"Is this really necessary?" Dumbledore and I exchanged looks of amusement at Draco's question.
"Why, whatever do you mean, Mister Black?" Dumbledore asked innocently.
"You," Draco deadpanned. "I mean you. I'd like to think I've outgrown an-, an escort of all things! I'm married now, for Merlin's sake!"
"And that's where you're mistaken," I nodded. "It's not you we're escorting."
"I feel I must thank you again, my Lords. This opportunity… Your willingness to ensure my safety… Your continued support… It means more than I can possibly say," Jynn 'the Golden' Hill expressed her heartfelt gratitude.
Draco and Narcissa's arrangement was finally coming to fruition. Narcissa had been one of the main proponents for fostering Hogwarts 'students' — though I could barely call them that in truth now — at various places throughout the realm. That was in full swing now, and Hogwarts felt slightly emptier these days.
Narcissa had lofty ambitions for her oldest son. She'd been determined to secure a Great House of Westeros, feeling out a few before settling on House Lannister. Count on the former Malfoy to choose the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms… Still, it had more of a purpose than just the wealth House Lannister could bring to bear. They were also one of the Great Houses we'd had little contact with. With contingents in the Reach, here in the North, in Dorne, and even with major (but not Great) Houses in the Vale and Stormlands, the powerful Lannisters might end up feeling slighted.
According to Olenna, Tywin Lannister was the last man you wanted to slight in Westeros. She bore a bitter rivalry with the 'Old Lion'. Two parts begrudging respect, and three parts wary hatred. She called him an "utterly ruthless and effective man, one of the only Lords worth a damn, even if that 'damn' is abhorrent".
Born to this game of kingdoms and nobles, Olenna's guidance was unmatched. She'd been rather helpful for the whole fostering process and seemed to enjoy advising just as much as she enjoyed sniping back and forth with Dumbledore. Her wisdom and experience with Lord Lannister were taken into account yet it only pushed Narcissa to cement the arrangement for Draco to foster at Casterly Rock.
To be fair, some placation was necessary. The Lannisters were the true power behind the Iron Throne at the moment. A daughter of their House sat as Queen. The princess and the princes were lions just as they were stags. And — most importantly, Olenna said — the Old Lion controlled the majority of the Crown's significant debt. To purposefully ignore them when the Tyrells, Martells, and Starks were hosting Hogwarts students would only make us enemies that were best avoided.
And Narcissa was confident that her son would thrive at Casterly Rock. Draco had been largely raised for this sort of thing. Pureblood politics translated well to the Highborn of Westeros. And Draco wasn't nearly the spoiled boy he'd once been. As he said, he was a married man now. If we were sending anyone into the Lion's Den, I wanted it to be someone with a concrete tie to House Black.
Loyalty was a real concern when choosing who was to foster and where. I very much doubted any one of us would betray Hogwarts herself. We were the last of our kind, with a connection to our home that we all shared. Even the Darkest of hardliners wouldn't buck that loyalty. Especially them, in fact. Perhaps paradoxically, they turned out to be some of the staunchest supporters of Hogwarts and the more selfish Light-leaning Wizards were the ones who bore watching. The philosophy of Pureblood supremacy was actually useful there for once, transformed into more of an umbrella 'Wizard supremacy' with the drastically changed setting and situation.
Still, Olenna cautioned that Tywin Lannister 'shit enough gold to buy a Dragon's loyalty'. As much as I wanted to believe that wouldn't hold any sway over Hogwarts' loyalty, it still bore consideration. As did other methods Lord Tywin might employ to secure loyalty — blackmail, coercion, and seductive honeypots could be as threatening as any golden promise.
Draco wouldn't fall for golden promises. He was morally flexible enough to avoid blackmail or turn it back on the blackmailer. Coercing a Wizard wouldn't be an easy task at all. And I pitied the poor woman who was made to honeypot Draco with Svetlana by his side. In all, he was a solid choice for the dangers of Casterly Rock and the trials of Tywin Lannister.
We weren't looking to make an ally out of the Lannisters. Just foster an amiable relationship and keep delicate noble feelings from getting hurt. I could recognize Lord Tywin as a powerful and dangerous man. But the stories Olenna could tell didn't endear me to him. I could only hope the 'Rains of Castamere' was exaggerated. It was an atrocity. Somehow, the Sack of King's Landing was just as bad and there was no song dedicated to it…
So while Narcissa schemed to elevate her son's standing in Westeros, Dumbledore and I hatched a scheme of our own. It wouldn't be justice done or vengeance taken. But it was a subtle slap in the face for the Lord of the Rock that had Olenna cackling when she heard. That was where Jynn the Golden came in.
She was a Lannister bastard and didn't try to keep that tidbit a secret. She never shied away from the reason she came to New Hogsmeade either. Lord Tywin must have been smarting that he missed out on her and her awakened bloodline. So kind men that Dumbledore and I were, we were giving her back to him. Only… not.
Jynn was accompanying Draco and Svetlana to Casterly Rock, to be sure. Officially, she was going to act as Svetlana's handmaiden. Unofficially, a guide and starting point into House Lannister. She was on board with the idea, longing to return to the ancestral home that she was cast out from. And if she happened to rub Lord Tywin's face in her magic while under Hogwarts' protection…? Well, that was just a coincidence, wasn't it?
Was it the wisest course of action? Not particularly. Was it deserved? Absolutely. Tywin Lannister was reportedly a man who valued his legacy above all else. To have a member of that legacy — one who'd been scorned, banished, and only come back stronger — dangled just out of his reach would torture him.
The only real consideration that bore thought was Jynn's loyalty. Though she'd never been recognized — and never would have been before awakening — she was a Lannister by blood if not birth. Casterly Rock had been a place she'd called home. And from talking with her, I knew she still bore goodwill toward a few members of House Lannister.
On the other hand, we weren't asking her to act against her kin. Just accompany Draco and Svetlana, looking all pretty and golden and awakened. She'd also built something for herself in New Hogsmeade. She was the voice of the Smallfolk — an appropriate position for someone of her bloodline magic. She had real power in Hogwarts' domain and comrades who shared similar burdens beyond. I was confident she wouldn't give that up for anything Lord Tywin could offer her. It would be too little, too late.
"We're not going to stand on protocol and formality, Jynn," I chuckled. "Just call us by our names. Sure, we're putting our trust in you. But you've earned it."
"You honor me too much, my-… Atlas…" Jynn blushed.
Perhaps that blush had more to do with our current position though. We were traveling to Casterly Rock on broom-back, of course. But limitations of the transportation medium meant we were two to a broom. Jynn rode with me, while Draco rode with Svetlana. Dumbledore had immediately claimed the solo spot in the traveling party, citing 'No-se goes, no backsies'.
