Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
---XxxxxX---
“I NEED more power!”
“…Supposed to be twins…”
“…Even if it means killing you…”
“…The sons of SPARDA…”
“…ITS MINE!”
“…You seem to be in a bad mood…”
“…WHY ISNT THIS WORKING!?”
“…Preparations for the bash…”
“…This place was our father’s home…”
He awakened.
He blinked his eyes repeatedly; he tasted his tongue, dry as it may be, his visions blurred, yet becoming clearer with each second, he forces himself awake and conscious. He sees the color blue, with white blurs scattering around. He felt his hand move, and the sensation that follows with it. something is tickling the part of his body that is not covered with his armored leather suit and azure coat.
Grass…
He recognizes the feeling, the touch of nature and the smell that comes after. Often in his life he is surrounded by blood and bile of both demonic and human, but the taste of those that are serene is far from unfamiliar, even then he can recall the times when he lives with sincerity away from a repulsive amount of violence.
Where am I…
He questioned; his sight is clear as he sat on the green hue of grass. He wonders his eyes all around him, trees littered the lands but not numerous enough to be a forest and certainly not old and big enough for its leaves to cover the blue skies. There are hills, rugged and broad yet pleasing to see. There are rivers not far, gentle in its course and clear for consumption.
What was I…
He tries to recollect his memories, he feels no sense of urgency or dread, a decade worth of training and instinct moves his mind and body as he entered a moment of recall. Naturally so as there are no reasons to be so, all the distorted senses came back to his bearing and so come his remembrances. And he remembered ALL.
“Dante…” He whispered with disdain, as the feeling of anger arises so does his spirit and energy. And with due, so came his powers insurmountable, the blue vibrant glow dangerously, coiled on his figure. He summoned his trusted blade, a steel more friend and loyal than any living beings he encountered. Sleek and clean cut… YAMATO.
He recalled everything. He remembered the jutting tower where his father’s power was sealed, he remembered killing his dubious minion for failing to defeat his brother, he remembered felling his brother and taking his amulet from his mangled living body…
He remembered stabbing a human… so sure in his faulty path to become a demon…
He remembered a woman… blaming him for her father’s treachery…
And his brother… who acts the fool wearing red… yet frown in mourning as he cut him down…
His father… powerful and without equal…
His mother… sweet and compassionate everlasting… and-
DEAD
He raises to his full figure, imposing and filled with rage. He recalled his last moment before he awakened here. His sword, Yamato persist with him. The amulet, the last keepsake of his mother still gripped tightly on his hand. He looked around ones more, and found the state of where he is confounding, for he recalls where he expected himself supposed to be.
“This is not hell…” He said, no fires that burns eternally, no rivers of blood that runs without end and certainly no screams of the dead and suffering that should permeate everything. All he sees are beautiful plains, clear skies and horizon. This could not be the human world as he could not see even one stone belonging to the tower of Temen-ni-gru, the tower may be crumbling but there should be remains.
He felt a tint of soreness on his abdomen, the very same place where his brother sliced him. The wound is gone but fatigue persisted, uncertain in his condition he verifies to see If his capability still resides within him. With a gesture he summoned his full demonic power.
He felt all of it, even in his extreme exhaustion the outrageous strength of his father is still within him full bore. Slowly with certainty, the pain and wounds from his body washes away as any sign of struggle against his sibling can only be seen by his shredded coat and suit, though they are still serviceable to wear still.
He looked to himself, his scaly body, the warping reality around his figure and the might no demons can match still resides within him. He dispersed the power a short moment after, his human features returned. “So, this is no illusion then…” He spoke out loud. ‘Going full demon should’ve dispelled it.’ he thought.
For the time being however, he felt his dry tongue taking his attention, he is parched and the river runs loudly to beckon to his needs. ‘One thing first before the other.’ He thought, as he strides towards the coursing waters, clear and shining by the light of the sun. he drank softly and neatly, the etiquette of his house taught to him is still retained. He felt no hunger for the time being, so a quenching of his thirst is more than enough to help his thoughts cleared.
After the refreshment he looked to his reflection. A young man, silver of hair and eyes bluer than his coat. He is in his youth, no more than the age of eighteen, yet the sharp eyes that he equipped holds a more mature upbringing and shown just as much danger as the sword he carried. He gazes ones more towards every part of the horizon, other than villages and a sort of castle he saw no sign of the tall tower that he summoned.
“If this is not hell… then…”
He felt the rumble of the ground, his ears hear the neighing of a horse. He looks forward towards the crossing of the river, to the dirt road that leads to realm unknown to him. With a blink he vanishes and re-appeared just to its side. No long after a carriage came, two horse and one rider. Coolly he walked to the middle of the road, the sheathed edge of his sword touches the land as his hands rest on its pommel.
The carriage stopped and a call came. “Who goes there?” the rider spoke on his sit. “Can I help you ser?”. The silver-haired man approaches the rider, the horses whimpered softly as he approaches, bowing down the closer he came. The man stands on the side of the rider’s station and stare him with an unnecessary level of intensity.
“S-ser?”
“You will answer my questions…” The silver-haired man simply spoke, his eyes bore still, a look to strong the rider is close to fainting from sheer willpower from the stare alone. “I won’t tolerate hesitation… Thus, you will Answer quickly…” The man spew with a warning.
“Milord?” The rider said, bedraggled the silver-haired man maybe, his attire is more than deluxe for him to be inferred as such.
“Where am I?” The man asked.
“Wh-Where? As in… the land we are in?” The rider queried. “We are In the Westerlands, milord… on the gold road, I am heading to Casterly Rock.”. the silver-haired lord persists in his stare, his gaze is uncompromising, the level of judgement he cast is overwhelming. With a moment of silence came another question.
“Where exactly am I in the world?”
