Chapter XV: Scale

Rhogar was probably going to die.

I leaned back in the creaking chair, eyes fixed on his pale, motionless form sprawled across my bed. Despite the fear I'd instilled in the maester—he'd practically tripped over his own robes in his haste to obey—it didn't change the reality staring me in the face. The writing was on the wall, clear as day.

I sighed, letting my gaze wander over to Rhogar's face. His breathing was shallow and uneven, each rise and fall of his chest so slight that for agonizing moments, it seemed he'd stopped altogether. The room was heavy with the scent of decay, a cloying odor that clung to everything, seeping into the very stones. It was as if Death had already settled in, waiting patiently by his side.

The smell was... nostalgic, in a twisted sort of way. It reminded me of things I'd rather forget—images flickering at the edges of my mind like ghosts. A blurred figure of a woman, her smile just out of reach. The touch of her hand, the warmth that used to be there. The memory of an open casket, lavender and sunflowers failing to mask the stench of what was underneath. The scent of something that had lost the fight but hadn't yet accepted defeat.

Then another face surfaced—clearer but still missing pieces. A grandfather, proud and strong, reduced to a fragile frame on a hospital bed. Eyes that once shone like amber now dull, clouded. That same damned smell hanging in the sterile air, mixed with the beeping of monitors. Words echoing in the silence:

“I'll make you proud, Grandpa.”

A final memory forced its way in—white and beige walls, the stiffness of hospital sheets beneath me. The incessant ring of a heart monitor. The smell wasn't external this time; it was inside me, gnawing away. Pain radiating through every nerve, each breath a struggle. And a last thought before everything faded:

“I'm sorry, Grandpa.”

"You're probably going to die, you know," I said softly, breaking the oppressive silence. "The maester, even with how much I scare him, didn't even try to lie. You're cooked, bro."

No response, of course. Just the faint sound of his labored breathing and the distant crash of waves against Driftmark's cliffs.

I let out a deep sigh, running a hand through my hair—silver strands slipping between my fingers. "You always have to make things harder than they need to be, don't you?" A wry smile tugged at my lips. "Always with the Monterys, do this, Monterys, do that, Family is important, Monterys, Have you eaten? Are you okay?' Do you need help? This is for you, Monterys, you must blah, blah, and fucking blah!"

Without realizing it, my grip on my hair tightened, knuckles turning white.

"And now, you're being more than just annoying and boring—you're being a real pain in the ass. I just wanted to take a nap, you know? A long, comfortable one. Wanted to relax and forget all your stupidities, and everyone else's in this godforsaken world. But nooo, of course not. The last two days have just decided to become 'Let's make sure Monterys won't have any more lazy days' kind of days."

I noticed he was shivering, slight tremors running through his body. With another sigh, I pushed myself up from the chair. Extending my left hand toward the wardrobe, a subtle pulse of gravity sent the doors swinging open. Another flick, and a thick, snow-white blanket flew into my grasp. All without breaking stride as I approached the bed.

I glanced at the blanket and clicked my tongue. "This is my favorite one," I murmured. It was made from the fur of white peacocks and some local creature that was basically a purple-eyed, silver-furred lemur. Sleeping with it felt like drifting on a cloud.

Looking down at Rhogar, I muttered, "Not like you need it, right? You're probably gonna bite it anyway." His gaunt face offered no reply. I sighed again, laying the blanket gently over him.

"First you take my bed," I grumbled under my breath, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. "Then you stink up my room with your death smell, which is definitely gonna make it weird and less comfortable to sleep in here. I'll probably have to ask for another room."

Straightening up, I pushed my shoulder-length hair back from my face. "You're truly annoying, you know that? If you'd just stayed in High Tide like the rest of our oh-so-wonderful siblings and cousins, you wouldn't have almost become fish food. Wouldn't be on the verge of reuniting with dear old Dad." The last part dripped with sarcasm.

"What were you even doing in Hull? Probably something stupid like pride or honor or chivalry. Or maybe one of those other pointless things you always yapped about that I never cared to listen to. That's the kind of nonsense that would've made you lose your tongue in the original story, like the other idiots in our house. Maybe I shouldn't have saved you from that fate. Maybe if I'd just let things play out, you'd have been too humiliated or in too much pain to venture out and get yourself killed."

