Interlude Part 2
...
( Maron Pov )
Maron Stonebuilder was, just like his father and his father before him, a stonemason. He'd travelled Dorne from Starfall to Sunspear and from the Prince's Pass to the Greenblood.
At four-and-thirty, Maron had had his fair share of experiences. He'd grown into a very well-respected man, having done work for the highest lords in the land.
He'd done a bit of every work, from repairing broken statues, to building staircases, walls and pools. He'd worked with stone, sandstone, slate and even marble. Perhaps in a few years, he could claim the title of master mason, just like his father had been.
This time, he was called to work with marble. Indeed, the castle of Sunspear was upgrading its bathrooms to have marble flooring, and, as someone with experience in placing said marble, Maron offered his services.
Ever since the new prince took over, life had been much easier. His children had places to play in the city with the others, and the trade from the rest of the kingdoms had benefitted Dorne greatly, as expensive objects or foods found themselves at every household.
War was far away, and Maron blessed the gods for it. He had lost a cousin on the Trident, and his wife had seen her brother come back without most of the fingers of his right hand.
This time, the prince had gotten revenge for all of Dorne without so much as wasting a drop of Dornish blood, and he was thankful for it. But as the sheets placated on every street mentioned, this would not last. Blood would have to be shed, but if it was to see his children not lack of anything during their lifetime, Maron was glad to pay that price.
But he was no warrior. Thus, he went to Sunspear, and was hired as a stonemason. The hours were good, and the pay was quite nice too. The food offered was great, and the housing in the city was more than comfortable for he, his wife and their three children.
Every day, Maron worked his hours, and would eat proper food and wine, with a smile on his face, knowing his family would be cared for.
However, this nearly wasn't to last. A poorly installed hinge in one of the bathrooms Maron was working on collapsed, opening a gash in the wall and sending scraps of marble hurling towards him. One of them scraped his leg, cutting a deep wound into it.
Maron's blood stopped. He knew he would not have long to live, and that his leg was forfeit in any case. How would his family be cared for. Garin was only a boy of ten, and Lyra was hardly trained in any skilled work…
However, he was immediately brought to a small infirmary in the castle. There, he was treated immediately, and his life saved.
When he asked when they would remove the leg, the man talking to him just smiled and told him there would be no need for this.
Then, after two days, he was sent away. Not back to work, but to something called a 'hospice'. It was filled with small beds, and septas were doing the rounds, checking on everyone there.
It was there that he was now, slowly learning to walk again as the gash had impaired his knee. He would apparently stay there as long as needed, until he could walk without help once more.
In the meantime, his wife and children were cared for just as if he were working normally. The only payment the 'hospice' asked in return was that he owed a service to the lord on which funded the hospice, in this case, Prince Quentyn.
The prince would eventually give him a task to fulfill, likely equal to half the days he spent recovering in the 'hospice'. Said task would likely be manual labor, within his competencies. He would be given housing and food, but would not receive pay beyond the necessaries for his family.
This was more than generous.
A few years ago, if he would not have died, he would certainly have lost his leg, and been unable to provide for his family. Lyra would have needed to work somewhere, and his children would have had to try and find some work, perhaps joining the levies, or asking for work as servants.
Instead, his wife and children could continue to live comfortably, and Maron would only have to work without pay, something he had done when he was an apprentice anyways.
No, really, life was looking up for Maron Stonebuilder. He hoped it would stay that way.
...
( Euron POV )
Euron basked in delight at the scene in front of him.
Towards the sea, flames devoured the horizon: his ships and that of the Redwynes, bathed in fire and the blood of the sacrificed.
Towards the city, more flames and more blood. Oldtown was ablaze, houses burning as his Ironborn fought, burnt and pillaged. The Hightowers thought they were prepared, but they had nothing on Euron Greyjoy, soon to be just Euron, God of Death.
But there was something bothering him.
It was not enough.
By all means, he should feel powerful, like no one could touch him. He should feel like a god, bathed in the blood of the thousands of sacrifices he had made. But nothing, he still felt the weakness of a man.
Surely, it was not enough.
Something or someone was interrupting the sacrifices, and that drove him mad.
If it was in this city, he would find it.
Towards the Citadel he thus went, blades drawn, running between corpses as he slew anything in his way: Ironborn, Maesters, men, women, children…
He needed more. More. Always more.
Therefore, he headed straight for his objective. While waiting to be a God, surely he could at least be the herald of Apocalypse.