“Pardon, milord?”
“What continent is this?”
“Continent? You mean lands? We are in Westeros milord… the seven kingdoms.”
“Westeros?” The Silver-haired whispered. “I don’t know this place.” He tried to search in his mind, for any name that bears close to it, for any recollection of any knowledge that he can find. By nature, he is well-educated, he stacks as many books as his brother makes a mess, yet he could not recall such location. “Fortuna… does this name mean anything to you?”
“No, Milord…”
“Vie de Marli…”
“No.”
“Red Grave City?”
The rider shakes his head.
“Mallet Island? Enamel City?”
“No, Milord… these are strange names to me…”
The chirp of the bird is clear for all to hear, so close to the trees as they are. It is so silent as they stare at each other that even the water can be heeded so mellow as they are. The horse even dared to look back to see the silver-haired man concentrated glare to the anxious rider.
“Is this Casterly Rock near?”
“It is a day away, milord.” The rider answered. Eyes wondering from the sword to the man himself repeatedly with anxiety. “I am but a simple merchant, milord. Please I have nothing.” He pleaded, so sure that this is the day he might lose his life to a wandering lord’s hand. He looked down to the dirt road as a sign of penitent, hoping mercy would come from his prostration.
When he raises his head to see if there is anything more the wandering lord would need of him, he finds the man to disappear. The rider looked around to where he likely supposes to be to find he is nowhere to be seen. Until he hears the sound of a wooden squeak, and he turns to find the wandering lord sitting beside him on the carriage.
“Ride…” The Silver-haired lord simply said.
“Mi-milord?”
“Ride…” He turns his head towards the rider, slowly as to deliver dread. “I won’t tell you a third time…”
---XxxxxX---
The breeze of the wind is soothing to the skin, the dusk of the sun came to its twilight, bringing warmth and light in its swan song, no sensations of heat or humidity. The plain is clear for all to see even at dusk, as the trees are placed neatly around the green grasses of the lands. It is a blessed day and it would be a soothing one as well…
If not for the silver passenger beside him…
He treads lightly on the road, ensuring that the carriage and the horses would not step its wheels and hooves to the jagged part of the path, one often underestimates the damage and shake one could have if fallen victim to such hazards. Yet the rider felt there would be more danger in consideration to the circumstances he finds himself in.
The silver-haired lord is in a serene state of sleep, or at the very least it is what the rider thought he is in. The eyes are closed and his arms are coiled together in front of his chest as his right hand holds his sword. Even now the sharp features and the stoic look never escape his face even when in slumber.
Yet sometimes one could see that he seems to not breathe in occasion…
Still, for the rider, he only cared of reaching his destination. He knows the standards in which that is lordly could bring to him if it has not been met, at best a lashing and at worst death by hanging. The sooner he could appease the silver-haired lord the better.
Yet the passing of time did not come without its odd undertakings, in their journey on the road the silver lord would often query of many things of Westeros. It is bizarre for a man so well-dressed and armed to be so unfamiliar with the surroundings, especially so as by relativity they are quite on the middle of the region, you could not walk a mile without stepping on something Westerosi… how strange.
It was fortunately a barrage of questions of ones he could answer simply, though there are some queer ones, though to be sure to be thought of later, after he would be released from this worrying hold, as right now he has more urgent tasks to worry for.
Which lord you serve?
What year is it?
Does the name Sparda mean anything to you?
An odd set of enquiries, but it is of no use for a merchant, lordly business is often filled with treachery and death, the less he strays towards it the better. Still, it is of an oddity that one would know not of the lands of Westeros, even for folks from Essos, this one might be from farther still. Seeing that the coils of darkness have littered the path, the merchant decides to halt the carriage.
“Why did we stop…” The silver hair spoke, eyes still close, nonchalant in his bearing.
“Apologies, Milord… The night has come, it would be unwise to venture forth, it would only invite incidents…” He took his cap off and bowed. He knows not from which land the lord hailed from but it is better to not risk insolence. “Apologies, milord I surely am.”
the silver-haired man simply sits there, eyes still shut with the same position he held as before, still only a voice came. “Be awake at the first sight of dawn…” He spoke simply.
“Yes, milord.” The Rider-merchant said. “If you wish, milord. I have a spare tent with me. You can use the main tent if you wish… it may not be much, but I’m sure it will give you more comfort than none.”
No movement other than his lips. “No.”
The merchant holds a bewildered look. Sitting still as a statue the silver haired man make no motion, even the darkness seems to embrace him. “Right… Milord.” The merchant decides to use the main tent for himself, he dislikes the hazards and inconveniences of nature most times, more so at night, so he is gladdened to use a more quality comfort.
But he feared a noble’s ire more. He hoped the lord would not change his mind to punish him for impudence of negligence. They are often fickle at times. Still, to find a lord besides the road with a warrior’s figure is a rare thing indeed, perhaps this one denies comfort out of principle alone or perhaps he hides his kindness well enough, at least the merchant can find comfort of not being alone.
Though he thought back to the silver hair the lord has, it is a Valyrian trait and the man is as clean and comely as a prince, even a half-blind man can see that. would it be wise to let the man linger on the sit of a carriage only. Yet the man did deny his offer, who is he to question him, especially if he is really related to royalty. A scion in hiding perhaps? Thought that does not explain the queries…
After he sets his tent, the merchant looks back towards the silver lord… and he still sits unmoving. “How strange…” He thought. He took his comfort as it is and lay his head within the tent, closing his eyes as he thinks about his family.
He remembered the worried face of both his son and daughter, and the ever-supportive look of his wife. All of them expecting his return, with longing growing stronger with each time he left them. He recalled the wants of his family, a new toy, a new sword to train with and maybe a better food to come home to… yet his wife simply asked for his safe return.
