Chapter 14: A Game of Magic
Oldtown
78AC
Otto Hightower
Otto Hightower was diligently reading a tome on the history of the Reach by an Archmaester when his father's trusted guard approached his room. Even though he was only eleven namedays old, everyone acknowledged his intelligence and cleverness. He had even been offered a place as a maester, but he denied it, knowing he was meant for greater things than serving foolish lords who couldn't even read and write. It was nighttime, and he knew it must be something of importance to summon him at this hour.
He was quite surprised when he was informed to meet in the lower tower made from Black Stone by his lord father, and not in the solar as usual. The guard escorted him down the stairs, and even with his knightly training, he was panting by the time he reached the lower tower.
"My lord, you must go alone from here; only the lords are allowed beyond this point," the guard said.
"Thank you for escorting me, Ser Alan," Otto replied.
He had seen the ordinary door many times and thought it was an abandoned area in the lower tower while the nobles lived in the upper tower and the servants in the middle portions. He approached the door and pushed it open; surprisingly, it moved smoothly and silently. He raised his lantern to spread the light and see around the room, but the light didn't spread as he expected. As he stepped into the room, the door closed automatically, making him jump as the moonlight from outside vanished completely. A chill enveloped his body, and his breath became harder. He wondered if the loyal guard he knew from birth had turned traitor and ambushed him, as there was no sign of his father.
"Otto! Come," a voice echoed from the front, and a light suddenly appeared meters in front of him from an open door.
He knew his father's voice and trusted him, so he walked forward. The new room he entered was surprisingly not dark. There were lights from the flaming torches in the middle of the four walls. He quickly identified that the light was not from the torches themselves but reflected using obsidian or dragonglass. It was the light passing through that material that was not absorbed by the black stone. He looked around and saw many murals painted on the black stone, though he couldn't identify anything. Even with his thirst for knowledge, he couldn't concentrate on the murals as the black stone attracted him. There was something beautiful about it, and he wanted to learn its secrets. The Stones enchanted him like nothing else in his short life. He walked towards the nearest wall to touch the black stones, to smell it, to lay his head on it and feel it.
"Snap out of it, little brother," his brother's voice snapped as he slapped Otto on the back of his head.
The sudden pain cleared his thoughts, and he had a panic-stricken face. He looked around and saw his father with an understanding smile.
"What... what is this, Father?" Otto whimpered, fear evident in his voice.
"What are our words, Otto, since Uthor of the High Tower built this tower and started our house? What is the name of our ancestral sword?" his father asked.
Otto looked at his father in bewilderment, as even any knight knew of Hightower and their words in the Reach.
"We light the way, and the sword is a Valyrian steel sword called Vigilance," Otto replied with pride.
"Aye, we light the way," Lord Hightower said. "To light the way, first there must be darkness, and you just saw the darkness."
Otto's eyes widened in surprise as he registered the truth.
"That is... I don't know what to say. What is this darkness? What is this Black Stone?"
His father sighed. "Unfortunately, no one knows what this stone is or where it comes from. Maesters say that it was here before we built the Hightower, but not the true origin of this structure. The only thing that is passed down from father to son is that we must light the way for mankind to enlightenment."
"Enlightenment? Father? Like the truth of the Faith of the Seven?" Otto asked.
His father scoffed. "Not the enlightenment of the Faith, Otto. You have shown exceptional intelligence in learning by seeing the truth of things, and you even saw the truth that the maesters are nothing more than one of our tools, which is why you rejected the Archmaester's proposal for you to join them. You have learned the Faith and seen the workings of the Starry Sept, but you didn't recognize that the Faith is also nothing more than a tool like the Citadel for spreading enlightenment."
"I... I can't believe it. This can't be true!" Otto whispered. He was a follower of the New Gods, and this sacrilege was something he expected from oafish Stormlanders and wildlings in the North, not the Lord of Hightower.