That left Jynn practically ensconced in my arms, straddling the broom's shaft in front of me. Thankfully, she was on the smaller, more demure side for a woman. Very curvy, but not particularly tall. On the other side of the spectrum, Draco and Svetlana mirrored us in reverse. Svetlana was nothing if not statuesque. She took the rear position, happily hugging her 'Little Dragon' in a way that might have been emasculating from any other woman. From Svetlana… yeah, I almost envied Draco.
"Oh, don't simper," Draco scoffed, his tone blunt but not overly harsh. "There's no shame in using our names, especially considering your new position and all you've done for New Hogsmeade. Who is it that listens to the Smallfolk's concerns and appeals so we don't have to lower ourselves to such monotonous business?"
"Da, you are essentially Lady of New Hogsmeade, Jynn," Svetlana nodded along with her husband's rhetorical question. "Well-liked, well-learned, beautiful, clever, charisma-out-wazoo…"
"Need she go on?" Draco drawled, capping his wife's praise with audible amusement.
"She need not," Jynn giggled.
Her blush had grown but she also radiated an aura of almost palpable pride. It was a pride beyond bone-deep. One of heart and soul, not mind and body. For an already prideful woman — it was her cardinal sin if one believed in that — the righteous and deserved pride said a lot. It was exactly why I was so confident in her loyalty. She'd built a life for herself in New Hogsmeade that she couldn't have anywhere else and she wouldn't be swayed from it.
"Still, it is a heavy escort," I said, bringing the conversation back around to acknowledge Draco's initial 'complaint' with a slight nod.
"You don't say," Draco sniped sarcastically. "Just the Man-Who-Helped and Albus-Fucking-Dumbledore."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, visible even as we flew in tight formation, "Why, Mister Black, do you not feel safe with our presence?"
"I feel too safe," Draco shot back flatly. "If we were back home, I would pit the two of you against the entire Auror Department and likely make good money on those odds."
"Indeed, my Lords," Jynn nodded enthusiastically. "I've seen some of what your magicks are capable of. Lord Tywin would lock himself in the vaults of the Rock if he'd seen the same."
"Think of it as a show of respect then," Dumbledore smirked. "One I'm unsure Lord Tywin deserves but we'll give it all the same. Best to dissuade him from doing something… unproductive."
"Like trying to hold any of you hostage," I agreed. "Well… more hostage."
"I would like to see him try," Svetlana said. "We submit to his hospitality but he will have to be made to realize we do so of our own free will."
"Technically, all of our fostering students are hostages," Dumbledore cheerfully added. "Or at least, that's what their hosts will think. But that discrepancy between perception and reality is where all of the fun lies, isn't it?"
"Our Headmaster is a lunatic," Draco deadpanned.
I raised an amused brow, "You're just realizing that now?"
Draco gave a long-suffering roll of his eyes to match his wife's amused smirk. Jynn was stuck somewhere between 'musement' — 'be-' and 'a-'. Even after a year, our antics took some getting used to. If it was even possible to get used to 'Albus-Fucking-Dumbledore'…
We flew on, conversation occasionally marking our progress. It wasn't necessarily a quick trip from Hogwarts to Casterly Rock. Having set out at dawn, it would take most of the day to get there, even with the advantages of broom travel. Dumbledore and I were scheduled to return at around midnight if we made good time.
The trip's distance was eaten up beneath the bristles of our brooms. We'd long since left the North, flying past the swamps and forests of the Neck and into the verdant, varied lands of the Trident. Jynn marveled at the ease with which we bypassed the geographic bulwark of the North.
"It took the Caravan days to do the same, milord," She said to me over her shoulder. "It was harsh terrain. And the diseases of the swamp were worse. Without Miralin of Healing Hands, we would've left many dead in those putrid bogs."
I shot her a look and frowned at her automatic return to titles but she held strong with only the slightest of blushes.
"Not all Lords are as lax and forgiving as you, Atlas," She defended. "Such familiarity would be likely to lose me my head with many of them. Heading to Casterly Rock, I'd best maintain the habits of protocol."
Eventually, I sighed, "Fine. Just so long as you know that you'll always be free to use our names in New Hogsmeade and at Hogwarts."
"Titles always promote a certain disunity. A dissociation from wholly reasonable reality, if you will. An often insurmountable gap between the callers and the callees. They have value and that value tends to make people feel as if they're above others, even the ones who give them the titles," Dumbledore said sagely.
"You would know, wouldn't you, Mister 'Too-Many-Names' Dumbledore," I sniped.
"Indeed," Dumbledore's lips twitched into a fond smile. "Before you, Atlas, even my closest friends were beginning to see me more for my titles than myself."
"Glad I could bring you down a peg then, old goat."
"Merely the duty of the youth, young whippersnapper."
We set an easy, ground-eating pace over the Riverlands. As we did, we flew high enough to avoid eyes from the ground. Jynn balked at the altitude increase initially but my arms tight around her ensured she wouldn't fall. That security let her simply marvel at the height and the wind and the speed of the ride. She likely felt like a goddess, one of the first to fly by broom in Westeros.
I'd thought the Riverlands would be easier to navigate than the North. In a way, it was. In another, it simply traded the wide open spaces of the North for a confusing amount of landmarks. There were so many rivers and forests and hills. The maps only showed the three main rivers but they were fed by a vast network of tributaries from babbling brooks to small rushing rivers in their own right.
All of that to say… we may have gotten a bit lost. Jynn wasn't used to navigating from the air and the rest of us weren't much used to the unfamiliar land. The King's Road helped slightly but it was often completely concealed by dense forests. As such, we largely flew south until we came upon an unmistakably recognizable waypoint.
"Harrenhal, my Lords," Jynn identified. "On the shore of the God's Eye and overlooking the Isle of Faces. Casterly Rock is almost due west of here. We will find our way yet."
The utterly immense castle could be seen for miles in all directions. Nothing from Earth could match its scale. Few structures would have even come close. Certainly nothing from the past. It was a feat of engineering and architecture as unbelievable as any magic. Men did not — could not — build like this. Yet there it was, its sprawl covering a significant portion of the lake's shore.
Some of Westeros' constructions stretched the imagination, implausibly impressive. Harrenhal blew them all out of the water. It would have fit right into Tolkien's Middle Earth, next to fictional goliaths like Barad-dûr and Minas Tirith.
The tallest tower reached for the sun and even seemed to come close. Its ruined peak glinted like obsidian when it caught the light, visibly melted even from a distance. Four other towers sat within Harrenhal's walls alongside it, growing sequentially smaller like massive domino pillars.