He is but an elderly man, he held a sword once but merely for protection. Now his hand is fit only for riding, or perhaps only for farming. His wife often told him to have a hired blade as an escort, but to do so would take away his family’s privileges. The Westerlands are relatively safer than the vale and the north, there are no mountain clans roaming here, and seldom he hears a raid.
He drifts off to sleep with a visage of his family…
---XxxxxX---
There was a noise…
A noise to loud to come from one man…
And then come the sounds of rummaging, a sound of objects flung and treasuries thrown…
Frightened and full of anxiety, the merchant slowly opened his tent. The night is still dark, but the semblance of a light is clear, a source that came from a torch. He just awakened from his sleep, and the darkness did not help to discard the blur, yet still he hears a converse.
“There is nothing here…”
“Here it is… I found a ring and an amulet here!”
“Give it here!”
‘Bandits…’ The merchant thought, he knows not how many there are but what they are delving through are treasuries more in sentimental in value than gold. If it was any other case, he would’ve let it happen for the sake of his life, but not this time. The chest they take from are filled with family treasures, he took it away from the carriage and held it close to his tent as to not be stolen for, the irony of the circumstances is palpable.
“Halt there!” He shouted, as brave as he could summon, hopeless his endeavor seems to be. “Those are my possessions you’re taking! Unhand them!”. The bandits look to each other in wonderment and proceed to chuckle, all of them approach him, lingering and skittering to surround him as they walk with menace.
“Is that so?” One of the bandits spoke. “Where are the rest of them?”
“That is all I have!” The merchant replied, his hand holding a short sword. His stance weak and meek with his grip quivering with sweat. The battle is over before one even swing a sword, the apparent fear is an inevitable sign of death if a killing stroke would come to be had. The merchant realizes his futility. “Please… I can give you some silver and copper… just leave my chest alone, those are my son’s and daughter’s gifts!”
“Oh, worry not old man.” The other bandit spoke. “We will leave it be… if you tell us where the rest of your goods are.”
“I just told you-“
“Come now, goodman… you expect us to believe you carried this chest and that tent by your lonesome without a horse?”
They came closer, inch by inch they move slightly. Even their breathes are hearable, as dire wolves marching towards its prey. The merchant pleads. “Please…” He spoke. “Have mercy… I’ve worked so hard.” His eyes started to water, the wrinkle on his cheeks more apparent as despair inches closer. He quivered more as all five bandits started to unsheathe their blades.
The merchant closed his eyes, trying to summon as many courage as he can to make the choice to fight, to find the strength to return to his family. He could run, he could flee and his wife would give no blame to him, she would tell him his life is worth all the carriages in the world. But she deserves much better than a husband with an empty hand.
“Oi!” it seems there are more than five as a cavalcade of voice is heard from afar. “We found the carriage here! It loaded-” their words halted abruptly.
“What was that?”
“I think Alton says he found the carriage…”
“Oh, is that so?” Menacing eyes returned to the merchant. “Seems we have no need of you, lad… go on boys, rip him apart.”
He felt the knife caressing his cheek, and with fear consuming him he dropped his blade. Blood seeped through from the wound the bandit torment his face with. He prayed to the gods, the old and the new for salvation, he did not expect any to come, he needs only the strength to withstand the pain, to survive through the torment.
A scream came and heard… a jagged noise that stopped brusquely.
The bandit stood still and watch from afar. “Layton… Henson?! You alright up there?”
No answer came…
They called again by name but there is no reply to be had. Just so they forgot the merchant exist, and the man fell down to his knees caressing his sliced cheek. Some of them only unsheathes the knife when they met him, now on full vigilant they all held their sword with face full of irritation. One of them choke him as he asked. “Who do you have with you?” His face is to encased by the shade of darkness to be seen clearly.
“Just one man… please.”
“Just one?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not lying are you…”
“Yes, I swear. Please…”
He felt the pangs of guilt came in drove to heart, not only he despaired upon the lost of the needs of his family but he also by doomed a fellow man, tis not enough to have his life thrown away but yet to take another with him. Perhaps the savages would find the man sitting on his carriages inevitably, yet he could’ve kept his heart clean, he deserves death now as it is.
“La-Layton?” A bandit said, yet there was a tint of jitter in his tongue as he delivered the words.
Curious and fearful the merchant opened his eyes to wonder to where the bandits are still in staring towards. There a man Is seen walking forward, every bit as brigands in appearance as his compatriots. Yet, his figure is full of blood, the stride in his motion seems like a puppet sluggishly controlled.
A second came, then the one called Layton who stood jitterily before the bandit…
Suddenly sliced apart into dozen different pieces…
Each slice a clean cut with no room of a rugged edge…
All the different parts of his body fell down to the grass… blood spewing forth like a fountain.
“What the fuck…” One of the bandits said, they are all still with held breathe.
A form came from the shadows, a hue of blue slowly revealing itself with silver hair in tow. There is a blade on his hand, shaped so thin and shine with silver, and there is no blood to be seen on it. they could see his eyes glowing blue, a face no different and inflexible as before, stoic and stony as he spoke.
“Disperse… or be Mutilated.”
They watch him, the air seems to vibrate around him. They all look to each other for guidance, doubtful and uncertain as they merely fidget where they stood as the blade on their hands shivered as their eyes kept on the imposing azure figure. “What do we do?” One of them dared to asked.
They were all flabbergasted, but more so the merchant than the others. But even so he finds himself the sense to reach for what Is valued. He dives towards the chest, to put back all that belongs to his family, and tries to reach for the carriage. A bandit, seeing the effort of the merchant attempted to stab him in the back.
The shade of blue before them move only for a moment, some saw it, the rest missed it for they have blinked. And the very same bandit that intend to reach towards the merchant find himself missing an arm and a leg. He screamed in guttered horror and dread as he fell to the ground squirming as blood starts to pour.
