Chapter 22: Cremation

I may have given an ultimatum to the slaving cities of Essos—a pause that some might call a reprieve. It was a window, a fleeting breath where they could choose compliance or defiance. But as days unfurled, that pause felt like the quiet before a storm, stretched thin and taut. I knew this time was not idle for those who suffered, for those who were bound, for those whose chains bit into their flesh with each passing hour. Waiting for responses didn’t mean sitting still; to do so would be naïve and cruel. Suffering was relentless, unfaltering, and so too, I could not rest.

I wouldn’t let my aversion to shedding blood be the cause of more undoing, of suffering I could have easily stopped because in truth, wasn’t I as responsible as the sinner if I could end the sin but didn’t?

This was where Nemesis came into play, the tree that reached beyond the heavens, that I had made to stand vigilant above Astapor. It could technically be said that it was Yggdrasil reborn, due to the fact that its branches and roots had dug and were still growing whether It was in the physical or metaphysical plane, in the Earth, in the sky, beyond, the tree molded with my blood, my will, and with the purpose of ensuring that what happened with the good masters could never again.

It could be said to be a replica of a concept yet so much more. All mages or wizards worthy of the name had Foci, tools like wands, staffs, swords, other things that helped them be more efficient, better, stronger, and more focused when casting.

Nemesis due to how I had created with my blood and essence was more than a complimentary conduit for a new power that had slowly revealed itself to me—a power that was mostly from the domain, the matters of the divine, one I for now scarcely comprehended but I knew that if would change, that it was already changing with each second that passed due to my Archamage’s essence.

It was Faith.

Not just belief in stories or traditions, but the kind of faith that lit fires in the souls of men, that turned whispers into roars. The kind that, when wielded properly, became tangible as steel, faith as quantifiable, as tangible as fire or ice.

The battle against the Great Stallion had been proof enough. The golden fire, the spectral wings, the surge of might—it all came not solely from the Archmage essence humming in my veins, but from the worship, the trust, the hope that tethered itself to me, the belief that people in this world, directly or indirectly had in me, in what I represented. It was their belief made manifest. It was not merely symbolic; it had a weight, a pulse, a reality that felt as true as the breath in my lungs.

Of course, I would have won that fight without it, but the faith had eased the battle, turning it from what could have been a struggle to a display. With the Archmage essence, I stood as a pinnacle—a mage among mages, a being to which others were as ants yet this... this faith... was another thread in the loom, one that gods in most if not all universe, that surely in my current universe at least depended of, were affected by and my essence? It had parsed and absorbed this.

It had whispered some of its secrets to me.

The realization had settled like a seed, taking root in my mind. It had given me ideas. Faith could be wielded, not just harnessed.

Due to my essence, I knew that with time, if I wanted, I could craft it, shape it into something gods themselves would envy—a self-sustaining force, fed by its own paradox but it is probably something I wouldn’t.

The thought of godhood repulsed me. Gods were entities that saw themselves as superior, demanded obeisance and tribute. They stood on high thrones and deemed themselves untouchable, unchangeable, above the sufferings of mortals. The great Stallion and probably most gods if not all of this world were like slavers, no, they were worse and I would be damned before I become one.

I had known too many who claimed superiority. They were the ones who shackled the innocent, who fed on the fear and helplessness of the downtrodden.

No. Whatever form this power took, I would not let it elevate me to a god. I would stay as I was, bound to humanity, because there was nothing more divine than humanity's hope, its defiance in the face of adversity. The gods could keep their altars. My altar would be built on the shattered chains of slaves, on the eyes that saw freedom for the first time, on people being able to live without fear of death and cruelty. I wanted to create a world where the worst worry of a child would be that they would eat a meal made by their parents that they didn't like instead of worrying if they would be tortured, killed or worse.

It didn't mean that I couldn’t use this faith for good, that I couldn’t make miracles with it. A miracle was often spoken of as divine grace, an interruption in the natural order that bent the laws of reality. But I saw miracles differently. I think that they could be different.