"Well, then let me educate you on the truth. You see this black stone, don't you? This is something that pervades throughout the world from its strategic positions on the map and corrupts everything near it," Lord Hightower continued. "Something that can't be seen or heard, just felt by accomplishing or seeing the outcome—magic. That is our purpose, Otto. To eradicate magic from Westeros so that this black stone couldn't be effective and unleash untold horrors. It is our duty to enlighten the way for our fellow man to the horrors of magic and to stop its usage. From the first Hightower to me, we have done everything to accomplish this. The Citadel was started for the study of science and to prevent the spread of magic by offering a confirmed path to knowledge. We avoided endless war with the Gardener Kings and joined as their vassal when we understood that unleashing the horrors of war and conquest was not something to be done to prevent future horrors. We invited the Faith of the Seven when the Andals came and gave patronage as they were deadly afraid of magic after being under its mercy from shadowbinders, Essosi sorcerers, and the ever-expanding Valyrian empire of magic. We abandoned the First Men traditions which had a ritualistic nature to use the Faith to spread the message that magic is evil. We even bent the knee to the Conqueror so that we could slowly spread our influence to the entire Seven Kingdoms from behind the king, just like we did in the Reach behind the Gardener Kings. We were near success in at least spreading the maesters throughout the Seven Kingdoms when the FUCKING Septon Barth couldn't keep his prejudice for the Old Gods and a bastard in check. Decades of hard work and influence on the royal family gone and the blood of thousands of the Faith wasted because of lack of patience..." Lord Hightower started muttering curses angrily too fast for him to understand.
Otto was entranced by the secret history of their house and influence but jumped in fright as his father finished yelling about Septon Barth and his angry mutterings. Even himself who knew the Hightowers was the Greatest House in the realm, especially in the Reach, never knew that they served such a high purpose. They may not be the Kings anymore for millennia, but they were the unnamed Kings of the Oldtown and their influence was almost equal to the Gardner kings.
"Father," Otto slowly tried to interrupt the angry muttering of his father.
"Don't, Otto. Father is very angry. Let him vent it at least," his brother sighed in tiredness.
"What happened, brother? " Otto inquired.
"News has arrived from the Citadel, Otto. The Grand Maester has been punished harshly and the Hand is dismissed from his post for suggesting harsh punishments for the North and the northern bastard of Prince Aemon who suggested a way to get the Gift back to the Starks even when following the orders of the Iron Throne."
Otto looked puzzled hearing that. "How in the name of New Gods they achieved that?"
"Well, the bastard suggested a lease contract, a contract where all rights to the land are transferred to the tenant except for ownership. The Starks rented the entire New Gift from the Night's Watch in perpetuity," Hobert said.
"That is devious, brother," Otto said in admiration of the cleverness shown. He frowned and continued, "Truly, only a bastard born of sin could envision such trickery."
Hobert laughed hearing the reply.
"Whatever the method," his father interrupted, who finally calmed enough, "they have won and gotten away with it too. The fools tried even using the bedridden queen to get their way, and even I know that the king will not be happy if his beloved sister is touched. The true surprise was Prince Aemon; his stupidity for blaming the child for the girl's death and his hate towards was such a good thing for us as the North, a place where magic still lingers, will be long away from the remaining magic users of the royal family. Now we must start another round of the game."
"Magic users of the royal family?" Otto asked, perplexed. "According to history, only the cursed Queen Visenya practiced sorcery, and she never taught it to the current king or Aenys's line. King Maegor didn't have children to pass down any sorcery he knew."
Father looked at him as if he were an imbecile, and Otto withered under that look.
"Otto, you have seen the dragons. What do you think allows them to fly and spit fire? What allows the Targaryens to bond with them and control them? This is the greatest blatant use of magic Westeros has seen since the Age of Heroes. It seems you still have many things to learn beyond what the maesters and books can teach before your part begins," his father said with tiredness.
"I apologize, Father. I understand I have much more to learn," Otto said with utmost respect. "But I have a question, Father. The king and queen have been here many times, and no horrors have been unleashed yet by the black stone. If dragons themselves were here, and unaffected, how can we know the black stone still has the power of ancient times?"
"Oh, Otto, the dragons have only been here for a short time. If you want to see the horrors unleashed by the Black Stone, you only have to look at the Ironborn. The horrors they unleashed just a hundred years ago in the name of their cursed Iron Price will be enough to answer your doubts. This is just the influence of the Seastone Chair, a throne made from black stone. Every man and even woman believes in treating others as thralls, which is nothing but slavery."
"I see," Otto replied after careful consideration. "I understand, Father. What must I do?"
"You are to be squired under Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard. Your intelligence and cleverness will be noted by the court. Even now, your talents in administration have been spread by Redwyne among the court. You will be the new lead to the court as the maesters will be under scrutiny, and House Hightower will not be implicated because of two zealots who couldn't control their prejudices. At least in this generation, it is time to remove all of our overt influence in both the Citadel and the Faith."