“Scum…” The Silver-hair said. “I’ve warned you…”
Succumbing to terror and intrusive thoughts, a bandit spoke his turn. “His just one man!” With his declaration he charges, with all but one who cowards and quivered where he stood. He intends to swing his sword towards the shoulders, in which he would follow with a tackle. Using the numbers to overwhelm him on the ground.
But just as before… for a moment the silver hair turns into a haze for a blink…
And as before, corpses in pieces littered the grasses… So beautifully cut cleanly…
Now there is only one life left of the opposition, yet still the silver-haired lord unmoved from where he stood, standing imposingly with both hands on their respective sides with one holding a blade. He has his eyes closed looking down, seemingly disinterested on the despairing attempt.
“Prepared to escape?” He said in mocking, still with his eyes shut. “This is the wisest time for you to flee… So, Flee.”
It was unceremonious. With no words spoken the bandit leaves without the corpses of his compatriots, such is the life of a cutthroat. The merchant, coiling around on his chest, looked towards the fleeing coward, whimpering still heard even as his body disappeared onto the shadow. He looked towards his chest and find all the important treasures still in there as he gathered them all.
Relief washed over his body, to find none have gone missing as the bandits are preoccupied with his silver passenger, he manages to collect all of the valuables back to where it supposed to be. he closed the chest and he hugged it tightly, it is the worst of his nightmare if one day he found all the happiness his loved one deserve is to be cast away and gone simply because he is too weak to fight.
In awesome terror, he dared himself to turn towards the tiny field of death. The corpses are still there mangled neatly, even whatever left of their faces are only features of confusion and fear. Truly they did not even know the coming of their last moment, unknown to him if it is a blessing or otherwise… even so, for a man to so simply steal a man’s work like that, death is too good for them.
The confounding of it all however, is the detail that the silver-haired man is nowhere to be seen… So many questions came with fear of the answer that would come, should he dare to enquire of the man’s powers? Perhaps somethings are better kept in silence. All he should care about now is the notion that he is alive still.
He carried the chest back to the carriage, on his way as he struggles to stride towards it as he avoids the corpses. Perhaps carrying it downward to his camp was a mistake after all, mayhaps the chest should have stayed with the carriage in hindsight. The bonfire must’ve invited these cutthroats at night.
The darkness of the night is still embracing the lands, all he could see is the whiteness of the carriage’s roof. As he arrived and put the chest inward into it, he starts to notice the twining blood beneath, none of it fortunately spill to the carriage. Following it to the source, the merchant found another three corpses, massacred cleanly just so like their compatriots before.
The wheel is bloodied due to the pooling blood… but everything else is more than well…
He moves forward to inspect the horses, they are laying down sleeping with no care, regardless of the horrid scream from on of those bandits before. His wonders to the rider’s seat and thus came the dreaded figure of silver.
He still sits there… silently and unmoving, both hands on the pommel of his sword that is rested standing in front of him, his head looking down with eyes closed… And as before, it truly seems like he is not breathing. He struggled if he should leave him be or enquired if there is anything he could do for saving his life.
But the man seems to be in no state to be disturbed and risking to taunt powers beyond human comprehension is idiocy beyond common sense. There was not even one speck of stain on him, not in his azure blue coat or his leather suit within it, there are a sign of a cut but other than so there is nothing else. From all that mess he made, not one bit of it blemished him.
Naturally so, as he manages to kill the raiders even from afar with those unnatural powers…
He left the man as he is, and returned to his tent to lay his head to slumber until the morning came. Perhaps a rest would shed away the aching anxiety and insolent questions he had winding within his spirit.
---XxxxxX---
The chirp of a bird is but a tint of noise, yet loud enough to wake the merchant…
Not much can escape his hearing, even now sitting on the carriage he deemed to be less than elegant he can hear the quick pace of rummaging from afar. The merchant is swift in his endeavor to continue the journey it seems, he opened his eyes slightly to find that dawn raised slightly on the horizon.
“Milord?” The merchant spoke. “If there is nothing else…, should we continue the journey?”
With no interest to meet his stare, he answered simply. “Yes.”
“V-very well milord…” He felt the carriage move on the other side of the seat, and with a voice and a gesture, he hears the merchant commanded his horses to depart. And so, with the morning breeze they move forward, with the dawn’s light comes shining on the path. With their venture persisting forth, he looked to himself in scrutiny of all that has occurred.
For he knows of the means on his arrival on this world, it is to be accepted from all the acts he had done from his mother’s and father’s teaching and from what he learned of his path to power that this is no deception. The world around him is a true as his will and he senses no sign of trickery in all senses he had use.
As he recalls to the fall of the tower of Temen-ni-gru, it would seem the construct itself is also a gate to many worlds. He studied many clever crafts and theories on the repository of knowledge the tower itself pertains. From what he has read, the tower is a door way that seals the gateway to the demon world, none of it states to hold another path to another realm entirely.
Though mayhaps he judges to quickly, it could be he resides now in continent far from the place that is familiar to him yet still in the same human world. perhaps he has fallen to a gateway that leads to another path instead of the one he knew Dante has escaped from…
Then again, he is not one to coil away from the worldly news. It is of public knowledge that the human world where he lives for most of his life has been in a state of globalization. It is impossible for a two huge continent to be unknown, if what the merchant state is to be true. The only answer came that this is a new place entirely.
It is all so primitive in his sight, that is one other sign of the unfamiliar. In his ride he passes many villages and small towns, and he found their accommodation to be wanting. There are rural areas in the human world where he came from, but even then, they manage to hold privileges much sophisticated than what he is seeing. None of them even have a speck of electricity.