They weren’t gifts from above; miracles I mean, the true ones at least. True miracles, they were In my opinion the crystallization of human determination, the testament of a willpower that refused to yield before the world, it was man doing the impossible with only his own effort and hope.

That was what the new spell I had created, one a mix of magic and faith, Defiant embodied. I had crafted it using Nemesis as the center, a colossal heart that channeled both faith and magic. I called it such because, in a way, it was supposed to be a spell that symbolically at least reached the skies and defied them, drawing on the prayers of the oppressed and giving back not just hope, but strength.

Defiant worked in one, singular way: it took the prayers of those who believed, who dared to hope despite their chains, and gave it back as empowerment. It strengthened them, sharpened their minds, gave resilience to their bodies, and luck that seemed as if fate itself had turned in their favor. It altered the very dynamic of belief, flipping the roles so that the worshippers were not just recipients of divine favour but catalysts of their own liberation.

To be frank, I didn't believe in gods, in any deity. It had been the case before my first death too but it still didn't mean I was completely bereft of Faith because the truth was that I had and still did believe in humanity, in its capacity of doing great evil and greater good.

A wry smile touched my lips at the thought of the potential behind this. The faithful in this world were usually told that they were at the mercy of their gods. But what if faith could be weaponized in reverse? What if for once, humanity didn't pray to gods but to herself?

Now that I thought about it, there was a kernel of an idea that Defiant, with the right adjustments, could become a bane for any god who crossed paths with me. Not that I intended to wage war on deities, you never knew. It's not as if after all I had expected to battle against a literal god weeks ago. I could by tweaking the spell possibly divest a deity from the faith given to them and with faith, with acts of worship being so primordial to gods, it may not be a sure-win spell but it surely would help a lot.

Anyways, the changes brought by Defiant were subtle now, but they were happening. Slaves across Essos, from the grim streets of Volantis to the choking pits of Meereen, were finding themselves able to endure longer, think clearer, push harder. Their souls whispered my name, even if they had never seen my face. They didn't even need to believe in me directly. They just had to pray, to wish, to believe in the idea of their chains being cast away, of wanting to be free and It would allow me to whisper back without words, telling them that they were not forgotten, that they were part of a greater defiance. In their belief, they found strength; in my belief in them, they found the power that should have always been theirs was rightfully given.

The slavers of this world did not know they were already losing. Those who each day tightened their whips, who chained themselves to their own downfall, who would not, could not understand that it was better for their sake to stop their cruelty. A tide was coming, one they would not see until it had swallowed their fortresses whole.

Sooner or later, the Ultimatum I gave them would end and I would raise my army once again, one stronger. When my army would match, when I would march to bathe the Earth with the blood of slavers without remorse, it would not be alone. It would be with the silent army of hope behind enemy lines, in every shadowed corner and forgotten cell. When I would fight them, it would be with the ones they mistreated, the enslaved stabbing and attacking them from behind.

Of course, my work was not limited to this miracle alone. There were other projects, other quiet schemes seeded in whispers and dreams.

Also, the training of My soldiers, the men and women who had bled and died for this cause, was going more than well. They were more than warriors.

I felt a smile bloom on my face at the thought. I still remember the fight between Ayelek and one of my colonels in the arena. The woman had wanted me to notice her, to look at her, to see how strong she had become, how she would stop at nothing to make sure my dreams came true.

It had been two days since the fight. If getting my attention had been what she wanted, she did because I don’t think I would ever forget her beautiful display.

I hadn’t been able to talk with her personally after the fight except by telling her she did a good job due to having to deal with other stuff but the smile and the blush on her face as I did was cute as F. She kinda had reminded me of a overgrown cuddly lion, the kind that makes you think if not friend, why friend shaped?

Anyway, what others and her had shown me, made me believe that even if the worst happened, that even if something happened to me, they would continue to fight for a world where everyone is free. Something that they would not let whatever the world threw at them stop them from doing.