I fixed my gaze on his unconscious face. "Are you happy now? Proud of yourself? You're going to die! Congrats, you deserve a freaking gold star. You're going to die, and it's all your fault."

‘Liar,’ a voice whispered at the back of my mind.

"And guess what? I won't care. I'll probably be sleeping during your funeral, just like I did with Uncle Vaemond's. Might even forget you quickly, like everyone else will. 'Oh, Rhogar Velaryon died? That's sad, that's unfortunate.' That's what they'll say before moving on. That's always how it is."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed faint arcs of purple energy shimmering in the air, slowly weaving patterns that faded as quickly as they appeared.

"You'll be dead, forgotten, and it's all your fault," I said, my voice softer now.

‘Liar,’ the voice insisted.

"You'll be dead, forgotten," I repeated, but the words caught in my throat. ‘And it's my fault,’ I admitted internally.

"Never told you, but I've got the powers of a demigod." A bitter laugh escaped me. "Ironically, can't do crap with them to make everything less annoying—or to heal you. They're cool, I guess, but so far they've only brought trouble."

I knew the maester wouldn't save him. Even in my first life, with modern medicine, his chances would've been slim. Here? In this medieval mess? Practically nonexistent. A part of me wanted to just let things be. Let him die. After all, he was just a character, ink and paper given form in this second world I'd stumbled into.

But the thought left a bad taste in my mouth. The idea that, indirectly, I'd be the cause of his death. That my actions—intentional or not—had led to this. It wasn't a death I'd orchestrated, not on purpose anyway. And that made it worse somehow.

I glanced back at Rhogar. The maester's medieval methods wouldn't save him; we both knew that. But there was one thing in this world—this world of dragons and magic—that might.

Magic. Real magic. The kind that could bring people back, that could heal wounds beyond the reach of any maester's poultice.

"Maybe there's a way," I mused aloud, the idea taking shape even as I spoke. "But it's probably more trouble than it's worth."

I rubbed my temples, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in. "Why do you have to make everything so complicated?" I asked, not expecting an answer.

The room remained silent, the only sounds the distant waves and his uneven breathing.

"You're such a pain," I muttered, sinking back into the chair. "All I wanted was a nap. Is that too much to ask?"

I closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of the sea fill the void. Memories of another life drifted in and out—a life where things were simpler, or at least made more sense.

"Fine," I whispered finally, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling. "Guess we're doing this."

The decision settled over me like a heavy cloak, uncomfortable but necessary. I'd delve into the unknown, poke at forces that were better left alone. All to save someone who'd probably lecture me about honor and duty the moment he woke up.

"You're welcome in advance," I said dryly.

I stood up, casting one last glance at Rhogar. His face was still pale, but for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of movement behind his eyelids. Probably my imagination.

"Not that I truly care but just hang on, okay? Don't make this harder than it already is. You're already troublesome enough, making me skip a dearly wanted and deserved nap. It would be more than annoying if I skipped one, let you touch my blanket, let you stink my room only for all of this to be for nothing.”

With that, I headed toward the door, the faint purple glow of my powers illuminating the path ahead.

‘Magic it is, then.’

*scene*

The red priest sat in the stillness of his chamber, his fingers brushing the polished edge of the brazier before him. The flames within danced, their hues shifting from gold to orange, then crimson, casting strange shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with incense—cinnamon, myrrh, and something darker, something unnameable. His face, lined and weathered, bore the marks of countless years, years that most mortals could never dream of enduring. He had lived far too long, long enough to forget the faces of his parents, long enough to remember the fall of Valyria as if it were yesterday.

He closed his eyes, the visions of that day flooding his mind unbidden. Smoke rising to blot out the sun, dragons screaming as mountains of flame consumed them. He had been young then, little more than a boy, too young to grasp the magnitude of what was happening, but old enough to fend for himself after the calamity claimed his family. Starvation had been a near-certainty; he was nothing, a frail shadow of a child wandering through ash and ruin.

Until He came.