“Merchant…” The silver-haired man calls, the man beside him fidgets as he is summoned. “Tell me of the lord of this Casterly Rock… what powers does he hold…”
And the merchant ensues to tell all, or at the very least spoke as many as he could possibly recall. The Lannister of Casterly Rock, the warden of the west and the overlord of the Westerlands that has ruled for more than a thousand years. The overbearing lands they ruled and the unending gold mines they held. From what he hears it would seem they rule through cunning prowess rather than cold steel.
The same is said to most of the houses of these lands, he learns of the storm call Baratheons and the fertile reach of the Tyrells and so on… it is fascinating to him that there exists a world where name came with such prominence, perhaps he could find a sign of his father still in this world.
The legend speaks that once the demon world and the human world is of the same one, until a demon God decided to pierce them apart. In inference this world could be a fragment of the human world that is not pieced together to the world he came from, if so, perhaps there is much he could learn here. What sort of demons could be conjured in such a place he wondered.
“What sort of demonic beings exists in this world…” He asked the merchant. Bewildered by the query, the man looked to his silver-haired passenger in a worried stare with jittered eye balls.
“Demons… Milord?” The merchant dared to affirm; the silver-haired man simply stared at him. “I…What?”
Fascinating, is what the silver head thought. Yet mayhaps the bewildered look came from the unexpected choice of questions, so he further enquires. “Have these lands made interactions in any way with any kind of demonic presence?”
“What?” There was no intent to hide the signs of blasphemy from the merchant’s face. “No, Milord! But- I do not understand the question…”
“It is simple.” The silver-haired man said, his tone careful. “Have there been any demonic presence in these lands?”
“I-I don’t…”
“Do not test me.”
“N-No! Milord!” The merchant quickly answered. “The closest thing to evil we have encountered came from the hearts of man… like the bandits you felled.”
They spent the rest of the journey in silent after that, he watches with the pace of a journeyman going from one plain to another. Untouched by the sensibilities of darkness, the nature here is elegant with no presence of devilry. The sun rises evermore to the painted blue skies, the hate and power he held within him seem so out of place against the fauna that lives in peace around him.
“Milord…” The merchant spoke, yet his silver passenger does not deign to interest him, still he persists. “I know not the power you have… but you’ve saved me from those brigands, I have owed you much for sparing my life from them.” Once more the man looks away to watch nature running its course, birds flying and flailing gentle trees.
“Forgive me if I am insolent to you, milord. But if there is anything that I could aid in repaying, I would. Humble my efforts maybe.”
Still, his eyes do not wonder from the scenic view. The merchant simply relents from his attempt to be cordial, in heart a modest man, perhaps a lowly peasant turned merchant like him would merit no attention to such higher powers, but at least he tried to be open, low his station maybe.
Perhaps this one hail from Old Valyria. Men that came from such dark places would often in behest to dark and heavenly power both, as the saying goes the Valyrian are closer to gods more than man, for what he has witnessed that has been done to those brigands is nothing less than divine intervention.
They say the overlords of each kingdom came from blood of legends and gods, but less have he heard of the outrageous act similar to the silver-haired man have done. What the merchant has seen is nothing less than inhuman, what godsend and curse for him to encounter a sorcerer in his journey that happens to save him from the perils of raiders.
“Do you have a book with you?” the silver-haired speak.
“A book, Milord?”
“Any kind that speaks about the lands, about anything that would talk about this place.”
“O-oh, milord! I do have some of those books for sale! I have Fire and blood, the history of Targaryen kings by Archmaester Gyldayn and a copy of True History. Though not entailed the lands foremost they do speak of it in lengths!”
“How much for both…”
“Oh, milord… for what you have done you don’t have to-“
“How much for both…”
“Milord, I couldn’t possibly-“
“I won’t ask you a third time…”
Fear came from the warning, and he bowed before speaking. “Each of those book cost two silver moons, milord...” No use speaking to a lordly ire, he expected aloofness but not with this severity. He found the books not long and gave it to him straight away. A lord is a station and blood that comes with traits unnerving and peculiar he supposed. Still, he felt owed to the man that would go unpaid.
The silver-haired man revealed a pouch that is bloodied of recent times, a bounty taken from the brigand’s corpses before. “Here… how much is this.”
“Mi-Milord, you gave me two golden dragons.”
“Is it sufficient?”
“Milord! This is more than the books worth…”
“…”
“Milord?”
“…”
He is ignored once more… the silver-haired man simply fell to his act of reading the book, eyes still as narrow and focus unrelenting as it is as usual. The merchant speechless with the frequent acts of the eccentric kind, relents and continued to ride the carriages in his overawed thoughts.
Valyrians are truly a being of their own. The merchant reasoned to himself. It is a safe and certain allegation; how could such mystic be possible if it does not come from the old lands of dragons. He believed such works to be a myth, but what does he know… living as a simple merchant in an ordinary land where dragons once soared. The world is stranger than he thought.
He decides to keep silent as they made their journey.
---XxxxxX---
Here it stands on the cliff that bars the distance…
The Castle of Casterly rock, red and gold with the ray of the skies shining splendor against the vista that it rivalled before it. its peak threatens to pierce the skies, undermining the city below it with its shadow. The merchant would say in some days it would look like a lion in repose against the sunset, in the blue eyes of the silver-haired demon, it’s just a giant rock easily sliced if need be.
They entered through the gates of Lannisport, a short mile south of the Casterly castle itself. Numerous ships abound and rested on the shores and the nearest waters of its harbors, the sun casted them a shadow worth a thousand parchment and paintings. A soothing sight, may ease a solemn heart at times.
Said to be largest settlement in the Westerlands, and one of the largest and the most profitable port in Westeros. One of the most common knowledge the silver-haired man learned by book and hearsay from the merchant both. He closed the book he acquired and look upon the apparent grandiose that is beckoned, and find it to be wanting.