The slaver cities could use their respite however they wished. They could prepare for war if they were foolish and cruel enough, they could plot and scheme. I would allow them their illusions. Because the truth was simple: they had already lost the moment they underestimated the quiet, stubborn flame of human hope, the moment they just like most in this universe had forgotten, evil never prevailed in the end, it may last for months, years, decades, millenniums but sooner or later, it would always be broken. They had not realized that chains forged by power could be shattered by something they did not even respect—faith.

When the time will come, when the sound of my name reached the echo of every dark corner where they whispered their fears, they would if they didn't know all already, to this day that this world was changing. The old order would tremble, and the ground would shake not because of gods, but because of men who remembered what it was to stand tall.

*scene*

Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish, stood on the balcony of Riverrun, gazing out at the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. The rivers below gleamed like molten silver beneath the fading sun, casting long shadows over the castle’s towers. The air was still, but the tension in the hallways was palpable—like a bowstring pulled tight.

A raven had come days ago, one morning, its black wings heralding darker news: Robert Baratheon due to having caught Queen Cersei Lannister in a compromising position with her brother, Jaime had set an execution date for the crimes of adultery and incest.

Gossip may be something he found distasteful but he couldn’t lie and say that he hadn’t heard the whispers that were spreading across the realm, carried by the winds faster than any bird. In the great halls and quiet corners alike, men and women murmured of betrayal, incest, and war. Brynden had known Robert for years—since the rebellion that had unseated the Targaryens—and he knew the man’s temper well. Fire would follow this scandal. But where would the flames first fall?

"Uncle."

The Blackfish turned to see Edmure, his nephew, standing behind him. The Lord of Riverrun, young and brimming with unease, wore a troubled expression that matched the mood of the day.

"Word spreads faster than crows," Brynden said, not moving from his place. "You’ve heard?"

Edmure nodded, stepping forward to join him at the edge of the balcony. "Father will want us to act. The realm is... I can not see anything other than it breaking apart at the seams. Robert will want heads—Lannister heads. We all know how proud the lord of the West is and how cruel he can be. If War happens, our people, the Riverlands will be the first to suffer."

Edmuee even though he hated the idea knew that his nephew was more than right. It has always been the case in the history of Westeros of their lands taking the brunt of the worst atrocities in times of war.

More than that, The Tullys had always been more than loyal to the Baratheon dynasty. They had fought in the name of family and duty and honour. They had lost many in the Robert’s rebellion yet Tywin who had done nothing, who had stayed on the side until the end where a winner was all but confirmed was recompensed greatly, even more than them.

"And yet," Brynden mused, "acting too soon would be folly. The realm is brittle. One wrong move, and it shatters."

Edmure clenched his fists, the tendons in his forearms taut. "What do you suggest, then? Sit and wait? Let Robert rage while the Lannisters consolidate their power? They have the gold, they have the men—"

"They don’t have the rivers," Brynden interrupted. "And they won’t, if we’re smart about it."

Edmure opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of footsteps behind them silenced him. Maester Vyman appeared, his gray robes swishing softly as he approached. His face was as weathered as the stone walls of Riverrun, and his eyes held the weight of more news.

"My lords," Vyman said, bowing his head slightly. "Another raven, this time from King’s Landing."

Brynden's sharp eyes met the maester’s, and he motioned for him to continue. The Blackfish had little patience for long preambles.

"The king also demands the allegiance of his bannermen. He expects your swords, Lord Edmure."

The tension that had simmered in the air now tightened into a noose. Brynden could see Edmure’s mind working—his nephew was no fool, but he was young, and young men were prone to rash decisions.

"Robert wants war," Brynden said, his voice low. "And if we give him what he wants, the rivers will run red before summer’s end."

Edmure glanced sharply at his uncle. "You think we should stand aside? Watch the Lannisters take over the realm while Robert destroys everything in his fury?"

"I think," Brynden said, turning to face his nephew fully now, "that wars are won not just with swords, but with patience. And cunning. Tywin Lannister isn’t like Robert. He won’t act out of anger—he’ll wait, watch, and strike when it suits him. We should do the same."

