded at Jaske, understanding what he had to do. A few bowed their heads in prayer for him. Wasn’t much… But any little thing helped against the Shadows.
“C’mon, Uncle Phi, let’s get you home and safe,” Jaske said.
“I’m not that drunk, Nephew.”
“Not about your drunkness, Uncle. ‘Bout the things that might be walking with you.”
“… Good man, then. Make ‘em hesitate to take on two strapping young lads.”
“You’re not so young anymore, Uncle.”
“Well, that’s why I’ve got you next to me, then. You’ll protect these growing-old bones, won’t you?”
“Aye, Uncle. I’ll pray and fight and do everything I can to see you home safe,” Jaske promised solemnly.
They left the winesink into dark and eerie streets. The Hightower’s green flame stained the night. It, along with the light of the moon above, shone just enough light to see by. It was a quiet night. Quiet and cursed. Jaske and his uncle set off for home, not far away at all. Still, every street felt like a league, and the darkness in every alley seemed to glare at their passing.
They saw none and no one on the dark streets of Oldtown. A horrifying departure from the Oldtown summer nights they knew. Just last year, the city would’ve been alive right about now. Night markets and bustling taverns, calling whores and merry drunks, thieves looking to make their livings and Hightower guards looking to stop them.
Now, there was nothing but silence from the stars above. Jaske twitched and jumped at every flickering shadow. But… nothing. Nothing at all. Eerie in its own right, that kept Jaske on edge.
Fear had never gripped him so tightly. But beneath it, a certain readiness lay. He kept one arm supporting Uncle Phi, though he wasn’t drunk enough to need it. The other hand stayed steadfastly put on the long dagger of his belt.
Jaske tried to take heart in the tales of hope and faith he’d heard earlier. He wasn’t sure how well that attempt worked. He was no Faithful, no hardened and wizened grandmother. But from them, Jaske knew the Shadows could burn, could bleed.
They nearly made it home unmolested… Just one more street, a shortcut, and a little bit farther. But the shadows were shifting and flickering more and more. Darkness stared back at Jaske when he glanced around. He heard tension mount in the air, a sort of weighty buzz he couldn’t attribute to any bug. An off scent reached his nose, smoke and shadow and burning brimstone and something beastly…
Right before he saw them, his skin stood at attention, hairs raising despite the night’s warmth. He looked away for a second… Then, out of the corner of his eye, Shadows were there. Jaske whipped his head back around. Whatever he saw was already gone…
He gripped his uncle tightly to his side and forced his feet to march faster. Uncle Phi was just as spooked, looking nowhere but straight ahead. Without Jaske’s help, he might’ve been frozen there.
Another shift, another Shadow… Jaske saw it more clearly that time. Shaped like a man, cloaked and hidden as if it weren’t one. He saw another twitch of movement on his other side. When Jaske turned to look, the first Shadow disappeared back into darkness. The second stood closer than the first…
“O-Oi! Fuck right off…! I’m armed!” Jaske warned.
“H-Head down, Jacksie-boy. We’re almost there,” Uncle Phi muttered, more a prayer than a reminder.
“We won’t make it, Uncle…”
More Shadows, Jaske saw both from before and a third. He hurried his stride, pushing his uncle to keep up. All around, the darkness seemed to creep in on them.
Jaske heard the bleat of a goat. He heard the stars twinkle and cackle, not the ones above… He heard the Shadows writhe.
Slow, steady steps brought the Shadows closer. No matter how Jaske and his uncle hurried, they couldn’t get away. Practically running, darkness twisted beneath their feet to keep them where they started. The Shadows approached but didn’t draw any steel. Jaske took that for hope, a chance… until he realized that they likely didn’t need it.
Suddenly, the Shadows’ shadows rushed at them. Cast by moon and Hightower flame, the dark shapes of men lengthened unnaturally. Jaske drew his dagger from its sheath. He slashed away at the dark magic and found only air. He shoved his uncle behind him.
“Go, Uncle!” He cried. “Get home, as I promised! Tell Ma and Pa I love ‘em! Tell them I went down fighting until the last!”