"I will not disappoint you, Father," Otto nodded and bowed in obeisance.
Harlan Pike
79AC
Harlan Pike stood at the prow of his ship, the salty wind whipping his long hair around his face. The sea, his true home, stretched endlessly before him, the horizon a thin line separating the turbulent waters from the stormy sky. Behind him, his men moved with purpose, securing the loot they'd taken from the soft-bellied merchants of Essos and the pirates of the Stepstones. His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction; his first raid as a captain had been particularly fruitful.
"Harlan, you have started your true journey and proven yourself as an Ironborn captain. This is the day we have been waiting for," one of the Drowned Priests who raised him said.
He turned away from the whispers and declared, "Well, I am the son of the sea and twice drowned. Let the Greenlanders tremble at the sound of my exploits."
He again turned to the alluring sound of the sea.
As long as he could remember, he could read the sea and winds like no one else. The sea whispered to him about the boats sailing on it. He could sense approaching storms even before the winds began to hit the sails. He could swim in the sea at the age of three without anyone needing to teach him. He was a lowly bastard left to die on Naga's Hill when the Drowned Priests found him. In their belief, they saw him as the answer to their prayers to the Drowned God for a solution to the tyranny of the Dragonlords who subjugated the Ironmen from the air.
The Drowned Priests became more enamored with him when he drowned at the age of three and started to swim to the shore. Whispers of him being of the Hoare bloodline spread among the priests, and even the place they found him was said to be a sign from the gods that he was meant to be the Iron King.
He thought it was all nonsense until that day ten years ago when a Drowned Priest, a Greyjoy, decided he must die. They were anchored near shore for the night, and everyone was resting and deep in their cups when the priest smashed his head from behind and dragged him to the shore to drown him as a sacrifice for Greyjoy prosperity. The man held him over his shoulder while descending from the ship, and Harlan was teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness.
He later swore to the priests who questioned him that he heard the Greyjoy whispering maddeningly
"Must Kill at all costs. Should be drowned, the Drowned God commands it, should kill him for Greyjoy's to pay the Iron Price. Kill him. Drown him."
The man threw him into the seawater. The moment he touched the water, he felt his lethargy dissipate and an energy surge into him. He heard whispers and a sinister laughter that sent chills down his spine. As the man landed in the sea, Harlan suddenly moved and struck him in the groin.
"Bastard!" the Greyjoy screamed, pulling out a knife.
Harlan was only seven, and he knew fighting a fully grown man was certain death, so he jumped backward into the sea and started swimming as the retreating waves carried him away from the shore. The Greyjoy, being an adult, just ran and jumped toward him, landing on him. They both started drowning as the waves bobbed them up and down. While holding Harlan from behind with his left hand, the Greyjoy used his right hand to stab at Harlan's face. Seeing death approaching, Harlan grabbed the knife with both hands. His palms bled as the knife's edge cut into them. Blood mingled with seawater as the knife neared his face. He moved his head at the last moment, slowing the knife with his hold. Still, the sharp edge pierced through his left eye and stayed there.
Pain enveloped his side, and darkness consumed his left eye. The additional pain jolted him while he felt the Greyjoy struggling for breath as the sea carried them away. Blood loss made him faint, and he laughed hard, thinking he was going to die. Anger enveloped him along with seawater burning his lungs. The Greyjoy, knowing he had achieved his goal, took his left hand around from Harlan and started swimming upwards. Suddenly, Harlan turned and used his right hand to grab the knife's hilt and pulled it from his left eye.
"Drowned God, give me strength," he yelled in his mind and started swimming upwards.
A haunting laughter was heard as he was almost sure he heard a reply,
'With immense pleasure.'
He felt something push him, rapidly gaining on the Greyjoy. As he neared the Greyjoy's legs, he grabbed them and used the knife to stab him repeatedly, not caring where he pierced. By the tenth stab, he lost consciousness, welcoming death with a smile, knowing the Greyjoy was dead.
He gained consciousness two days later in the captain's cabin of the ship.
"Harlan, the twice-drowned, the Drowned God has blessed you twice. You are the leader we have been waiting for since Black Harren was burned by the cursed Black Dread," the priest said.
Pain enveloped his entire body as he tried to sit up in bed.
"How?" he hissed in pain.