The young lord of Riverrun seemed torn, his loyalty to Robert battling with the wisdom in Brynden’s words. "But if we wait too long, won’t that make us look weak? Like cowards?"

Brynden's lips twitched into a rare, sardonic smile. "Cowardice is hiding behind your walls when the enemy’s at your gate. Caution is knowing when to let the enemy come to you."

Edmure fell silent, his brow furrowed as he weighed the advice. The maester stood quietly, his hands folded in front of him, waiting for a decision.

Finally, Edmure spoke. "We’ll prepare. Gather the men, fortify our defences. But no declarations of war. Not yet."

Brynden nodded approvingly. "Good. Don’t forget that family and duty, the words of our house come before honour. What should always be your priority is your family, the Riverlands and anything else after those two. When the time comes, Riverrun will be ready. And we’ll choose our moment wisely."

*scene*

Jory Hill stood alone before the fresh mounds of earth that marked his family's graves. The cold wind of the North whispered through the barren trees, carrying with it the scent of damp soil and the faintest hint of snow. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, a futile attempt to anchor himself against the storm of grief and rage swirling within.

"Father, Mother, little Lyra," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. "I swear to you, this won't be in vain."

Their faces flickered in his mind—his father's weary smile after a day's toil, his mother's gentle touch as she mended clothes by the hearth, Lyra's laughter as she chased butterflies in the meadow. All snuffed out like candles in a cruel gust. The memory of their lifeless bodies, discarded like refuse by Ramsay Snow's men, seared itself into his soul.

Ramsay Snow, the name made his blood boil in his veins. Ramsay Snow had taken everything from him. He would kill the bastards, he needed to, he needed to make him suffer.

Jory’s life had been a simple one. He had tolled in the fields and paid what he owed to the Boltons. He had tried to live with honour, with kindness.

In all his thirty years of existence, he had been obedient, loyal. When years ago, the North rebelled, he fought for the North, for the Starks, for the Boltons because this was what was expected.

The only thing he ever had wished in return was basic respect, was fairness, not to have his loyalty returned with the death of his family members.

He would never be able to forget it, the images of the corpses of his family members. He would never be able to forget the image of the raped corpse of his eleven-year-old daughter!

He had asked for justice to lord Roose, to have guards investigate and search for the culprit to be punished, for the beast who took everything from him to pay.

Lord Roose Bolton had looked at him as if he was vermin, as if Jory asking for justice was an insult.

The man he had killed for, the man who had profited from the fruit of his labour since the moment Jory had been able to work, the one for whom he fought in a war, for whom he had killed had ordered him to be thrown out of his keep and to not come back.

Jory hadn’t understood why. He hadn’t understood until he heard the rumours. His family, they weren’t the first ones to suffer such an ignominious fate. It wasn’t the first time people had complained. The rumours said that Roose Bolton did nothing because he was protecting the monster who did all those things, because this monster was Roose Bolton’s Bastard, a bastard who was recognized by Roose and began to live in the Dreadford for a month.

The murderer of his family members, the rapist of his daughter was being protected by his liege lord.

Was Joru supposed to do nothing? How was this fair? How was this just? No, he wouldn’t, couldn't accept that.

He didn't care what could or would happen to him. He had nothing left to lose. In a sense, he was already dead.

Jory turned away from the graves, the weight of his sword pressing against his side. It was an old blade, pitted and worn, once belonging to his grandfather—a relic from a time when honor maybe had meant something. He adjusted the sheath, ensuring it was secure, and began the long trek toward the Dreadfort.

Roose and his heir Domeric I was said had left days ago to visit the heir’s aunt, Barbrey Dustin and would more likely be not back for a week at least.

They took with them a great part of the guards of the guards and knights in the Dreadford leaving behind just above the bare minimum to hold the keep.

Of course, the bare minimum still meant hundreds of guards but better hundreds of guards than thousands.