For some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling the massive fortress gave me. It should have been the height of imposing intimidation, yet it just felt… eerie. Almost pitiful. As if the castle itself was lamenting its ruined fate. And there was a foundation of cruelty and tyranny beneath the lament. Without a doubt in my mind, I knew it was a monument built with as much blood as mortar.
< New Quest unlocked: Investigate Harrenhal/Isle of Faces >
< A monument of slavery and conquest, Harrenhal stands in ruin. Once, it ruled the Rivers with an Ironborn fist. Everything changed when the Dragons attacked… Passing through many hands and witnessing the downfall of as many Houses, tales tell of a curse and ghosts that haunt its halls. >
< The Isle of Faces within the God's Eye lake is even more storied than the castle upon its shores. There, the First Men and Children of the Forest made their peace. There, countless men converted to the Old Gods and blood feeds roots that run deep. There, Green Men are still rumored to live to this day… >
< Rewards: +5 to Dark Arts, +10 to Magic Theory, +20 to Divination >
I turned my eyes to the Isle of Faces and saw only red. The crimson, almost blood-stained red of Weirwood Tree leaves. They covered the entire island, a shock of red against the lake's blue waters. And very notably, unseen eyes matched my gaze. From afar, I could have sworn the leaves of the island swayed as if inviting me closer.
"Albus? Up for a little pitstop on the journey back?" I asked, tucking the new quest and its tantalizing rewards away for later.
"Oh, my friend, what a delightfully intriguing idea," Dumbledore chuckled. "Why, it'd be positively rude to refuse such an invitation."
"You see it too?"
"My old eyes aren't failing me just yet, Atlas."
"Save it for when you're alone," Draco said. "I want no part in Old Gods and impossible monuments."
"Tis a cursed castle, my Lords," Jynn warned. "Even Dorne would know of the folly of Harren the Black. Seven Houses have fallen to ruin within its dreadful walls and towers."
"They will not seek to hold or take the castle," Svetlana shook her head with a sort of macabre amusement. "Only pick its curse apart to understand the magic at work."
"Which is undoubtedly worse than just trying to conquer the place," Draco deadpanned.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore's lips twitched and his eyes twinkled with amusement. "But I tend to find more fun in poking Old Gods and bloody curses than the conquest of unfortunate mortal men."
Draco groaned and let his head fall back upon Svetlana's breast, "Our superiors are madmen, my love. Madmen who would give H.P. Lovecraft a heart attack."
"From what I remember, that would not be a difficult task, Little Dragon," Svetlana replied somewhat flippantly, cradling her husband's head to soothe him. "But at the least, we will get respite from them in our honeymoon out West."
"Honeymoon…" Draco murmured, letting his eyes fall closed. "That's a good way to think of it. A vacation from Mother and the madmen. Just the two of us."
"And Jynn. And your hosts," I pointed out with a smirk.
"Shut up," Draco shot back, not even opening his eyes. "Don't ruin my honeymoon. You and Dumbledore can have your fun poking Old Gods while Svetlana and I drink wine in a picturesque castle on the Sunset Sea."
Exchanging looks of intense amusement, Dumbledore and I left Draco to his idyllic daydreaming. Following Jynn's directions, we set off straight west from Harrenhal. A few more hours of sustained flight saw us into the Westerlands. Recognizing the land much better, Jynn pointed us straight toward Lannisport and Casterly Rock. By early evening, we'd discreetly touched down in the city and transfigured horses for ourselves to maintain the illusion of traditional travel. The brooms were strapped to the sides of each transfigured steed like a strange substitution for swords or spears.
The trek up to Casterly Rock was an impressive one. Lannisport was a marvelous city, with an almost Mediterranean Renaissance feel to it. Jynn subtly relaxed behind me as we rode through the streets and the city's sprawl up to the Rock. It must have been good to be back in the lands she'd been born to.
Even next to the sight of Harrenhal from earlier in the day, Casterly Rock didn't disappoint. In a way, it was just as ridiculous a construction as the massive castle. But where Harrenhal stood free, Casterly Rock was built into a great stone hill and cliff that overlooked the sea. Practically the only sign of it from the outside was the watchtower at the peak.
Steps carved into stone led us up to the main gate — a Lion's Mouth into the cavernous interior of the Rock. It was here that Jynn began to shrink in on herself slightly. Any warm fuzzies at being home were quick to disappear at the imposing sight of the Rock's open maw. And here and there, a few guards or passing pedestrians stopped and looked twice at Jynn. There was no way for her to completely avoid recognition. I could only hope that her return would be a welcome and fortuitous one.
We were stopped at the main gate and questioned. We all introduced ourselves except for Jynn. She didn't need to, drawing more than a few wide-eyed stares. The idea that she would willingly come back to the heart of her exile must have been hard to believe. Still, a runner was sent to announce us to the Lords of the castle.
Stablehands came to tend to our horses as we dismounted. I think Dumbledore took great pleasure in dismissing their services as unneeded. The confusion from that dismissal quickly bloomed into shock, disbelief, and a touch of panic as the transfigured horses became wooden once more. Dumbledore had seen the carved toy horses upon our entrance to the city and found the joke too good to pass up.
As if trying to get us as far away from the main gate as fast as possible, we were quickly escorted within the Rock. Inside, we were led up enough flights of stairs to rival Hogwarts. Casterly Rock seemed to reach up and up infinitely through the rock that gave it its name. Everywhere one looked, there was ostentatious ornamentation and colors of red and gold. Gilded chandeliers and torches lit the cavernous halls and spaciously carved rooms. Banners hung in just about every open spot. Statues, murals, and grand tapestries filled the Rock as readily as its 'rumored' gold. And of the gold, untapped veins lined the rocky walls, left untouched simply for the sheer statement of it all.
A meeting hall, likely one of uncountable many, was our final destination for now. Draco took it all in with deep-seated approval and perhaps more than a touch of envy. The Malfoys had wet dreams of this much wealth. Hell, the Blacks did as well. Svetlana hid much of her awe behind a stoic, statuesque mask. Jynn seemed all too used to the vast wonders of Casterly Rock.
And Dumbledore… "Red and gold and lions galore! My, oh my, this does take me back."
"Takes you back to what exactly, my Lord?" A strong, stern voice asked.
The source of the voice strode into the meeting hall without pause. An older man, yet still broad-shouldered and strong, he walked with purpose in every step. Intense muttonchops framed a face that looked as if it hadn't ever smiled. The man's shining bald head and understated finery didn't diminish his intimidation factor at all.
"Hogwarts claims lions of red and gold as well," Dumbledore elaborated. "Only, we call them 'Gryffindor', not 'Lannister'. I was one myself, you know. Decades and decades ago but my fondness for the likeness and colors has never disappeared."