Uncle Phi turned back, but the Shadows were already upon Jaske. The Shadows’ shadows bound him, his feet stuck in cobbled and shadowed quicksand. The cry of a goat was deafening in his ears, wearing down on his very soul. Beneath the Shadows’ hoods, Jaske saw only stars and nothingness.
Dark magicks be damned! Jaske stabbed the Shadow closest to him like the grandmother had. The blade bit deep, and Jaske saw that the Shadows did indeed bleed red.
But it wasn’t enough. The other two Shadows still grabbed Jaske. By head and arms, but Jaske found himself choking as if they had him by the throat. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. Jaske fought futilely, but knew he was fading.
Even as Jaske’s world fell into Shadow, he could still hear. And he was shaken to his core when otherwise mundane voices came from beneath those hoods of stars and nothingness. A man’s and a woman’s, both speaking Common, both accented in different ways. The woman’s voice was smooth and sultry, like an Essosi courtesan. The man’s voice was more charming than any bard.
“Brother Vayas will surely bleed out,” The woman said.
“Good riddance,” The man chortled. “The Goat’s children bring little to the table, not like the Stars Above and the Shadows Below. They are lucky we tolerate them this much.”
“Hmm. Still, take his body. He will serve after death, at least.”
“The uncle ran. Shall I give chase?”
“Hmm. No, it wouldn’t be worthwhile. Uncle and nephew is a much less potent pairing than father and son.”
“Are we truly in a position to be picky?”
“There are certain standards to maintain. Our faiths demand nothing less.”
Relieved as he was to hear of his uncle’s escape, Jaske heard no more. The darkness was too much, clawing at him, clinging to him. Caught and bound within shadows, Jaske knew nothing else.
Time blurred, but he felt movement; he was sure. He’d been taken somewhere. To a place where the air was heavy and suffocating to his very soul. A place where, Jaske somehow knew, the light of the Seven and the Hightower’s flame didn’t shine.
Jaske was truly alone with the Shadows, entirely at their mercy. He felt his wrists be slit, but the pain was far away. He felt his lifeblood drain, sucked away by something darker than the Stranger.
Alone, in Shadows, far from his gods’ sight and his lord’s protection… Jaske knew no more.
IIIII
— Septa Liona —
“Must you keep that… thing… in hand when praying for the children, Sister?” Septa Virsa asked, looking at Liona with wary bemusement.
Septa Liona just closed her eyes and smiled, “Yes, Sister. The morning star is, in fact, necessary to my prayers. The King’s laws prevent the Faith from bearing men under arms to avoid resurrecting the Faith Militant. But I am no man…
“In these trying times, I will take up whatever arms I must to protect our charges, our children, from the monsters that lurk in the dark.”
“You terrify me, Sister, I must admit,” Virsa said… but her expression softened. “Yet in the same breath, I cannot question your commitment. I know you will do everything in your power to protect this motherhouse. I can accept a bit of fear and confusion for myself if it means the little ones will be guarded well by your gruesome and brutal weapon.”
Liona nodded, “Just as I can begrudgingly tolerate your terrible magicks so long as the good they do is kept in check by the Smith’s sanctioned steel.”
“You-… You wouldn’t use that thing on me, Sister… Would you?” Virsa asked, shying away slightly.
Liona closed her eyes once more and smiled even wider, “Nay, Sister, for I trust you would not make me. We may disagree on the issue of Magic: Blessing or Damnation, but we are both still Faithful of the Seven. We are united in our purpose here tonight, and thus, I will stand by your side, despite your sins. And take heart, Sister, I shall still keep you in my prayers.”
Virsa sighed, “Sister… I cannot comprehend how you are progressive enough to take up arms, but fail to see Magic for the Seven’s blessing that it is.”
“Let us not leap to conclusions,” Liona cautioned. “No decision on Magic has been set in stone by the Most Devout and Starry Septon. We may continue this earnest debate once the voice of the Seven has spoken through them. Until then, know that we share purpose and faith, and must stand united against the darkness of these nights.”
“Agreed,” Virsa nodded. “Tonight, the children need us united more than they need either of us to score some nebulous philosophical victory over the other.”