The goal wasn’t to survive. It was to kill the Bastard and fewer guards made it go from impossible to difficult.

The path was unforgiving, much like the man he sought. As dusk settled, shadows stretched across the landscape, but Jory moved with purpose. Each step brought him closer to the fortress, and with it, the promise of vengeance.

By the time he reached the outskirts of the Dreadfort, night had fully enveloped the land. The fortress loomed ahead, its dark stone walls rising like a monolith against the starless sky. Torches flickered along the battlements, casting eerie glows that danced upon the wet stone.

"One man against a castle," he thought bitterly. But doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He crouched behind a cluster of gnarled trees, observing the guards at the gate. Two men, cloaked and armed, their breath visible in the chill air. Jory closed his eyes briefly, summoning the faces of his family. A warmth stirred within him, starting at his core and radiating outward. It was as if their spirits were with him, bolstering his resolve.

Without another thought, he moved.

He approached swiftly, footsteps silent on the damp ground. The first guard barely had time to register the shadow before Jory's blade sliced across his throat, in a swift, clean motion. Blood sprayed, dark against the torchlight, as the man crumpled soundlessly.

The second guard reacted, eyes wide with shock. He fumbled for his horn, but Jory was upon him. The guard swung his sword in a desperate arc. It was clear that, unlike Jory, he never truly fought on the battlefield.

Jory parried, steel clashing with a sharp ring. He stepped inside the man's guard, driving his elbow into the guard's jaw with a satisfying crunch. As the man staggered back, Jory thrust his blade into his chest, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone before the guard collapsed.

He dragged the bodies into the shadows, his movements efficient, almost detached. There was no time for hesitation.

Slipping through the gate, he navigated the courtyard, sticking to the darkest corners. The fortress was a maze of stone corridors and stairways, but Jory moved as if guided by an unseen force. The warmth within him grew, sharpening his senses. Every sound was amplified—the distant murmur of voices, the crackling of torches, the soft tread of boots on stone.

Two more guards patrolled ahead, their backs turned. Jory advanced, his footsteps synchronizing with theirs to mask his approach. He seized the moment, slamming one guard's head into the wall with brutal force while slashing upward at the other’s throat. The guards fell almost simultaneously, their bodies hitting the ground with muted thuds.

An alarmed shout echoed from a nearby corridor. Jory spun to see a guard raising his sword, eyes wide with alarm.

"Intruder!"

The cry shattered the silence. Doors flung open, and the sounds of rushing footsteps filled the air.

Jory's grip tightened on his sword. "So be it," he muttered.

A group of guards charged toward him. The first swung his axe in a wide arc. Jory sidestepped, the blade grazing past his shoulder. He brought his sword up, slicing across the man's exposed side. Another guard lunged with a spear. Jory deflected it upward, stepping in to deliver a swift kick to the man's knee, shattering it with a sickening crack.

A third opponent aimed for his back. Jory dropped into a roll as the sword whooshed above him. Rising smoothly, he drove his blade backwards without looking, feeling it sink into flesh. The guard gasped, clutching at the steel protruding from his abdomen.

More came. The corridor became a whirlwind of steel and fury. Jory moved with a fluid grace that belied his rugged appearance. He moved in a way a man couldn't, shouldn’t have been able to. He should have been long killed yet against dozens of blades, he wasn’t the one who bled. Every motion was deliberate—a parry here, a riposte there, the warmth in his heart, the memories of his daughter, of his Lyra, playing in unison with his heart, reminding him why he couldn't fall here

He weaved between his adversaries, the warmth in his veins fueling his speed and strength. He could almost feel the hands of his daughter, of his father, of his wife close around his blade too, guiding him, making him a vessel for their retribution.

A heavyset guard barreled toward him with a mace. Jory ducked under the swing, feeling the air stir above his head. He thrust upward, his blade piercing the man's armpit where the armor was weakest. The guard's eyes widened in shock before dulling as he slumped.