"How, you ask?" the priest laughed madly. "The greatest message from the Drowned God. You can feel him, can't you? Every Drowned Priest can feel him somewhat—a nudge here, a small whisper there—but you are different from the moment of your birth. Something whispers to you secrets of the sea more than even the most faithful Drowned Priest. It was the Drowned God who saved you.
He sent The Kraken to save you."
79 AC
Braavos
The grand hall of the Iron Bank was a testament to its power and wealth. Opulent tapestries and gleaming chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled keyholders. The room hummed with hushed conversations and the shuffling of parchment, a prelude to the serious matters at hand. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the bank's storied history, added to the air of solemnity.
At the head of the long, polished table sat Bessaro Reyaan, the First Keyholder, his presence commanding respect. The other keyholders, a mix of merchants, nobles, and shadowy figures, settled into their seats, their faces reflecting a blend of curiosity and apprehension. The Reyaan family had held the title of First Keyholder of the Iron Bank since its founding, passing the role from father to son.
Reyaan raised a hand, calling for silence. "We are gathered here today to discuss matters of great importance," he began, his voice steady and authoritative. "Our bank's interests are vast and varied, but recent developments demand our immediate attention. It has come to my attention that recent events from the thrice damned Valyrians kingdom has made many of you tempted with taking the matters into your hands. This meeting is to officially state my orders."
"And pray tell, what matter requires such a meeting?" one of his thorns said slyly.
Bessaro looked at the thorn and scoffed internally at the prideful fool who thought himself powerful. "It seems you have not kept up to date with the matters. The second voyage of the North has also been a success, and they returned with untold wealth. Moreover, the North has made a move in the game of thrones and won. They managed to steal the Gift back from the Night's Watch and now have even more work and their old food granary back. This will affect our plans for trading with them. More importantly, the fact that the Iron Throne allowed it without punishing the Starks is startling. We must rethink whether the Starks are still viable when the King is friendly with them," Bessaro said with condescension.
"What do we care about the king's relationship with his vassals? We started trading with the Starks because they are nearer and for the profits and the supposed method of travel that allows them to avoid storms and pirates. The fact that we still haven't learned their secrets or confirmed that such a method exists is what matters. We need to learn the method for the continued growth of Braavos as a free city," the thorn replied haughtily.
"Everything comes back to the Targaryen bastard," another keyholder snarled. "Those damn Valyrians have to go and be intelligent enough to invent the method and even introduce a new form of renting too."
"Daemon Snow? How are you sure it was his method? Leasing is an intriguing idea that anyone who saw the smallfolk of Westeros could come up with, but sailing is something else. According to our sources, the first time he even saw the sea was when the first voyage started," another keyholder asked.
Knowing that if not interrupted, his valuable time would be lost, Reyaan interjected, "It doesn't matter where the method originated. We shall endeavor to get the secret and be friendly with the North as needed. Even without that, it is the most profitable trade agreement we have with anyone. We will not jeopardize that unless we are a hundred percent sure of the method and their workings. Is that clear enough for everyone?" Seeing the nods he finished, "Dismissed."
Reyaan didn't wait for the others to disperse. He stood up and left through the back entrance of the room. He went to his office and activated the secret door to his true home: the House of Black and White.
Reyaan was a name he took when he founded the Iron Bank and Braavos all those years ago; it was the most used face of their guild. But now, he had to attend a more important meeting—a gathering of the elders of the Faceless Men, the men who originated from the slave pits of Valyria.
Reyaan, the first Faceless Man, was approached by the so-called Many-Faced God, not knowing it was just a demon sent by the Great Enemy to continue the sufferings of people on this planet. The growth of Valyria, with its dragonriders and magic, was a game-changer in the ongoing cold war between the Red Demon R'hllor and the Others in the North. The Valyrians could have ended the war by obliterating both factions in their expansion plans, so the Great Enemy had sent the demon. The demon found the perfect method of infiltration: the slaves, so abused they had almost lost their minds and will to live, were just breathing dolls. The demon chose to bond with a man without identity and appeared as the Many-Faced God granting him death. The nameless slave, seeking death, agreed wholeheartedly to the pact, and the first Faceless Man was born when the demon possessed the body, consuming his soul while retaining the memories.
Centuries among the slaves and even the Valyrian sorcerers made it possible for him to engineer the Doom. He had to sacrifice ten of his most powerful faces to enact it. It was quite spectacular, if he said so himself, to watch the Doom from Braavos.