Frantically, he emptied the Citadel, looking for what he wanted, throwing out those old, dusty books whom no one could give two shits about.
But nothing!
It drove him even madder. Surely the old man was gloating, but he would prove him wrong. He knew the weapon was here, and he would find it!
Staircase after staircase, hall after hall, room after room, Euron cut down everything and everyone in his path. He was getting closer, like a wolf to his prey. He could smell it, reach it.
With a heave, he threw himself forward, entering a dimly lit room, containing hundreds of objects.
Yes. It's here.
Euron laughed with delight at the prospect of what he was going to do. Soon, he found himself rummaging through the room, throwing out worthless objects, glass candles and other idiocies out of the only small window.
It was then that he finally found it. A small, brown, horn, decorated with the runes of the first men. Inconspicuous, small and forgettable. Exactly what he was looking for.
Suddenly, a sharp pain cut through his shoulder.
How could it be possible? Gods did not feel pain.
Raising himself up, he drew a groan as he felt what had pierced his shoulder: an arrow. And soon enough, a second one struck his armor, just bouncing off.
With a roar, Euron took out the arrow in one stroke, shoving it off as blood poured from his left shoulder.
"You'll die slowly for this!" Euron launched at his opponent, hidden in the dimly lit room.
Another arrow whizzed past.
Euron had had enough. He burst to the door, sword drawn, and gutted the fool who had dared to try and hurt him.
It wasn't even a soldier or a lordling, no! It was a Maester or an Acolyte, what an insult!
The boy wasn't dead yet, though, and Euron smirked. He would make him suffer…and then a sharp pain made him recoil.
The bastard had planted a dagger in his left arm, aiming for his already mangled shoulder. Enraged, Euron smacked the bastard, but his opponent wasn't willing to give up. The dagger came back towards him, and Euron was forced to pin his opponent to the ground to avoid a strike.
In the scuffle that followed, Euron finally managed to wrestle the weapon away, and broke the man's bow for good measure.
Tasting blood on his lips from the short fight that had taken place, Euron roared and shoved his sword through the man's heart, ending his pitiful life.
Euron would have liked him to suffer more, but there were more pressing matters to attend to, and a lowly Maester wasn't worth his time. He had hardly spared a look for Aeron, Falia or any of the others, why would he spare a look for him?
Yet, Euron felt drawn to the man that had made him bleed.
He kicked the body on his belly, and that's when the realization hit him. It wasn't even a man, or a boy! It was a bloody girl! A girl had turned him into a fool!
Euron roared in anger, moving down the steps of the Citadel four by four, finding himself outside where his nose was immediately attacked by the scent of ash, fire and screams.
Good.
He paced towards the Hightower, next, getting rid of a few petty soldiers trying to stop him from reaching his goal.
There was a slight issue, though.
The Hightower was heavily defended. And even with a few useless Ironborn at his disposal, Euron knew it would be impossible to reach, let alone take.
No, he needed to find an alternative.
Eyeing the burning city, he turned to a large building which seemed to tower above the others.
It was a ruin, but it would be enough.
Setting himself on the roof, Euron looked around, and put his lips on the horn. He blew it once, making a tremendous noise.
Breathing heavily, he laughed like a madman. The horn was blown, the apocalypse was near, and he, Euron Greyjoy, was the one to beckon it forth!
But nothing happened.
Impossible!
Something was blocking the spell. Something was draining the magic!
He felt it, he knew where it was leading, but it was impossible, no one in this land used magic, save for maybe a few useless Red Priests, then what…
Suddenly, the ground shook and a terrible roar made itself heard.
Euron cocked his head towards the sea, and what he saw brought a massive smile to his lips. There, under his very eyes, the foundations of the Hightower started to rumble. Then, after a terrible noise, cracks started to form in the white walls.
Another terrible noise, like a screech, and once more, the Hightower seemed to move. Its stone walls shifted to the left, from the foundations to the top.
And then the unthinkable.
The Hightower fell into the sea, like a Leviathan crashing down into the icy waters off Ibben. Last to hit the water, the flame atop the Hightower, who, like the city around it, extinguished itself.
Euron laughed. The day wasn't completely wasted after all.
But there was the other issue.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more. Blood, life, everything.
He shifted his eyes towards the Mander. Something northwards was stopping him from ascending to godhood. He would find it, destroy it, and then…
Well, he needed more.
Highgarden seemed good enough.
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