An arrow zipped past his ear, embedding itself in the wall. An archer stood at the far end of the hall, already nocking another arrow. Jory grabbed a fallen dagger, hurling it with precision. The dagger found its mark, and the archer collapsed, the arrow clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Jory pressed on. His muscles burned, but the pain was distant. The voices of his family whispered in his mind, urging him forward.

"For Lyra," he thought as he dispatched another guard with a swift slice across the neck.

"For Mother," he growled, blocking a sword aimed for his heart and countering with a strike that felled his opponent.

"For Father," he roared, kicking open a heavy door that led to the main hall.

The grand chamber was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners. At the far end, seated casually on a high-backed chair, was Ramsay Snow. He was an ugly thing almost as if his appearance was a reflection of his twisted heart. Ramsay's skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry although his mouth was small, Ramsay's lips were wide and meaty, wormy looking.

His pale eyes gleamed with amusement as he looked at Jory, a wet-lipped twisted smile curling on his face.

"Well, well," Ramsay drawled. "Look what the wolves dragged in."

Jory advanced slowly, sword at the ready. "Your time has come, bastard. You will pay for what you did."

Ramsay chuckled. "Brave words from a dead man walking. You're strong, I wonder what it feels like. I can’t wait to wear your skin."

Two of Ramsay's personal guards moved to intercept. These were not the ordinary soldiers. Just by looking at them, he knew that these men were seasoned killers.

The first lunged with a flurry of strikes, each blow heavy and precise. Jory met him head-on, their swords clashing in a shower of sparks. He felt the strain, the man's strength formidable. But the warmth surged again, lending him speed. He feinted left, then spun right, bringing his blade across the guard's thigh. The man faltered, and Jory seized the opening, driving his sword through the guard's chest.

The second guard came at him with a mace and shield. The mace swung in lethal arcs, forcing Jory back. He narrowly avoided each swing, the wind from the weapon brushing his face. Timing his move, he ducked under a high swing and closed the distance. He slammed his shoulder into the guard, unbalancing him. With a swift upward thrust, he slipped his sword beneath the guard's chin, ending the fight.

Breath ragged, Jory faced Ramsay once more.

"Impressive," Ramsay said, slow clapping. "I think I'm right to want to flay you.."

Jory's gaze hardened. "You'll harm no one else."

Ramsay stood, drawing a slender dagger. "Come then. Let's see how long your courage lasts."

They circled each other. Ramsay moved with a predatory grace, eyes never leaving Jory's. He struck first, the dagger darting toward Jory's throat. Jory parried, but Ramsay was fast, following up with a slash aimed at his side. The Bolton’s bastard was fast, unnaturally so. For the first time since intruding, he felt his instincts and the Warmth scream at him danger.

Jory barely twisted away, the blade slicing through fabric but missing flesh.

Ramsay laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "You're tiring."

"Not until you're dead," Jory retorted.

They exchanged blows—Ramsay's dagger against Jory's sword. The disparity in weapons forced Jory to adjust, but he pressed on. Ramsay was skilled, more than a bastard should have been, more skilled than any of the soldiers he had slayed on his way but arrogance tainted his movements and arrogance had no place in battle.

Jory ducked under a blow targeting an eye and spun with his heel to dodge a backstrike, his sword already moving, air being displaced on the way of his weapon with the goal to bite in the neck of the Bastard.

Flesh wasn’t what was met steel. Steel was what met steel, sparks and a sound akin to the noise of a smith hammer on metal came to existence.

The bastards’ eyes and the eyes of the small folk crossed. The delight, the joy Jory saw in those pale sickening orbs only increased his desire to butcher the beast in human shape before.

He was only saved by the glint in the eyes of the bastard. His body moved instantaneously after bearing witness to it, the body of the small folk going down hard, strands of dark hair cut by a silver line.

The next moment, a kick was launched by the bastard of the dreadford toward Jory’s midsection. The blade of the smallfolk, his arms moved on their own, the flat of the blade putting itself between the blow and the flesh of the boy and it was the right thing to do because for a moment, a brief one, Jory became airborne, pushed meters away from Ramsay.