"How… fortuitous," The obviously Lannister Lord gave a single, curt nod. The information did seem to endear him to Dumbledore a bit, though his demeanor never softened. "Lord Dumbledore, I presume?"
"If you must."
Draco coughed slightly to stifle a choked laugh at the subtle jab. Dumbledore simply smiled as if he'd never given anyone any offense for anything in his entire life. A blatant falsehood for anyone who even partially knew him. I didn't bother hiding my snort of humor. If I looked closely enough, I could just barely make out a vein on the Lannister Lord's bald head as it twitched and tensed.
Still, he showed startlingly good control over his emotions and features, "I am Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount and Warden of the West. You are welcome here in Casterly Rock, safe within my domain."
As he spoke, his eyes roamed over the rest of us, intense and intelligent, and always assessing. They stopped dead when they reached Jynn. She fidgeted nervously under his gaze. Tywin's nostrils flared, the only indication of something wrong that leaked through his control.
"Do you realize what you've done-?"
"Jynn!"
A woman's voice interrupted him without a single care for propriety. She rushed into the room, followed more sedately by another man. The woman practically threw herself at Jynn, wrapping her in a tight hug. The resemblance was almost uncanny. She bore the same Lannister coloring as Jynn and was just as curvy if a bit plumper with age.
"There goes any hope of covering this up," Tywin exhaled.
"Indeed," The other Lannister Lord chuckled. "Our dear sister would have your head, Brother."
"She would certainly try."
"Lady Genna!" Jynn squeaked, practically smothered in the older woman's bosom.
"Oh, my girl," Lady Genna mothered. "My dear, sweet, fool girl… You should have come to me. I would have protected you. And Tyrion would have tried as well. He and I nearly tore the Rock apart from the inside when we heard Tywin had ordered your capture."
Jynn blinked, "My capture? He didn't call for my head?"
"I am no kinslayer, girl, and I have no plans to become one," Tywin sneered slightly. "You would have been taken and hidden away. But never harmed. I had no plans to truly side with the Mountain over you, especially not when I heard he was specifically looking for a maid with Lannister coloring…"
"T-Truly, my Lord…?" Jynn asked.
"You're all we have left of Gerion, my dear," Genna cooed. "That monster could never compare to blood."
"Something would have been arranged. An accident, perhaps. The dog is useful but not useful enough to excuse such liberties," Tywin said, scowling slightly.
"You… You never claimed me…" Jynn whispered.
"Never aloud," Tywin fixed her with a stern stare. "But did you ever doubt your true heritage since coming to the Rock? That alone is telling, is it not? Think, girl. I know you aren't dull. Why else would you be kept close at hand if you were not part of the legacy, recognized or not?"
Jynn gave a small bow in Genna's arms, "It is as you say, my Lord."
"You'll have to be recognized as well now. But you're merely a woman so it will be no large problem. You'll be of good use to the House, especially with the Lannister magic you showed," Tywin said dismissively.
Just when I was starting to think I might like this guy…
"There will be protests, Brother," The younger Lannister Lord cautioned.
"Will there?" Tywin raised an imperious eyebrow. "She is a Lannister. It is Lannister magic. Only a fool will speak out against her. The Lords will say nothing, not when they harbor magicks of their own. And we will make the Smallfolk love her. She will be utilized to grow the House and benefit our legacy."
"More importantly," Genna cut in, shooting a reproachful glare at her eldest brother. "Jynn has come back to us now and everything can return to how it should be."
"I-… I cannot, my Lords, my Lady," Jynn refused.
Tywin turned an unflinching stare back onto Jynn, "Pardon?"
Jynn glanced at me, Dumbledore, Draco, and Svetlana. I gave her a fortifying nod. The others did similar. She drew strength from our approval and support. Something the Lannisters were sure to notice. Standing straighter and pulling back from Genna slightly, Jynn continued.
"I cannot stay for good. I've made something from my tragedy. Something I'm proud of and won't abandon for the world. I have a people to call my own and duties to them. I am even a Lady in truth now."
"Are you now?" Genna blinked in surprise.
"Is she now?" Tywin stared.
"The Lady of New Hogsmeade," I confirmed.
"Oh, yes," Dumbledore added. "Jynn has been a great help in her new home. Both the town and the castle love her. 'Jynn the Golden', they call her."
"She is home in New Hogsmeade," Svetlana said with finality.
"Hng. Acceptable," Tywin grunted.
"And you're happy? Content? Safe?" Genna shrewdly asked Jynn.
Jynn beamed a golden smile in reply, "I am, Lady Genna. I truly am."
An aura of pure gold radiated from her with her words and the expression on her face. The full force of her emotions — her happiness — was brought to bear upon the world. The world seemed to rejoice along with her, golden magic lighting a path that it happily followed. The very walls of Casterly Rock rumbled, welcoming home the first of a bloodline and legend thought lost. The Lannisters were given perhaps their first taste of Lannister magic. And even though he approved of Jynn's position in New Hogsmeade, I could practically taste Tywin Lannister's internal scowl at it being just out of reach.
IIIII
Draco, Svetlana, and Jynn settled quickly into Casterly Rock — once again for Jynn — but Dumbledore and I didn't stay for long. We begged off any further hospitality after only an hour, taking our leave with a pointed reminder that Jynn would always be welcomed by Hogwarts. As heartwarming as Jynn's reunion with her Aunt Genna and as surprisingly amiable as Lord Kevan turned out to be, Tywin Lannister was not an easy man to get along with. Respect and hate in equal measure? Definitely. But he didn't seem nearly as entertained by Dumbledore's personality as Olenna was and his self-control made poking him more of a long-term project than something instantly gratifying.
So we quickly left for better things. There were Old Gods to poke — instead of Old Lions — and a quest's tantalizing rewards to reap. The past year had been productive for my Grind. And I was much more excited for one reward than the other two.
< Rewards: — +10 to Magic Theory… — >
< +8 to Magic Theory. Magic Theory 82+8=90/100 >
This quest would max out the first of my Disciplines. What would happen next, I didn't know. But I was more than excited to find out. Magic Theory saw a swell of improvements over the past year. There was simply so much new magic to pick apart. Luna's invented potion saw so much use that she would have been a millionaire several times over if she had sold it. It was one of the best ways we'd found to enter the astral realm of this world so we could study the magic and magical forces at work. It also happened to have the benefit of unlocking more than a few Animagus forms.
We studied the very phenomenon of 'returning magic'. The magical legends and stories of an entirely new world. The density of magic in the air and earth — much higher than we were used to — was chalked up mostly to the Weirwood Trees.