It was truly ironic that the Fourteen Flames themselves smashed down the arrogant Valyrians, who were nothing but shepherds before the Valyrian Gods started playing with them. The demon was still afraid, though, that despite accessing different sorcerers, the knowledge of the Valyrian gods themselves remained elusive. He couldn't understand anything regarding the Valyrian gods, and only when he wore the face of the sorcerer could he remember what they were. Unfortunately, he had to sacrifice every face of a sorcerer in the Doom.
The Doom was the greatest treat for the Great Enemy, who became a sloth in the feeding of misery and sufferings. Millions died in Valyria, hundreds of powerful dragons perished, and the Century of Blood that followed was truly a good dessert for the Great Enemy. The fact that there was no other outside power to challenge the Others and the Red Demon R'hllor, who were already fed a few sparks of the Great Enemy, was just a good aftertaste that would feed the Great Enemy for centuries more.
The demon then corrupted many others into the Faceless Men cult, and every Faceless Man became an extension of his will and powers. It was in this way that the Faceless Men knew when someone failed and the body was destroyed. Even though he couldn't form a new powerful pact like the original one, The demon could make a incomplete bond when his followers become fanatic enough and becomes no one. This make him have access to any memories or skills of all the Faceless Men and peruse them as he pleased.
The current meeting was between the longest-lasting Faceless Men, even the demon himself couldn't split his mind enough to contact everyone over the large distance at once. So, the meeting was needed to share memories and discuss how to proceed in achieving their goal of maintaining the status quo and ensuring that the sufferings fed to the Great Enemy increased or remained the same. Eventhough the elders ten only knew to grant the death and do his biddings.
His thoughts came to a halt when the elder 10 entered the room and settled in their chairs. Even with them being an incomplete extension to him, with them physically close he could feel the connection more than ever.
"Let the meeting begin. Start with your reports," Reyaan said to the second one sitting to his right.
"First one, I must apologize as there is no progress with the dragon eggs we acquired from that foolish girl. Even fed with much Valyrian blood, they do not hatch. The more blood they consume, the stonier they become. Even our agents in Asshai couldn't find any clues regarding how to hatch the eggs. Fire and blood failed, and that was our final hope as we thought maybe The Targaryens were arrogant enough to announce their secret as their house words."
First One snorted hearing that. He was already surveying the connection checking for any lies or omissions, which is not possible since no one had ever rebelled against their belief in him, The Many Faced God. Having almost all the members from Essos where slavery is itched in their very souls itself, is very good for maintaining fanatic loyalty.
"Second one, don't be naïve. It seems we are at the end of our road with that strategy. Our goal of preserving the status quo and maintaining magic use at a reasonable level still awaits all the while granting the gift of death as per the will of Many-Faced-God. Let the eggs be stored in our secret vault if there is no other avenue to pursue. Even now, Balerion the Black Dread is sleeping his way to death from the fight he had with the monsters in Valyria. As long as he is dead, there is nothing to fear from the Targaryens, and all other dragons will perish with time since we have made sure of it."
"There are still years left for that happy occasion of the last of the creatures that saw the cursed Valyria die, First One. There is another avenue yet to be explored about hatching the eggs."
"What is it?" First one looked intrigued.
"Daemon Snow. The bastard of the North. He is of blood, and we have relations with the Starks. We could invite them and make him our sacrifice for fire and blood. Then maybe the eggs will hatch," the second one said.
First One looked intrigued. "No, that would be a waste of a perfect match to ignite wars in Westeros if needed. Maybe the eggs will hatch in his hands, and we could always use it to trigger a war there if the need arises. Moreover, the boy is intelligent, and we could still benefit from our association with the Starks, and even then, fifth one has not yet learned the secret of their navigation. Am I right?"
The fifth one looked surprised at First One's knowledge, not knowing there was a direct linkage of minds between them.
"You are, as always, correct, First One. No amount of coercion, money, or threats made them say it. I even took a face to spy upon them, but they grew agitated by something and became tight-lipped as time went on."
"Interesting. Very interesting," First One said. "Also, Prince Aemon has even challenged the king in protection of Daemon, and harming him would start a war. I am confident in killing every dragonrider on the ground, but our own survival and mission would be jeopardized. We should remain in the shadows for now and not pull the sleeping dragons tail."
The rest of them nodded in acceptance.
"First One," another underling said, " Finally the Red Demon has become content in playing with his little followers and sacrifices again. The sacrifices has gone down significantly after the trouble in Volantis Red Temple eight years ago. Whatever damaged him was something significant since the number of sacrifices was so high and there was no vision or any overt signs of power from him to his red priests for almost 3 years after the event. There have been no new movements from him."