“I would say they always do,” Liona opined. “A hearth and home divided cannot stand, cannot function, cannot love, or nurture. We are the closest thing the little ones have to the mothers who birthed them. Forgoing our duty to the Mother for bickering and debate not only shames us, but harms their growing souls.”
“Well said,” Virsa smiled. “The little ones are sleeping, yes?”
“They are, indeed,” Liona confirmed. “Soundly and without care or worry in their hearts, for they know we stand here to protect them. Let’s ensure it stays that way.”
“A little loss of sleep is a small price to pay for their rest and comfort.”
“Those damnable Shadows will find no lapse in our vigil tonight, Sister.”
“If they come grasping or reaching with their ill omens, they will find blessed magicks and sanctioned steel awaiting them.”
Both Virsa and Liona nodded, sharing their commitment, determination, and loathing against the things that lurked in the dark of night. They stood watchful guard over the motherhouse, its children sleeping within. Steel in one hand, magic in another, and one faith in both of their hearts. The night and their vigil began quietly and continued in that manner for some time, broken only by amiable conversation.
Liona was no stranger to Virsa. They were of an age with each other and had said their vows side by side. Differences they may have had, but they were still sisters in faith. Neither let the other stand lax in their duty. Liona kept Virsa alert, and vice versa, for Virsa ensured Liona wouldn’t fall to exhaustion as the night wore on.
“Have you heard?” Virsa asked. “Septon Tobin believes he has a lead to the true nature of these Shadows.”
“That radical?” Liona nearly, but didn’t quite, sneered.
Virsa giggled, “Some would call you the same, Sister. Regardless, he claims to have been visited by visions from the Seven. From Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger. I am inclined to believe him, for that is where his magical talents seem to lie.”
Liona swallowed her disdain as well as she could, “… What has he seen?”
“Foreign and terrible things,” Virsa claimed. “The veil around the Shadows is nigh impossible to breach, especially come dark. But through intense prayer, vigil, and ritual, Septon Tobin stole the smallest of glimpses.
“To me, he spoke of hearing languages far and wide, from Qohor, from Yi Ti, and even from Asshai. He spoke of a certain organization to the Shadows, separated threefold but united in purpose. He spoke of some sinful and wicked working, though he could see no more than the general shape of it from afar and through the veil.”
Liona scowled, “Foreigners and their foreign faiths, come to doom and prey upon the Seven and their children.”
Virsa nodded, “Many come to the realm’s oldest and most important city from all across the world. Some come correctly, without any true malice in their hearts. Others… do not. And with Lord Hightower’s quarantine and protection, we are forced to share space with the latter, cruel and unworthy as they are.”
“Yet they are far from new to Oldtown,” Liona argued. “The docks have long held many an accursed temple and pagan shrine. No, worse than pagan. I would not lump the Old Gods in with the foreign heathens, for they are still of Westeros, at the very least.”
“I have long been a proponent of striking down the false idols that seek to claim footholds in our good city. I know many by name, to better guard against them,” Liona took pride in knowing the potential enemies of her Seven Above.
Virsa listened intently as Liona listed the temples and false idols she knew of, “The Little Labyrinth of the Pattern, and its descendants of the long-gone Mazemakers who make pilgrimages to worship the Hightower’s base. The Torch of R’hllor, and the Lord of Lights priests preaching burning, burning, burning. The statue of the Lord of Harmony and his freely tempting Summer Islander ways.
“Even worse, the Black Goat of Qohor and its abominable ways. The Church of Starry Wisdom that dares to worship what cruel and cold things come from the stars, led by the memory of their Bloodstone Emperor, who ushered in the Long Night all the way from Yi Ti. And from Asshai… none are sure. They worship all the dark gods and none but their magicks most dark.”
Virsa shuddered and made the Seven-pointed star, touching herself seven times to ward off the evils Liona spoke of, “Worse, indeed. Qohor, Yi Ti, and Asshai… Do they haunt us in the dark…?”
“I would not be surprised,” Liona shook her head. “Their presence was tolerated before Magic’s Return. Now, look at what that tolerance has brought upon us.”