Many Witches and Wizards had dedicated themselves wholly to studying the 'gods' of Planetos — who weren't truly gods. Hell, some of them weren't even truly sentient — Melisandre's R'hllor was a massive magical conflagration more than any sentient being, and its counterpart in the Great Other was a great glacier in the same vein. All they cared about was maintaining magical inertia. And much like physical fire and ice, it wasn't a conscious goal. R'hllor wished only to burn and never stop. The Great Other wished only to freeze and never thaw. It was merely the natural order and dichotomy for them, though we had found that they had connections to the strange seasons of this world.
The Old Gods were slightly more sentient — in the same way a graveyard was sentient. They were a network of sacred places, souls, sacrifices, and the memories of people and events long passed. The most sentient of the 'gods' we'd encountered were certainly the Seven and the Drowned God. They at least seemed to have a will behind them — the Seven's being surprisingly benevolent toward humanity as a whole and its followers more specifically, and the Drowned God's being actively malicious and eldritchly unknowable.
Then there were the bloodline magicks to study and push my highest Discipline even higher as well. Stark, Tyrell, Lannister, and so many others that couldn't be concretely identified just yet. Each person who awakened seemed to express their magic in semi-unique ways. But those of the same bloodline drifted toward a theme or reason for the magic that was based on the legends of their line. It wasn't a hard rule, just a general guideline. Some from the Reach favored fire. Some from the North favored plants. All of them added to our understanding of how this world's magic expressed itself.
Of course, my other Disciplines and Stats weren't idle through all of this. My Combat Disciplines saw a decent increase. It'd finally risen to Tier 7 and I'd actually taken a few victories off Dumbledore during our usual magical spars. However, those Disciplines weren't my focus, merely a constant of life in this new world. My true focus came in the study of new magic and the development of everything we'd built.
< Combat (T7) >
< +4 to Dueling, +4 to Defense, +5 to Attack, +5 to Healing, +5 to Agility, +6 to Focus, +6 to Awareness, +8 to Evasion, +9 to Accuracy, +10 to Tactics, +10 to Swordsmanship, +12 to Melee >
< Dueling 72+4=76/100, Defense 68+4=72/100, Attack 65+5=70/100, Healing 53+5=58/100, Agility 75+5=80/100, Focus 67+6=73/100, Awareness 67+6=73/100, Evasion 67+8=75/100, Accuracy 56+9=65/100, Tactics 70+10=80/100, Swordsmanship 48+10=58/100, Melee 48+12=60/100 >
For new magic, I'd become rather taken with two major aspects: Blood and writing. Or Runes, more accurately. The 'gods' of this new world held a somewhat more distant third interest. For blood, there were many specialized magicks to study and pick apart in New Hogsmeade. It seemed as if we had Smallfolk from all of the Seven Kingdoms to choose from. Every new bloodline was a boon to my Magic Theory and Black Blood Magic, though Wizarding bloodlines hardly held a candle to those of Westeros. They were more like inclinations, rather than the pure, overwhelming magical superpowers of the natives.
I spent quite a bit of time exploring Margaery's mastery over plants. She'd become about as dangerous as Professor Sprout with the inclusion of magical species to her arsenal — which was saying something — and I knew she'd woven various plant cuttings — ranging from Devil's Snare to Goldenheart Tree — into her clothes. That'd obviously helped my Herbology along, but also it strangely helped my Transfiguration and Potter's Clay.
For Runes and writings, there were two major magical languages that I focused on in this world. The Runes of the First Men and well-explored remnants of High Valyrian. Neither was wholly magical. But they could be. With the right touch, the right intonation, and the right comprehension, they could do wonderful things. That I was the only one who'd been able to utilize either language did do good things for my pride.
First Men Runes were best with Divination — admittedly not my specialty — and fortification. High Valyrian had a certain fiery tint to it, enhancing magical power and ferocity at the cost of control like leaping flames.
Casting Fiendfyre in High Valyrian was particularly fascinating. It practically became a whole other spell, taking hints of Dragonfire into the infernal flames. And it was potent, melting out a decently productive obsidian — or 'Dragonglass' —quarry when I tried it in an open and uninhabited area. However, that hadn't done me any favors for avoiding Melisandre's attention. Since witnessing my experiment with Valyrian Fiendfyre, she spent a decent portion of her time begging me to burn her alive with it.
Kinky… A bit too kinky, if I was being honest.
< Magic (T7) >
< +2 to Dark Arts, +3 to Wanded Magic, +3 to Wandless Magic, +5 to Arithmancy, +5 to Transfiguration, +7 to Black Blood Magic, +7 to Runes, +8 to Magic Theory, +9 to Herbology, +12 to Potter's Clay >
< Dark Arts 70+2=72/100, Wanded Magic 75+3=78/100, Wandless Magic 63+3=66/100, Arithmancy 68+5=73/100, Transfiguration 69+5=74/100, Black Blood Magic 55+7=62/100, Runes 66+7=73/100, Magic Theory 82+8=90/100, Herbology 49+9=58/100, Potter's Clay 21+12=33/100 >
My Social Skills had only benefited from Margaery and Olenna's presence in Hogwarts. Courting Margaery — and finding out that she was a horny little minx to rival Hermione — gave Seduction quite the boost. And to an equal extent, my Willpower benefited from having to deal with Melisandre and her terrible, rivaling influence on Fleur… Then Creation had gotten a new Discipline in Construction with how much work was being put into New Hogsmeade.
< Social (T5) >
< +2 to Teaching, +5 to Perception, +5 to Speech, +6 to Persuasion, +6 to Willpower, +8 to Seduction, +8 to Negotiation, +9 to Notoriety, +10 to Influence, +12 to Rulership >
< Teaching 66+2=68/100, Perception 55+5=60/100, Speech 55+5=60/100, Persuasion 50+6=56/100, Willpower 68+6=74/100, Seduction 66+8=74/100, Negotiation 32+8=40/100, Notoriety 20+9=29/100, Influence 16+10=26/100, Rulership 14+12=26/100 >
< Creation (T5) >
< +4 to Conjuration, +5 to Crafting, +6 to Forging, +20 to Construction >
< Conjuration 52+4=56/100, Crafting 38+5=43/100, Forging 21+6=27/100, Construction 1+20=21/100 >
Still, as Dumbledore and I landed our brooms inside Harrenhal's walls — cloaked by Notice-Me-Nots — my mind was only on the Quest at hand and its rewards. What did happen when I maxed a Discipline? I hadn't the slightest of clues. What I did know was that my knowledge of this world's magic was easily a match for Dumbledore's. He still — and likely always would — knew more about Earth's magic but on Planetos, the playing field had been evened quite a bit. Septima, Aurora, Flitwick, McGonagall, and even Cho and Luna were similarly well-studied as Dumbledore and I.