"I also report the same from beyond the Wall. The Others are also content, slowly adding soldiers to their army, similar to the Red God manipulating millions of followers for himself. The Night's King is, as always, unseen, and even I couldn't venture to the Lands of Always Winter."
"Good, very good. The main threats for our goals are of Ice and Fire, and they both remain in equilibrium with each other. So, as long as they remain as it is, it will be of no consequence for us. What about the rest of them?"
"There have been stirrings in the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, and every other Entity just exists as it is. There is no change in any of them," the seventh replied.
"That is good, as we are free to concentrate here and in Westeros. There is something in the air that I am sure will trouble us. The changes happening in the world are more than what they should be. You shall be vigilant against any overt use of magic. You have all your orders." Reyaan ended the meeting.
The Crowkiller.
Finally, after all the waiting, the day had come. Well, the night had come. Crowkiller thought as he stood on the edge of the encampment, watching as the moonlight reflected off the snowy landscape. The Stark forces and their soldiers were trapped in Queenscrown by an unexpected summer snowstorm, their spirits as frozen as the landscape around them. The wildling leader felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
The plan had been simple yet brutal. His scouts had ambushed the Stark scouts, catching them off guard. But even then, it became evident that these were not ordinary men. The skirmish had cost him eleven men to take down just five Stark scouts. They were faster and more aware than anyone he had ever faced. A grin spread across his face as he considered this. If the scouts were this good, how much better must a Stark be? He could already imagine the envy of his fellow wildlings when he returned as the Starkslayer.
As his men descended upon the Stark encampment, chaos erupted. The night was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh commands of captains trying to rally their men. Crowkiller observed from behind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. His men were falling to the ferocity of the Stark soldiers; it was costing the wildlings many lives, but he cares not as he has a thousand lives to spare against the Stark's two hundred.
In the midst of the fray, he spotted a man clad in armor bearing the emblem of a snarling direwolf. The Stark was cutting through his brothers like a scythe through wheat. Crowkiller's eyes narrowed as he watched the Stark fight. Suddenly, The Crow attempted to stab the Stark from behind. Fury surged through Crowkiller's veins. This was his kill, his glory. But his anger turned to surprise when the Stark dodged the attack with a fluid grace and turned, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. The crow was skilled, managing to skip backward just in time, but not before the Stark's sword slashed through his nose, leaving a bloody gash.
Crowkiller cackled with glee, his excitement mounting. He moved forward, pushing through the throng of fighters. His men were overwhelming the soldiers in front of the Stark and the crow, creating a clear path to his prey.
"Damn you to the seven hells and curse the old gods! How are you fighting and moving when you and your men should be under the effects of the poison?" The Crow shouted, his voice a mix of frustration and curiosity. "It shouldn't kill you, but it should weaken you. Yet your army fights as if untouched!"
The Stark heir, breathing heavily yet standing resolute, smirked at the Night's Watch Men. "Wouldn't you like to know, betrayer?" His voice dripped with disdain. "First, you betrayed the oath you swore to the king, and now you've betrayed the oath to the Night's Watch by colluding with this scum. It is time to pay the price."
"Well, it will not be today," Crowkiller retorted, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. "I need him alive for now, Stark. Crowkiller has become an old name. Killing you will make me rise in the army of the King Beyond the Wall."
The Stark's eyes widened at the mention of the King Beyond the Wall. But his surprise quickly turned to fury. "What are you waiting for, winter? Let's dance," the Stark snarled, raising his sword and charging forward.
Crowkiller tried to parry the attack, but the Stark was faster than anyone he had ever faced. Without the advantage of ambush or arrows, Crowkiller found himself outmatched. The Stark's strikes were precise and relentless, each blow driving the wildling leader back. Crowkiller realized too late that he had underestimated his opponent. The last thing he thought before the sword neared his neck was he should have waited more for the Stark to tire or injured and regretting the fact that some other fucker would become The Starkslayer.
Authors Note: A chapter to establish the wider magic users and their own games.. yes the doom is caused by the Great Enemy's messenger a Demon who made a pact with a slave... every many faced god servant is half extension of that demon, even thought the fanatic don't know it.
Otto hightower learning the basics and origin of a OC harlan Pike..
Also a small cliffhanger..... wait for Chapter 15 : Burdens of Love II
Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!
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