The architecture of castle Fortuna and its settlement is of a higher calling than what he is seeing, though he admits that it has a nature of comfort to it, but none of the higher calling from the standards of sophistication he expects to see. Naturally so, he recognizes that this realm is much more primitive in both heart and mind from what he learned thus far and from where he came from.
The guards that gave them entry have given him the oddest of all looks, some of them even bowed in his presence and passing. “What was that about?” He asked to the merchant, stone voice and stern.
“Pardon, milord?”
“These people… seem to be more than hospitable to me…”
“Ahh… well truth be told sir…” The merchant gulped as the words stuck in his throat. “You look all the figure of a Valyrian being to you sir, with all the lush garments… I’ve mistaken you for a flock of a royal court… are you not, milord?” The merchant quivered as he delivered the last query, dreading that he made himself into an impudent being.
The silver-haired man turns his eyes towards all those who bowed in his passing. “I am.” He answered. “But I don’t belong to these Targaryen’s.”
“I see, milord… forgive me for prying.”
They arrive to where the carriage may be held, as it stopped the merchant pray his gratitude to the blessings of the seven. In truth, the journey could have resulted in more cost than the scar on his cheek, he hoped for the times to come that the sale he would have made here would gave enough to feed and gave joy to his family.
He appreciates the life that he still has and the wealth he could bring to his family. But for now, he must give thanks to the most deserving of all. Yet as he walks towards the front of his carriage after he inspect his cargo…
The Silver-haired man is gone…
---XxxxxX---
“…No foods… No drinks… and the only babe just left…”
“…Preparations for the bash…”
“We’re supposed to be twins…”
“…I see the devil inside you have awakened as well…”
“We have all that we need…”
RESENTMENT
That is all he felt as he recalls to the last showdown he had with his brother, much has he sacrificed for the sake of power, he has all that he needs to reach upon the power of his father, yet in the end he has found to be inadequate. In the journey into this supercilious port of a lion’s banner, he has given much to retrospect of his failings.
Was I exhausted? Did I push myself too far?
Did I use it wrongly? Is my father’s sword have a way of its own?
Why won’t it listen to me? Why did it not give my father’s power?
What does Dante have? How did he grow to rival me?
Did I overreach? Should I have stayed by using Yamato?
All useless endeavor for it would only lead to uncertain answers, there is not much he can do in his current state other than rest and find a way to return to the human world he knows. He left the merchant unceremoniously; he has no part in his journey to come and he has better things to look forward to than wasting time parting ways to him.
First, he must learn all he can on where he has arrived to, knowing that he is in Lannisport in Casterly rock on the continent of Westeros is not enough. He senses much energy around him, a power surrounds the land, yet it is so weak he could barely reach it. the book stated this realm is filled with history of magics and powers, but he could feel it waning.
A much more eloquent repository of knowledge Is needed, and he won’t acquire it through the jitters of the merchant alone. Thus, he strides towards the center of the port. His mind coiling on the idea of choking the life of his brother for the audacious acts he has done, he admits that the fool wearing red has grown in power, but their last testing of steel only ends in a fluke.
He senses something in his hands, and he forgot that he is gripping the perfect amulet without end, only now he reminded that he has it. he may have felt the calling to war for his sibling, but the call for vengeance against his mother’s killer is a notion that he will never relent. He looks to himself as he recalls the true reason of that tower.
That’s right… Mundus… it’s your death I am after…
The spirit of motivation is summoned to him now… He needs more POWER
Learn all that needs to know of this world and then find a way to reach the demon world once more, and just perhaps along the way… he could find the means to grow stronger in kind. His father has defeated Mundus before, with his powers honed it should not be too difficult to surpass such achievement in due time.
He hears the laughter and a pack of words bantering within a construct, further inspections prove the place to be a tavern of sort, mayhaps a loud exchange of information could prove useful to move forward in this world, who knows… maybe this is a realm his father once walked upon as well.
Motivated… he strides onward.
---XxxxxX---
He ordered for a novel delicacy, though he has no need for an edible substance to stay his life, he still found nourishments still an enjoyable pursuit. He looked downward towards his food, a well-cooked steak the size of a thigh and a sweet mead to warm his belly. It is a pleasing pastime, though he rarely smiles the act still comfort him, regardless of how human it may be.
He learned much from his few hours of his stay within the tavern…
A few months before, there was a burning of a castle in the Dornish Marches. The residential castle of Summerhall, where the old line of Targaryen royalties would reside there for a time of respite for family. A tragedy has befallen it further in a speck of irony, as the fires also take most of the dragon’s blood to the afterlife.
The reaction of the news is a disparity of its own, some welcomed the grip of death to their monarch with a toast, though these flocks celebrate as subtle as to not show to the open eyes, though in the eyes and ears of a certain half-demon, none can escape his vigilance. The rest flake their heads down in mourning and chant the long lives of those that survived, praying that the royal court endure till the end of time.
Clearly the public opinion is quite dissenting, but one is more in disadvantage than the other… Such is the life of a monarchy.
In other news, the declaration of an invasion came from the east. An offshoot blood of the royal family that came from a bastard cause intending to take the throne. Same reception as the tragic news before, some rejoice the others prostrate to the trueborns in silence. They say the levy is in its preparation to be gathered, whilst in other places they already departing towards the fields of war.
For the silver-haired man, violence is a means with no notion of enjoyment to him, there was only some battles he fought in the past where a clash would have been a pleasurable activity, but it was a unique circumstance he doubts could be recreated here, especially as he is certain this unfledged world could match up even to the lowest of all demons.
Still… perhaps in time, the war would have some use to him. For the time being however, it is just a passing hearsay.