"What a wonderfully dreadful place!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Well, Atlas, where should we start?"
"The giant, fuck-off castle, I'd think," I snorted.
"Yes, I'd tend to agree," Dumbledore nodded 'wisely'. "Past or present?"
"Something tells me they may just be intertwined in this place," I muttered, the words sounding ominous even to my ears.
The atmosphere within Harrenhal was as dreadful as Dumbledore had said. Every person we passed seemed to exist in a state of head-bowed gloom and doom — from the servants to the guards and even to the one Knight we passed, who was practicing alone in a courtyard with stiff, dead movements like a robot. It was an eerie sight. Like they were already dead and just going through the motions in a black-stoned Hell. And while the walls leaked magic most certainly, it was not a pleasant sensation as it was in Hogwarts. There was death, destruction, and disaster in the air.
We quickly found that the majority of the castle was out of use. Only the tallest and second tallest gnarled, melted towers were inhabited. And even then, many empty rooms dotted the used space. Three of the five once-great towers were left to collect dust and spirits. Quite literally, in this case.
At the top of the tallest tower, inaccessible to anyone else, we found ghosts. But not the ghosts we were used to. A figment of a man clung to a stone throne, his mouth open in an eternally silent scream. He was old but not feeble, crowned but not regal. Flames and melted stone claimed his last moments. In the physical world, the throne was partially buried by obsidian that still seemed to glow with heat.
There were others in that tallest tower. The Lord's family, guards, and closest servants, most likely. All of them suffered the same fate. If we listened closely enough, we could hear sounds like great cracking stone, exploding as it was heated to its limit. And the ghastly screams of men burning and melting right alongside the stone.
"How grim…" Dumbledore shook his head.
"There's no life here. Not even its remnants," I said somberly.
"They don't leave ghosts as we're used to," Dumbledore mused. "These are nothing more than memories of memories. But memories from what mind, I wonder?"
We continued our exploration from the top down. In the lower levels, we found less tortured scenes. Men and women, just going about their daily business. A maid fetching water for a bath. A guard standing watch over an empty doorway. A pair of Ladies sewing and conversing silently. The lives of this cursed castle were immortalized as ghostly images from the past.
Through it all, the walls leaked cursed black flames. Something within their thick stones still burned. Not physically, but magically and perhaps conceptually. A single moment at the end of it all, frozen as it once was. I ran my hands through the memories of flames and melting stones. I only felt open air, like leaves fluttering through my fingers.
"They're in the walls…" I realized.
"So it seems," Dumbledore nodded, coming to the same conclusion. "But was it built that way or did our Old God 'friends' grow into the place over the years?"
"We won't find any answers here," I said.
"Well then, it's a good thing there's a sanctuary of potential witnesses nearby, isn't it?" Dumbledore smirked slightly.
I couldn't help but laugh a little, "Still up to poking some Old Gods like you wanted, Albus?"
His eyes twinkled, "My boy, I thought you'd never ask."
I was more than happy to leave Harrenhal behind. I pitied the poor souls still stuck in its grasp. Whatever House held it now couldn't be a happy one. But short of tearing the place down brick by enormous brick, there wasn't much I could do for them. And with Weirwoods growing in the walls, that wasn't a decision to be made lightly.
Perhaps the Old Gods had claimed the castle for themselves. Perhaps they were the source of the ghostly memories. That much certainly tracked. The Old Gods were a network of sacred places. Sacred didn't necessarily mean blessed. A curse was just as significant and worth claiming. And if they did, the souls of those inside would join the Old Gods, preserved in the memories of everything the Weirwoods witnessed.
From the castle's walls, we remounted our brooms and set out over the God's Eye. The Old God worshippers we'd spoken to said it was one of the holiest places for their religion. The Isle of Faces in its center was said to be the place where the Children of the Forest and the First Men made peace. And beyond that, it was the largest collection of Weirwood Trees south of the Neck. For communing with the Old Gods and finding the truth of Harrenhal's curse, there wasn't a better place in all of Westeros.
"Hmm, an aversion ward," Dumbledore muttered as we drew close to the island in the God's Eye. "And it's not mincing any magicks. My, my, that's potent!"
"Relatively primitive and simple but exceptionally solid for that," I said, examining the almost naturally growing ward that encompassed the island. "Should we knock?"
"It's only polite," Dumbledore smiled. "Especially since we're likely the first visitors who can in centuries."
Dumbledore raised his hand in an unnecessary gesture. Rolling my eyes, I copied him. The barest sparks of magic flitted across our knuckles and we knocked upon the ward. The effect was almost instantaneous. As if a tree suddenly uprooted to dance a jig. I just about stared at the sensation. Dumbledore laughed, carefree and intensely amused.
The Weirwood Trees on the isle swayed as if caught in a storm's gale. From their leaves and branches, a flock of ravens flew up to meet us. They began to circle us ominously. Black wings above a scenic blue lake with blood-red leaves in the background. Then the flock spoke with one voice — a squawking, crowing, high-pitched croak that sent involuntary shivers down my spine.
"Who comes before the Faces of Old?"
"A pair of young and old fools who wish to help and learn," Dumbledore cheerfully replied.
"I can't help but resent that…" I sighed.
The ravens paused, "… Guest Rights will be observed."
A single raven flew forward. Right into my hands. It flopped there as if it was already dead, offering itself up to me. Knowing the usual ritual of Guest Rights, I stared in no small amount of horror.
"I… am not biting into a live bird. Where's the bread and salt?"
The whirlwind of ravens around us sped up, squawking to match, "Guest Rights! Guest Rights!"
Dumbledore — the infuriating old bastard — chuckled at my predicament, "Perhaps a compromise can be reached. You are a Wizard, are you not, Atlas?"
I just about facepalmed, only stopping when I remembered the bird in my hand, "Merlin dammit…"
It was simple to transfigure the half-dead bird into something actually edible. As I did, I felt something watching intently. A connection within the bird cataloged the changes before it retreated. That was… potentially worrying. But it was gone now. Still, it drove home that as neutral as they were, the Old Gods were inherently inhuman in nature.
I shared the bread I'd transfigured with Dumbledore, invoking Guest Rights. The ravens calmed, "Acceptable. Come. The Faces of Old have things to show you."
We followed the ravens down to the Isle of Faces below. They peeled off to land back in the red Weirwood leaves, watching eerily from there. Magic was thick in the air amongst the Weirwoods. Like a heavy blanket of almost humidity, it clung to the skin and entered my lungs with every breath. The very essence of nature was carried along with it — harshly hostile, inherently violent, and uncaringly neutral to any mortal struggle, yet with so much potential to be had. Sap-bloodied faces stared at me and Dumbledore from every angle. Watching. Eternally watching.