The Lord of Light, R’hllor, the god of flame and shadow, the god of the sun and the stars, had revealed Himself. Not in words, not in visions—at least, not at first. No, the revelation had been in the warmth of a fire lit on a night so cold he should have perished. It had been in the bread offered by a stranger who claimed to have dreamed of the boy. It had been in the unshakable certainty that something greater had noticed him, had seen him, and had deemed him worthy.

The priest’s lips moved silently, murmuring a prayer. “Blessed is your fire, O R’hllor. Blessed are the gifts you bestow upon your chosen.”

He had been one of the blessed, after all. Guided by the whispers in the flames, by the dreams that painted his path in fiery hues. Riches had come to him—not sought but given, flowing like rivers into the coffers of R’hllor’s faithful. And he had used them as he was commanded: not for his own pleasure, but to spread the light. He had built temples, places of worship that soared toward the heavens like hands reaching for the sun. He had healed the sick with gifts granted by the Lord, turned the hearts of skeptics, and showed the faithless the light. Always, his god’s kindness had ensured that those who followed Him would never want for anything.

“Let yourself be bathed in the holy fire,” he had preached to countless crowds. “Let your sight be illuminated by His light, and all will be well.”

And all had been well. The faithful thrived. Wealth followed them as shadows followed the flame. They asked for little, and yet R’hllor provided much. He gave His followers power over flame, sight beyond falsehoods, the ability to alter their appearances, and even the binding of shadows. And above all, He gave them glimpses into what had been, what was, and what was to come.

Until fifteen years ago.

The priest’s brow furrowed as he recalled the first time he had stared into the flames and seen nothing. No visions, no guidance—only a void where the future had once been written. The fires had not been silent, though. No, they had spoken, but only in riddles, in fragments that made no sense. A single word whispered again and again: Starscourge. And a symbol, pulsing with power, one that reminded him of an incomplete rune, a word unfinished.

He had not been the only one. All across the temples of R’hllor, the faithful had seen the same. The fires were united in their silence, save for that single word and that strange sigil. It had been maddening, trying to decipher their meaning. For years, they had debated, the priest and his brethren, each interpretation more desperate than the last.

It was as if a great stone had been cast into the pond of fate, disrupting the current, breaking the natural flow of what should be. And all of it seemed to lead back to Westeros, to the distant land that had always been a place of shadows and chaos, where the Great Other’s influence lingered.

For fifteen years, the fires had given them no answers, only questions. Until yesterday.

The priest’s heart quickened at the memory. It had begun as any other prayer, a simple offering before the brazier. But the flames had roared to life, brighter and hotter than he had seen in decades. The fire itself had seemed to speak, not in words but in images that seared themselves into his mind.

A boy. No looking older than fourteen, his silver hair shimmering like molten moonlight, his purple eyes aglow with Valyrian fire. The boy stood tall, a giant shadow looming behind him, humanoid but otherworldly, radiating power. Arcs of purple light flickered around the boy’s form, a storm of magic that seemed to hum even in the vision. He stood before a temple, a temple of R’hllor, and for the first time in years, the flames spoke.

Starscourge

The word reverberated through the vision, through the very fabric of his being. It had been brief, mere moments, but it had left an indelible mark on every follower of the Lord of Light who had seen it. Even the untrained, those who had never learned to read the flames, had seen it. The boy. The shadow. The light.

For hours afterward, the leaders of the faith had gathered to interpret the vision. Some claimed the boy was Azor Ahai reborn, the promised savior who would wield Lightbringer and vanquish the darkness. Others believed he was a harbinger of the end times, the herald of a great and terrible reckoning. But on one point, they were united: the boy would come. He would stand before them, and they must be ready to guide him in the ways of their Lord.

The priest exhaled slowly, his breath mingling with the smoke that rose from the brazier. He did not pretend to understand the full plan of his god; such knowledge was not his to claim. But he trusted in the wisdom of R’hllor, in the divine light that had saved him so many years ago. His god had never led him astray, and he would not falter now.

“Starscourge,” he whispered, the word a prayer and a promise. Whatever was to come, whatever role the boy would play, the priest would ensure he was prepared. He would wait, as the flames had commanded, and he would act when the time was right.

For the Lord of Light was never wrong. His plans, though shrouded in flame and shadow, were always for the good of the world. And the priest, blessed and chosen as he was, would do whatever was necessary to see those plans fulfilled.

Even if he did not yet understand.