Though the most prominent news from the locals is of the cause of a celebration, for this day is the very first day to enter the year of 260 After Aegon Conquest. It would seem the delicate and festive decoration he saw scattering around the city is not a standard occasion after all. Must be a work of providence for him to arrive right on such times.
In celebration, the lord Tytos Lannister would begin the tourney of Lannisport. Where thousands have clamored to enter for the sake of fame and glory, a droll and predictable thing to chase after, but such is the mindset of a pleb, they have no heart of the higher grounds of power. Yet, still….
Twenty-thousand gold dragons as a reward would make for a suffice finance to aid his journey. From what he found of the cost of necessity from his search in this port, one gold dragon to a goodman seems too worth more than a years’ worth of pay. The host of this land must be a man worth the rumors of the Lannister saying to be true.
Though there are further reasons for the occasion, it is said that today would be the day the only daughter of the Casterly Lannister to be consummated in marriage by another house of the Riverlands. Genna Lannister Is her name, said to be shapely and as comely as the sunrise that always come.
Most laugh on the event, even by his own man and woman under him. Even now as he ate, more than many men is openly insulting his fat belly and the mockery of his daughter’s betrothal. Only some kept their tongues in, revealing pity instead for the fate that awaits the daughter of the toothless lion.
The house of Frey seems to be a rather repellant and loathsome family. He thought, not one word from the people here says any goodwill of them.
Yet a revolting sensation came from his belly as he ate, he is not one unfamiliar with ghastly undertakings. In the past he often travelled to places where privileges such as pleasant foods and water or even a place to rest that are seldom exist, power waits for no one as he journeys from one despicable place to another to attain it, even if he must eat a scab of rats and cold carcasses in order to heal his wounds through such nourishments.
But to openly celebrate the bedding of your own daughter? That is the one of the most despicable acts of all, utterly unthinkable even by savage standards. He almost lost his appetite just so from that.
Acquiring enough from hearsay and finishing his food, he stands to depart from such profane place. It would seem the tavern is also a place where open debauchery is not only allowed but also applauded, even in Red Grave City such happenings would be undermined if done in public. The unhinged nature of the locale disgusts him.
He has to threaten and avoid more than few fairer sexes that plans to seduce him into a private room on his way out, every bit of his discipline is tested as his sword hand ache for bloody murder for daring to demand depravity from him. He recalled choking one man away for daring to stand in his way. He won’t wake up anytime soon.
He learns that the only sources of knowledge here is from the motherhouse and the septry on the center of the port, and the last and most complete collection lies within the library within the Castle of Casterly Rock where the lord of this land sleeps.
He moves to the nearest one first…
---XxxxxX---
She cannot sleep…
She has been taught many things in life, as a Lannister even the deepest of all education from etiquette to logistic has been bestowed upon her relentlessly the second she is capable to read a sentence. By the time she reaches the age of ten, she has been handling many tasks of both lord and ladyship to make the best of her potential.
Her mother, lady Jeyne of Marbrand. The seven bless her soul, even in the edge of her death, the only thing she thought about is her future. With aching body and eyes closed she would ask the questions on what she has done, what she hasn’t done and how she should’ve or would’ve done it. nothing less but the best for her daughter, the greatest of her image.
Even now with an aching heart, she handles the arrangements of the festivities. As the new year comes when her father exhaust himself to his whores as they delve and toyed with her mothers’ jewelries, she sweats to ensure the Lannister name is kept in high as the castle peak. Even now she can still hear their laughter on the lord’s chamber. To say she is seething is a gross underestimation.
Without the help of Maester Creylen, she would’ve fainted over the outrageous load in itself, for this is a job for ten men yet there are only two of them. Her face so blessed with fairness is marred with a detestable frown, in times where a maiden would be jolly to find herself honored and favored by their knights, she instead would be paraded like a whore.
She walked towards the window where the people scatter like ants beneath the shadows of her father’s castle, The scented candles she had in her room kept her from going insane and daze for the utmost disrespect the coming days would bring her. No one could save her now, so deplorable her situation is.
To find herself managing a tourney where everyone would celebrate the notion of her bedding someone who she holds no love towards. Emmon Frey is a kind man yet also a meek one, she dreamt of a gallant soul but acquired a mud instead. She cast no blame to him, in honesty he also held no interest on the marriage if not for the encouragement of his father and brothers.
She met him once in a while, sometimes when she finds respite, she would find him helping her chores and duties, his face faltered and full of guilt, truly a kind man but not the one she wanted. Yet in other cases she would find his brothers scattered as well, staring with craving lust towards her. They think she did not know their plan on this tourney, they are mistaken.
And yet his father so loving yet also so full of idiocy, to be so easily convince that the gala of the bedding is to be an act of honor by the Frey’s. Sometimes she would pray that the man would choke on his food and die, but with this disgrace she wishes him death by burning. It is a cursed thought, she truly does love him, but she had hoped at least he would grow claws where he lacks in fangs.
She could still hear it… the laughter of the people. She swore that more than half of those came to mock her family. Yet what else can she do now, she could have ordered the guards to seize them, to rip their tongue away. But in the days where it is expected to be joy, it would only bring more stain to the family name as it is…
Tywin is not here to protect her now… Tall and full of pride, just as a lion should. One often spoke that perhaps a real lion has mated with their mother to have him. A blasphemous declaration, but she finds the humor in it, it adds to his name. Ever so stoic and powerful Tywin… the eldest. Who everyone feared, and the brother she truly cares and love.
Kevan, Gentle with honor and duty, always taking the fall for any mistake she has made. The lion is only as strong as their loyalty… perhaps he manifested that aspect the most. Everyone knows his name come with discipline, perhaps even more so than Tywin. Truth to her, their both are as self-assured and meticulous as the other, one more daring than most.