In the corners of my vision, shapes darted through the undergrowth of gnarled roots and shadows. I never got more than a glimpse. The shapes were humanoid, with antlers extending from their heads. Yet faces and other features were impossible to make out. Just Men of Green hiding throughout the red leaves and white trees.
"What now?" I asked, only slightly on edge.
"I believe that's up to our hosts at the moment," Dumbledore replied easily. "Personally, I wouldn't say no to a cuppa."
"Tea sounds nice," I nodded in agreement.
"… Touch the tree."
Unfortunately, our hosts weren't in the mood to be true British hosts. They'd called us here for a reason, it seemed, and they had little patience to waste. Dumbledore shrugged nonchalantly as if to say 'What can you do?' but I noticed his wand discreetly fall into his hand with the motion. Just in case. I fingered mine as well. Just in case…
Stepping forward to a randomly chosen tree, Dumbledore and I did as our hosts requested. Roots of magic tried to reach out and grab us. I stood strong and still, feeling Dumbledore do the same beside me. Almost instantly, the roots withered and fell apart. The Old Gods weren't used to people who could resist them, people with magic to call their own. Yet they tried again, gentler this time. More a request and invitation than a demand. Sharing a glance with Dumbledore, we let the roots show us what they needed to show.
I recognized the feeling of entering the astral realm, Dumbledore beside me. Through the roots, we were within the Old Gods. They led us into their vast network. The perspective was an odd one, both from the ground and roots and from the sky and leaves. In this portion of the network, we saw everything the Weirwoods could see, everything they had seen. Unblinking eyes carved in bone-white wood stared into the past, present, and possible futures.
We were taken back, following roots into the past. A mere drop in the bucket compared to everything the Old Gods saw and knew. Yet 300 years rewound around us. We watched Harrenhal as it was built over 40 years, each second an hour and a minute, a day and a decade, at the same time.
Only bloody tyranny made the massive monstrous monument possible. Only slavery and suffering. The land was stripped of every available resource, from men to stone to Weirwood Trees themselves. All of it was funneled into the cruel castle. The blood of slaves and unwilling sacrifices watered the black stones and mortar. Rafters and supports made of Weirwood drank deeply of the blood, coming to grow again within the castle's walls. And as all Weirwoods seemed to do, the roots grew deep.
First, the Weirwoods in the walls simply connected to the castle's Godswood. They were isolated then, but strong. And they continued to root deeper and deeper until finally, they connected with the roots from the Isle of Faces. From there, the cut-down Weirwoods of Harrenhal rejoined the greater network. By the time Harrenhal was finished, it was as if the whole castle was a great stone Weirwood Tree. Then… Then the Dragons came.
"You know," I mused as Dumbledore and I watched from the sidelines. "I imagine many people would quite literally kill for this scene."
"Oh, yes," Dumbledore chuckled. "History is unfolding before us, told by perhaps the most impartial of historians. Were I to have such a view of Chrysippus of Soli's death, I would crack a fair few skulls for the chance as well."
My brow furrowed in confusion, "The Greek philosopher who laughed himself to death? That's… an odd choice."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, "I simply wish to let myself in on the joke. A fig-eating donkey is something one must see with their own eyes, isn't it? Something you just have to 'be there' for."
"'Give the donkey a drink of pure wine to wash down the figs!'" He sighed dramatically and forlornly. "Would that I could, noble fool. Would that I could…"
"… You're a strange soul, Albus. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Never. Not once in my many, many years."
"For some reason, I can't help but doubt that."
As Dumbledore said, history unfolded before us. Two Kings met in front of Harrenhal. One was the King of the castle. The other… an invader. A conqueror. A Dragonlord. The Targaryen banner flew beside the Dragonlord. Aegon the Conqueror, First of His Name cut a handsome and imposing figure, almost the exact opposite of Harren the Black. Where Harren was old and fierce as a scarred tomcat, Aegon was young, calm, and utterly confident in his victory.
"Yield now," Aegon began. His words couldn't be mistaken for anything other than a command and warning. "And you may remain as Lord of the Iron Islands. Yield now, and your sons may live to rule after you. I have eight thousand men outside your walls."
"What is outside my walls is of no concern to me," Harren growled, low and grizzled with age. "Those walls are strong and thick."
"But not so high as to keep out Dragons. Dragons fly."
"I build in stone. Stone does not burn."
"When the sun sets, your line shall end."
Aegon left the parley with that. Harren spat at the Dragonlord's last words but his spittled spite fell on deaf ears and uncaring earth. The old King returned to his castle, sending his entire garrison to the walls and parapets. They were armed with spears and bows and crossbows, all eager to try a hand at Dragonslaying. Lands and riches were promised by the old King, to any man who could bring down the conquering beast.
Dumbledore and I heard Harren's promised rewards like words on the wind as the scene we watched took a more impersonal and detached point of view.
"Had I a daughter, the Dragonslayer could claim her hand as well. Instead, I will give him one of Tully's daughters, or all three if he likes. Or he may pick one of Blackwood's whelps, or Strong's, or any girl born of these traitors of the Trident, these Lords of yellow mud."
Like leaves in the air, we saw everything at once. Thousands of men atop the walls of the black castle. Thousands more outside laying siege. An old King fortifying himself within the tallest tower of his domain, dining with his sons as if nothing greater was amiss… And the Dragonlord as he mounted his draconic companion in the distance and took to the skies.
For a while, there was no sign of Dragon. No darkly glittering scales or bone-chilling roars or licking flames of Dragonfire. The men atop the walls and towers grew complacent, thinking Aegon's threat hollow in the end. Dumbledore and I could see that it wasn't.
Aegon and his Dragon climbed and climbed until they were lost in the clouds above. They flew until they were a black freckle against the moon's pale face. High above Harrenhal, they began their descent. The Dragonlord and Dragon came down upon the world like a meteor. Faster than any broom in flight. Easily as fast as a fighter jet in the dive. And more than twice as big in body. Its fury was just as devastating as any modern ordinance.
Well inside Harrenhal's walls from above and just over the tallest tower, wings sprung out from the Dragon's sides to arrest its dive. They were massive membranes of skin and scales, much like a bat's in design and proportion. Seeing an actually proportional Dragon was a strange and fascinating sight. From my understanding, Dragons usually flew just as much by magic as with their physical wings. But it seemed that the Dragons of Planetos were a different brand and breed of beast.