The smallfolk didn't let the surprise he felt be the cause of lost balance, his body already moving, angling itself in the air so that when he touched the ground knees bent, the dagger launched at his face was deflected, the dagger sent flying upward yet it didn’t mean Ramsay had stayed idle.

The bastard had followed, ran just after his throw, the distance between the smallfolk and him crossed in a blink of an eye, a bloodthirsty smile blooming on his face, a hand extended completely forward, a hand holding a second dagger.

By deflecting the knife, even if it was a feat in itself, it made Jory leave an opening, something the Bolton had intended.

The second dagger of the bastard cut through the air, moving in a stabbing motion toward the left eye of Jory Hill.

Steel met flesh, the ocular globe of the smallfolk exploding in much like an egg out of its shell before lodging into the brain and killing who was once Jory Hill.

This is what should have happened but the idea of the what should be at this moment was discarded, for a brief moment, the warmth in the veins of the smallfolk became a roaring bonfire, wisps of ghostly hands closing themselves around his wrist and pulling him on the side, out of the way millimetres before the knife could bite in his flesh.

Shock, surprise and fear bloomed in the eyes of the Bastard of the Bradford due to his body being completely unbalanced.

In a normal world, it shouldn’t have been a problem. The scheme of the Bastard would have succeeded but things had changed.

Gods were waking, magic and creatures of old returning. Ramsay Snow should have won right there but it was unfortunate for him that he wasn’t in truth fighting one man. For an instant, as the bastard looked at the smallfolk on the corner of an eye, his gaze fell just to the ghostly figures standing before Jory Hill, the phantoms of the ones he had killed, phantoms who gave up heaven for a loved one, to make sure that the last thing they left in the living world, that the one they all loved would survive. Ramsay Snow could have never won because he had never understood that it wasn't a 1vs1.

Seizing a fleeting chance, Jory feigned a failed strike, a stumble. Ramsay, desperate, took the bait, pushing himself backwards the moment his feet touched the ground, lunging toward the throat of his adversary with his last dagger. In that instant, Jory pivoted, bringing his sword up in a sweeping arc. The blade found flesh, carving a deep gash across Ramsay's chest.

Ramsay staggered, shock flashing across his face. His hand moved to the wound, fingers slick with blood.

"You... wretch," he hissed.

Jory didn't hesitate. He closed the distance, eyes locked on his target. Ramsay swung wildly, desperation overtaking skill. Jory deflected the dagger with ease, stepping inside Ramsay's guard. With a final, resolute thrust, he drove his sword into Ramsay's heart.

Ramsay's eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and rage. He tried to speak, but only blood bubbled at his lips. Jory held the gaze, unflinching.

"For my family," he whispered.

He withdrew the blade, and Ramsay collapsed on his knees, lifeless eyes staring into the void. Just for good measure, Jory swung again and Ramsay’s head was lopped off. The head began to roll until it stopped before an open dog cage, anger, hatred and fear were the last things etched on the face of the Bastard. Crimson pooled from his head and his neck in two bloody streams staining the ground a deep crimson.

Silence settled over the hall, broken only by Jory's labored breathing. The warmth that had carried him began to fade, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He swayed, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him.

Footsteps echoed from the corridors—more guards, drawn by the sounds of battle. Jory knew he had little strength left, but it didn't matter. His purpose was fulfilled.

He glanced toward a window where the faint light of dawn was beginning to seep through. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Perhaps he'd see his family again soon.

As the guards burst into the hall, weapons drawn, Jory stood tall, bloodied sword in hand.

"Come then," he said softly. "I'm ready."

But deep within, he felt a flicker—not of warmth this time, but of peace. He had always been a dead man. He had died the moment his family did.

At least, he was thankful for one thing, Roose Bolton had opened up his eyes. Lords, ladies, nobles, kings, they weren’t better than them, they weren’t deserving of blind loyalty. Those people weren’t their masters and would/ could never be.