Tygett, the fighter of the family. Smiled calmly and strike boldly for every word of mockery that came to her way. A real warrior, and playful mostly to her. justly kind but with a touch of courage, very unlike their father’s. With a sword hand that dares to slice for every direct insult he hears.
All those claws and fangs are lost to her…
All of them depart to attend the war against the Blackfyres…
And here she is alone against the tide of her father’s waning influence…
She will not sleep this day… she will instead overwatch the waning sunlight of the Lannisport, as the sun slowly sets on the edge of the sea. And slowly the lamp and candles that decorated every line of rope from each house to the next lit up, like stars they came to light. It is such a beautiful vista, yellow rays and shades that colored the port like blooming flowers.
Yet for every sight of splendor she sees, she can still hear the laughter. It is truly a cursed existence, to find such a deed of joy to be stained with mistrust because of her father’s act. When she hears it so, she can only remember the mockery as she recalled her lord-father agreed to the betrothal with the Frey’s. her eyes watered but no tears escape, she needs to find strength where no hope remains.
But often came Gerion’s voice from afar, chuckling and so often light in heart. Most likely he is in bed right now, playing with his knight toys and swords as she handles all the lordly works. A small boy, a merry boy, she’ll make sure he is as far away from the ridicule as she can.
Perhaps, a book to read would take away the pain ever-so-slightly…
She departs to the castle’s library…
Only to find herself in a greater predicament then she was before…
---XxxxxX---
“What in the seven hells is this!?” Genna yelled in demand. Though she rarely partakes in the arts of war, the very sounds battle could make is unfamiliar to her. She jogs towards the clamoring sound; the noises of scream and grunted pain littered the air of the castle. She did not even realize that the source came from the destination she seeks to be at.
The door of the library is wide open, before it are ailing arms-man of the house. Dozens of guards littered the floor and stairs, with blood pooling in some of them. Barely have the strength to stand, some of them are missing a limb, yet in fortunate ways all of them are still alive. She approaches the nearest one whose body is battered and bruised, most afar from death as he is.
“Awake, goodman.” Genna said. “Who did this to you?”
“Milady…” The guard spoke, voice strained as his bruising chest made him struggled to breathe. “A man went in… inside the library… A trespasser… he did not speak… we move to apprehend him but… he is... not human.”
Genna in her bafflement, wondered what kind of creature would do so much damage. No man could do such a thing alone, he assumed the guard is in a state of stupor. Her mind wandered to all the likelihoods on this incidence, to find the answer on what could’ve caused such hellbent actions.
Perhaps the Reyne sent a message for their discourse of the betrothal…
The Tarbeck sending a drunk to lay waste to a castle… but no man can do this much damage, much less a drunk one…
Collecting her bravado, she intends to enter the library.
“NO!” The guard spoke, a cough of blood spewed from his mouth. “Milady… you must flee…”
Even in the depths of twilight of her family honor, she is heartened on the notion that there are more than some who notices her presence and actions. The whole Westeros may be blind to her attempts to restore the family name, but those close to her banner’s knows her effort. “Stay and rest…” Genna said. “The Maester is suppose to be in the library… I will make sure he’ll return to aid all of you.”
“Milady… Don’t! don’t…” A word goes unheeded, as the lady gracefully entered the conflicted chamber of books.
She found the view no less depressing than before, remains of an arm or a leg scattered the floors. Still there are no corpses, only pained and disgruntled men. She might not have an eye of a warlord, but she is far from squeamish. She notices the way all the guards have been wounded.
None of them are jagged… none of them are bleeding profusely…
They are in pain, but none of them are in danger to be taken to the sevens grace. It was an impeccable sight, to say that the cut is clean is a lesser renown than it deserved. A lost of a limb would usually ends with a pool of blood followed by death, but whoever has done the sword work gave them the greatest pain that strays away from death.
She would think it is impossible to maim a man’s body like that without ending it with an embrace of death… here she stands corrected.
She moves forward moving from one line of books to the other, the library being bigger than the granary of Lannisport often is a humorous fact to her. On her journey to find the trespasser she saw even more fainted guards and even terrified servants that are coiling in one corner or the other, hiding from the terror.
“Flee and take your leave… hurry.” Genna whispered, assuring her subordinates. “Go!”
As their steps fade away from her, she found a light source not far from where she stands. She recognized where it came from, the section of all arcane and magic. Tywin often shakes his head over the presence of such a segment in such an illustrious house. He is not one to delve in the realm of the mystic and illogicalities.
As she arrives, the color of blue is the first sight she engrossed, next is the silver color of his hair. There she found her intruder’s back turned to her. Beside him is Maester Creylen, noticing her with eyes wide with fear shivering where he stood. The man silver of hair, seems to become aware of another presence in the room.
He turns towards her, and Genna is captivated by every feature of his face. Blue eyes and white hair that shines by the moon’s light, his azure coat cut in some ways but still retains it regal with a strong leather blackened suit within it. he recognized that look well. Stoic, calm, collected and full of judgement.
She thought only Tywin has that face…
Yet her anger of the impudence remains, regardless of the other otherworldly presence. “Who are you!?” She demanded. “I am the lady of this house! and you have maimed my man!”
The silver-haired man tilted his head slightly, unknown is it in mocking or interest. “You are Jeyne Marbrand?” he enquired.
The insolence of his words did not escape her. “I am Genna Lannister, you will speak with respect! … and you are intruding on my father’s castle!” she roared, no hint of fear on her voice. “Tell me who you are!?”
His face inflexible, staring at her with crushing force, she felt stupefied… like a giant hammer bashing her mind. The man decides to answer after a brief moment of silence.
“Vergil… of house Sparda…” He spoke. “Does any of those words mean anything to you?”