Terrible black fire, marbled with red, shot from the Dragon's fanged maw with the force of a cannon. Stone shattered with the sheer force of the magically burning projectile, carrying a very physical weight that mere flames couldn't boast. Then the Dragonfire spread like a match to oily parchment. It poured over the tallest tower, setting the entire top alight in one pass. Then the Dragon was gliding in circles around the whole castle, showing medieval soldiers the power of uncontested air superiority.
There was an undeniable magic to the flames, more akin to Fiendfyre than an Incendio. It was magical napalm, treating even carved stone like the forests of Vietnam. Harrenhal burned, and men died in droves. Blood boiled and flesh evaporated outright. Stone melted and shattered. The flames consumed every material they touched upon, burning with draconic fury. Nothing was spared the Dragon's fire.
"Ah, I do believe that is a wyvern, not a traditional Dragon," Dumbledore observed, nonchalant in the face of the devastation.
I shot him a deadpan glance, "I don't think these men much care for the semantics of the subject at the moment."
"No, but it is something interesting to note for the future," Dumbledore shrugged. "This Dragon is also easily the largest I've ever seen or heard of. Do you think it grew larger still? I'd honestly say the Dragons of Earth and those of this world are entirely different species with only surface-level similarities. Hagrid will be overjoyed with that information."
"On another note, I think I see what the Old Gods called us here for," I changed the subject. "The Weirwoods are burning. Can you feel it?"
"Oh, yes," Dumbledore nodded, his expression purposeful but not grim. "The Godswood is surprisingly managing to escape unscathed but the ones in the walls are not so lucky. They're burning along with the castle. Yet we know they still stand in the future…"
I shook my head, "We know they're still there, but they also happen to be leaking a now-familiar black flame."
"It seems the Dragonfire still burns after 300 years. Or at least, the magical and metaphysical aspect of it does," Dumbledore agreed.
"Magical Dragonfire in a shared magical network of magical trees," I deadpanned. "Smashing."
"Fix," The resonant, multi-faced voices of the Old Gods echoed through the rooted memory.
"Perhaps if you asked nicely," Dumbledore shot back with reproach.
"Reward…?"
"No, ask nicely. A 'Please' before and a 'Thank you' after."
"P-… Please… fix… thank… you…?"
"Very good," Dumbledore nodded and smiled like a proud parent or teacher. "Well, Atlas, they've asked nicely."
"So I hear," I drawled. "A moment of consideration though. How?"
I fell into thought. How did one quell Dragonfire? Not the physical component of it but the magical? We could try and treat it as Fiendfyre. There did seem to be a similarity there. But I didn't favor our chances of forcibly wrangling unfamiliar magic fire from a literal fucking Dragon. We didn't cast the flames so even Dumbledore and I didn't have nearly enough metaphysical weight to throw around when it came to them.
But the Weirwood network had been burning for centuries under them. And it'd somewhat contained them to the walls of Harrenhal. The Old Gods might just have more sway over the flames than they realized. To be fair, they likely weren't experimenting with them. Flames vs. Trees, and all that… They might be able to direct the flames but they wouldn't be able to extinguish them.
Yet… they may not need to. This world — and the astral realm we were currently one foot inside — had a 'god' dedicated entirely to fire. A 'god' who was more flames than anything else and who ever hungered for more. Dragonfire would bother 'him' none. All we had to do… was get it to R'hllor.
I verbalized my thought process to Dumbledore, finishing, "-So long as we feed it to R'hllor's eternal burn."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, "I believe the theory is sound and feasible. Of course, we also have to do so without granting R'hllor a route into the Weirwood network or the entire exercise is rather moot."
"Cutting…" The Old Gods suggested, pushing concepts as much as words. "Growth for growth."
"A sort of torch. That would work. Collect the Dragonfire to the end of a branch or cutting, sever it, and give it to us to carry," I instructed.
"I'll work on forging you a path through the astral," Dumbledore offered, setting off with a strength of will that forced the world to conform to him.
The Old Gods began to comply with my request. Many disparate and faded intelligences were called from the roots to see it out. Old souls — some from Harrenhal itself — sacrificed themselves to corral the Dragonfire. It was gathered onto a Weirwood torch. Set into my hands, the torch and fire burned with a weight that was wholly immaterial.
It felt as if I was carrying the Olympic torch. As if the whole world was watching me from the Weirwood network. I set off after Dumbledore, navigating the astral realm beyond the Weirwood network. Below, the world panned away. I knew it was only my mind coping with things that weren't quite real, comprehending the non-physical.
At the 'edge' of the Narrow Sea, Dumbledore and I stopped. We could see Essos — its astral representation, at least. The southern half of the continent burned. A constant, undying bonfire of magic and material and men. R'hllor cared not what burned, only that it did.
From our safe distance, I pitched back the burning torch in my hand. Dragonfire licked at my soul but the Weirwood torch kept it contained. I didn't even bother aiming. Fire would find fire in this astral realm. I simply gathered my strength and chucked the torch as far as I could.
"Free, hot meal here! Getcha free, hot meal!" I called.
As it turned out, even a 'god' of magical fire couldn't resist a free, hot meal. Dumbledore and I didn't stick around for the fireworks. Yet even as we made haste out of the astral realm, I felt blasted heat on my back. We returned to our bodies on the Isle of Faces but I could've sworn the crackling of flames echoed across the entire world.
"I suppose summer may just last another year now," Dumbledore chuckled.
I didn't reply, trying to shake off the weight on my soul that was never there. As I did, I felt contentment and thanks radiate from every Weirwood on the Isle of Faces. Something long and wooden had appeared in my hand at some point while we were out. Looking down, I saw the same cutting from the astral realm. A straight stick, black on one end with the ash trailing into Weirwood-bone-white at the other.
< Weirwood Torch Cutting >
< A forearm-sized length of Weirwood, symbolically burnt on one end. A favor has been done for the Old Gods. A sign of favor is returned. >
< Quest Completed: Investigate Harrenhal/Isle of Faces >
< Rewards: +5 to Dark Arts, +10 to Magic Theory, +20 to Divination >
< Dark Arts 72+5=77/100, Magic Theory 90+10=100/100, Divination 26+20=46/100 >
< Discipline Maxed: Magic Theory! Discipline cap unlocked: Magic Theory 100/+++. Authority Granted… >
< Magic Theory Authority: Most Learned Are Ye >
< You gain an instinctive insight, understanding, and comprehension of any and all magic you see. From the smallest of charms to the most godlike miracles, your magical perception and intuition borders on the divine. This does not necessarily extend to skill and practical applications, merely knowledge of the theoretical. Still, knowledge is called power for a reason… >
"Oh. Oh, bloody Hell."