Authority? Nobleness? He didn't care about it. The truth was that he was free and for the last remaining moments that he had alive, he would live them free from them. As the soldiers continued to come toward him, Jory felt the warmth pool in his heart. He couldn’t stop thinking that he never felt this free before.

*scene*

Even though he would not admit it, Viserys had held doubts in his heart. What if he was wrong, what if the so-called sorcerer of Astapor wasn’t his nephew?

What if they were truly alone? What if Viserys had crossed half of Essos, possibly given her best chance of regaining the throne of his family, endangered his little sister and had been wrong?

His hope had burnt bright like a star in his heart but every light cast a shadow and he had feared that the shadow would have been greater than the light.

They arrived after three weeks of travel after having left Norvos. Just like he had promised, Boros had made the travel quicker than Viserys had thought that it could be.

It seemed that at least, it had not been a complete error to travel with the man. Still, saying that he was eager to never see the face of the man again was an understatement.

There was something about him that he found inherently disgusting. The man reminded him he didn't know why of a parasite.

He had known that they would soon reach Astapor when he had seen a sigh that had honestly left him gobsmacked, that had banished any thought that the rumours about the sorcerer king of Astapor were wrong.

How could he doubt when a gigantic silver tree pierced the heavens above, one big enough that it could probably hold without any problem the island of Dragonstone on its branches?

More than that, as they came closer and closer to Astapor, the world around him seemed to change more and more. It was as if the world was bettering itself around the city.

The sun’s rays were gentler, the breeze a soft embrace, the wind smelling live lavender and other smells that couldn’t but remind him of Elia’s personal garden in the keep.

Each breath he took felt invigorating, as if he had never breathed properly before and was finally doing so.

His shoulders felt lighter as if a weight he didn't know he had before was removed. For the first time in a long, he felt as if maybe he could sleep without worry, without fear.

Paradise. There were no other words for it. This place felt like paradise. This place felt like something too beautiful to exist yet it was real.

This place, it felt like the Red Keep, Rhaegar, Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, his mother and his father, it felt like home.

“Viserys! Viserys!” shouted a voice bringing out of his thought.

Annoyance crept in his tone as he turned toward the one who had taken him out of good memories, as he turned toward Daenerys.

“What?!” he half spat. Usually, his tone would have made his sister cower, quieten her nibbling yet this time it did nothing.

She pointed at something out of the carriage that she saw through an opening “Look! They're playing. They seem to have so much fun. Can we stop for a moment so that I can join them?”

The angry words crawling out of his throat died as he looked at what she was pointing at. A dozen of children were playing just like she had said. Most of them seem to be barely more than seven name days. Only one of them seemed to be past ten.

They were being pulled by the younger children in all senses as if each and everyone of them wanted their attention.

What had made the words inside Viserys’ throat die, that had made the Targaryen stop breathing for a moment, that made him seemingly freeze in time was the face of the oldest of the children.

The features, the soft smile, the gentleness emanating from them, the amethyst eyes, the silver hair.

It was like looking at a ghost of all those he had lost. It was like looking at the best traits of those he had lost, his older brother’s perfect valyrian features, the same lips, the same smile as Elia, the hair curling exactly the way Rhaenys’ hair had but just in silver and the eyes, the eyes of his mother, the same eyes that Viserys had gazed each time he had looked at his reflection.

“Viserys? Viserys?! Are you crying?! Brother, are you alright?! Boros, is something wrong with my brother? Viserys, are you hurt? Viserys?!”

The son of Rhaella ignored the words of Daenerys. For a brief moment, the one he was looking at as if they could sense Viserys turn and their gazes locked and certainty and relief bloomed in the eyes of the son of Rhaella.

He had not been wrong. He had not been wrong! They were not alone!

“Aegon is alive,” the words were whispered live acquired divinity, like the most sublime prayer and at that moment everything felt right in the world for Viserys, brother of Rhaegar, son of Aerys and Rhaella and cousin of Rhaenys.