Virsa fell silent. Deep in thought as they stood guard. She was a lover, cast in the Mother and Maiden’s images. Her gentleness was best directed inward, toward the rest of the Faith. But sometimes, righteous hatred was needed, for the darkest the world had to offer would only take advantage of the Seven’s love if it was given freely.
The night pressed on, its darkest hours becoming stained with the not-so-distant promise of dawn’s light. So far, nothing had disturbed their peace beneath the Hightower’s green flame. With the sun’s light close below the horizon, Liona gathered her sister in faith and fitting morning star for one last patrol of the motherhouse’s grounds.
They found nothing out of place for most of the patrol. Children sleeping safely within and none making untoward advances from without. Until, that is, they came across a group of reaching Shadows…
Liona held Virsa back, hiding behind a corner. They watched dark shapes unnaturally stretch and twist across the ground toward the motherhouse, toward the children’s dormitory… Still concealed, Virsa immediately set herself into furious prayer. Reaching, reaching, reaching… the Shadows grazed the motherhouse’s walls.
A snap! A crack! Questing, shadowy fingers broke back on themselves as if smashed by the Smith’s hammer. There was a curse of pain in Valyrian or some dialect of it.
“Tresy hen nykeā aspo!”
Dark shapes emerged from the reaching shadows. More emerged from the street beyond, half a dozen in total. The Shadows abandoned their sneakery and came to take all they coveted by force. Virsa and Liona’s charges, their children, for something straight out of the Seven Hells, no doubt. They would not get them.
“Ossēnagon se Faithful!”
Liona had not kept up with her Valyrian teachings, but she knew an order to kill when she heard one. As if she would let Shadows take her to meet the Stranger… She felt no fear. Just fury. And a growing gratitude for Virsa’s blessed magicks, prayed into being. If they could smite dark heathens, they couldn’t be so bad…
Virsa stayed back, her head bowed and her prayers coming fast and furious. Magicks descended from on high to push back the Shadows. A halo of the Seven’s Light settled atop Liona’s head. She squared her weapon, her morning star to ensure the morning came for those under her protection, and charged.
There was no battle cry on her lips, mindful even now of the children’s sleep. Instead, a prayer emerged under her breath. One to the Mother that some would’ve considered unorthodox. But Liona was no man — warrior, knight, or lord. She was a woman with a duty. A motherly figure with her children behind her. And if her children’s safety and future needed to be won on violence’s back… so be it.
Three of the Shadows drew blades from within concealing robes and cloaks. Another mustered the very shadows beneath them.. The last two stood still and seemed to stare with stars beneath their hoods.
Something slid off Liona like arrows of castle-forged steel. A maddening cackle from the stars that she didn’t hear. The Shadows’ shadows rushed to meet her next. They broke upon Virsa’s halo, and Liona remained untouched.
Before joining the Faith, Liona had been the daughter and lone child of a master-at-arms. Her father taught her to defend herself, ‘tradition’ be damned. Thus, when her morning star came down on the skull of the first blade-wielding Shadow, it struck with the force of the Seven.
Blood and bits and bone shards escaped the Shadow’s hood, as if a comet storm emerging from the illusion of stars. The first went down like a sack of grain, dead in an instant. And Liona knew then that the Shadows were just as mortal as any.
She was no whirlwind of death and destruction. No Warrior Reborn. Just a Mother Enraged, protective of her children. In some ways, that was worse. When the second blade-wielding Shadow blocked her smashing swing, Liona reached into its starry hood, grabbed the face within, and threw the Shadow to the ground with strength she didn’t know she possessed.
The third Shadow came at her before she could finish the job. Immediately, Liona wished she had a shield. A lunge half-opened her off-arm. Liona pushed through the sharp pain and wave of weakness with a bash turned glancing blow. It still sent the third Shadow stumbling.
Shadows of dark magic, not flesh, surrounded her, seeking to smother Virsa’s granted halo. Some instinct urged Liona to kick a stray cobble on the ground. The small stone flew unerringly straight, right into the shadow-weaver’s hood.
A sickening crack was heard, even from afar, as the shadow-weaver’s head snapped straight back to stare up at the stars. The dark magic faltered, and Liona turned back to her blade-wielding foes just in time to be slashed across the side.
If she hadn’t turned then, her back would’ve been split open from shoulder to hip. Liona stumbled and bled and lashed out with the full length of her arm. The second Shadow caught the over-extended blow on the chest. Liona felt flesh and bone give way, but the spikes of her morning star were caught in the viscera.
She fell with the second Shadow. It never rose again. Liona struggled to push herself to her feet once more. In doing so, she saw one of the staring Shadows collapse on its feet, crushed by some great unseen weight of the Seven. The other staring Shadow turned its attention onto Virsa behind.
Liona felt her halo flicker as Virsa was forced to fight off that maddening cackle from the stars. Still, she got her feet under her in time to meet the third blade-wielding Shadow as it stumbled up to her.
Its short sword plunged toward her heart. Liona had been unable to extract her morning star. But she still caught the sword’s blade in her now free hands. Somehow, she held it there, only the tip breaching her flesh to scratch her heart within.
Her palms were cut to the bone. Her lifeblood was already draining from two other grave wounds. But then, a ray of light fell upon her, the first of the dawn. New, Seven-blessed strength filled Liona’s being as she glared up into the unfeeling illusion of stars beneath the Shadow’s hood.
“I hope you burn in the stomach of whatever dark god you hold dear,” Liona condemned from the bottom of her soul.
The morning’s first light seemed to weaken the Shadow. Its grip on the blade faltered. Liona pushed it out of her own chest and turned it on the Shadow, reversing their positions. Slow agony drove the Shadow’s breath from its chest.
“You… cannot stop… what is already… in motion…”
It never heard her reply to those final words, “We can certainly try… In the end, that’s all the Seven asks of us, their mortal children…”
Her Seven-granted strength gave way then, washing away with the dawning light. Virsa rushed to catch her, cradle her. Liona saw tears falling from her sister’s eyes. She reached up to cup her cheek, to reassure her, but before she could, she saw the state of her hands. It wouldn’t be right to dirty Virsa with so much blood… So much blood… Oh.
“What… of the last…?” Liona asked.
“F-Fled with the dawn,” Virsa reassured. “H-Hold on, Sister. Just hold on…! I’ll pray for you. The Seven will surely grant you a miracle for your service this night…!”
“’Tis not to be,” Liona sighed, feeling her life draining with the exhale. “The Stranger calls. Press on, Sister… Protect the little ones. Keep at your miracles. They… are a blessing, I see now. No damnation… I was wrong. I’m sure the others will see the same… The Seven cherish you, Sister. Always. As… do… I…”
In her sister’s arms, with a prayer urging Virsa to keep fighting, keep loving on her lips and the dawn breaking overhead… Liona knew no more.
IIIII
[AN: This chapter turned out quite a bit longer than I expected lol. I know I shouldn’t have, but I got kinda invested in these characters. I realize some readers might not feel the same, but I still think the look into the rest of Oldtown is important. It sets the stage for the coming climax of the Oldtown Arc. Which is fast approaching. I’m not looking to drag things out. Maybe two more chapters in Oldtown. But I also think I’m going to do a shorter Varys POV interlude next to give a peek at the happenings in the rest of the realm.
Right now, my immediate plan is looking like: Varys POV interlude, one chapter of the Dead End (maybe a minor/half story and Cass smut ‘cause she’s earned it), and then back to The Grind for the Oldtown climax.
Anyway, I wanted to thank all of you for supporting me and sticking around. Transitioning to other stories is always a bit of an interesting time for me. I appreciate all the continued support and comments more than you could know. Thank you all :]
IIIII
Bonus Pics (sauce below)
Comments
Kasikan
So the moral of the story is always kill the people of Essos. Their evil ways are the downfall of humanity. Seems fairly accurate for how the story went in canon. Westeros is full of self righteous pricks, but pretty much all of Essos is run by evil pricks.
MrX
Beewbs!
Handyandy
"maester beatin" Hehe
