Capítulo 8: addam
———-
Valy, the cat with a fur as white as snow, prowled through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, his golden eyes locked onto his prey, a rat darting through the shadows. The chase, which had started in a dimly lit bedroom, now led them to the eerie silence of the godswood.
The godswood was a place of haunting beauty. The night had cast its thick cloak over the land.
At the heart of the godswood stood the weirwood tree, its massive trunk gnarled and twisted. Its bark was a ghostly white, and its twisted trunk was marked with faint, dark veins that seemed to pulse with a strange energy. The tree's face, carved into the wood, held an expression of somber watchfulness, its deep-set eyes seemingly observing all who entered its domain. Red sap, like droplets of blood, glistened on its surface.
Valy's prey disappeared beneath the gnarled roots of the weirwood tree. The cat's golden eyes glinted with determination as he crept closer, his whiskers twitching with anticipation. The tranquil atmosphere of the godswood contrasted sharply with the urgency of the hunt.
As Valy drew closer to the base of the tree, the ground beneath him began to tremble. A low, sinister rustling emerged from the shadows. Valy's ears perked up, his whiskers twitching as he sensed something amiss. His fur bristled as he peered into the darkness.
Suddenly, a swarm of rats erupted from the murky depths of the roots, their beady eyes gleaming in the dim light. Their tiny claws made a frantic, scratching noise as they surged towards Valy. The cat let out a startled yowl, his fur standing on end as he leaped back, attempting to escape.
The cat's attempts to fend them off were futile. He slashed at the writhing mass, but the rats were too many, their tiny bodies pressing in on him from all sides. They bit and clawed at him, their sharp teeth tearing into his flesh. The rats began to gnaw at Valy's face, their claws scratching at his eyes. With a horrifying squelch, they gouged out his eyes, tearing them from their sockets and eating them.
Their teeth ripped through his fur and flesh, tearing open his abdomen.
Valy's once-pristine white fur was soon matted with blood and grime. The rats's relentless gnawing exposed patches of raw flesh, and their tiny claws dug into his eye sockets, clawing at the empty hollows.
The cat's panicked cries turned to desperate, choked meows as the rats devoured him alive. Each bite sent waves of searing pain through his body, and the sound of their frenzied feeding drowned out his cries.
The once-pristine white of his fur was soon stained with a dark, bloody mess as the swarm devoured him alive.
———-
At Duskendale, the sack was ruthless. Houses were set ablaze, and the harbor, once filled with ships and commerce, was now a sea of flames. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky, casting a dark cloud visible from miles away.
Gyles had once been a guard, a lowly position that barely paid enough to keep him fed. The dream of becoming a knight, a romantic notion born from tales of valor and glory, had driven him to join Lord Darklyn's army when war erupted. He envisioned himself donning shining armor, fighting bravely, and proving his worth in the heat of battle.
But reality shattered those dreams. Instead of the gleaming armor and fine weapons he had imagined, Gyles was issued a cheap cloth tunic and a dull, chipped sword. Still, he accepted it, clinging to the hope that he might one day earn his place among the knights.
Now, as he surveyed the devastation around him, those dreams seemed almost laughable. The fire and smoke that consumed Duskendale were far from the noble battles he had envisioned. Instead of glory, he saw only the burning ruins of his city, the anguish of its people, and the dirty, desperate work of survival.
His tunic was now tarnished and covered in ash. The valor he had hoped to display had been replaced by the harsh reality of destruction and loss. The knightly ideal he had aspired to was overshadowed by the brutal truth of war, leaving him to confront a world far darker than he had ever imagined.
As he wandered through the ravaged streets, Gyles felt empty. The familiar sights of his childhood, his family's modest home, the market square where he had spent countless hours, were now twisted and charred.
The wails of those left behind, their faces streaked with soot and tears, echoed in his ears.
The heavy smoke stung his eyes and throat.
In the midst of the chaos, Gyles stumbled upon a scene.
In an alleyway, a group of men had cornered his friend, Wylla. Her pleas for mercy were drowned out by the raucous laughter and jeers of men. Her clothes were being ripped away.
Wylla's voice, once so full of warmth and kindness, was now a desperate, piercing scream.
"Stop! Stop!" She begged them, her cries echoing through the alleyway as she struggled against the rough hands that tore at her. Her screams grew louder, piercing the night air, but instead of relenting, the men grew increasingly annoyed by the noise.
They began to punch and kick her. Each blow was met with a cruel laugh. As her screams turned into choking sobs, they closed in on her, grabbing her by the throat and beginning to strangle her. Her cries grew quieter, her struggles weakening as the life was squeezed from her.
When Wylla fell silent, her body limp. They continued to mock her and rape her lifeless form, their cruel laughter mingling with the sounds of the night.
Gyles could not look any further.
Outside, the sack of Duskendale continued unabated. The townspeople's cries of despair mingled with the crackling of flames and the clash of swords. The once thriving town was now a scene of utter devastation.
On the city's wall, severed heads were mounted. Among them was the head of the former Lord of Duskendale, Lord Darklyn.
Ser Criston, Hand of the King, addressed the remaining men, offering them a choice:
swearing their swords to King Aegon or share the fate of their fallen lord.
Many chose the former.
Now, Gyles marched beside strangers under a banner he had never seen before. The only banner he knew was Darklyn's, fusily black and gold, with seven white escutcheons upon a red tierce. Not a lamb holding a golden goblet on a green field nor the golden three-headed dragon on a black field.
As Gyles marched out of his hometown. Every step away from Duskendale felt like a step further from his past, from his family, and from the life he had hoped to build. He clung to the hope that his house was still safe, praying for his mother and the safety of his home.
And now he marched into the unknown.
With a strangers.
———-
Dragonstone was alive with activity. Along the edges, a bustling market had sprung up. Vendors had set up colorful stalls, offering everything from practical supplies like leather armor and sturdy boots to more extravagant items like jeweled trinkets and fine cloaks. The air was filled with the sounds of haggling, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with spices, and the occasional shout of a merchant trying to catch the eye of a passing customer.
One stall featured dragon-themed artifacts, with small dragon statues and carvings that glinted in the sunlight. Nearby, a smithy displayed an array of swords and armor pieces, while a charm seller's booth showcased a variety of lucky trinkets and amulets, each promising protection and good fortune to those about to face the dragons.
Adding to the lively atmosphere, a group of mummers entertained the crowd with a playful performance. Dressed in bright, colorful costumes, they acted out exaggerated tales of dragons and old legends. Their lively antics and humorous skits drew laughs and cheers from the onlookers.
The market's colorful stalls, the lively performances of the mummers, and the mingling scents and sounds created a spectacle of energy and excitement. Yet, beneath this bustling surface, he couldn't ignore the underlying tension.
Among the dragonseed was Addam. He was of average height with lightly tanned skin, and a silver hair and violet eyes.
Addam wore simple, practical clothes suited for his background. His tunic was made of rough-spun fabric, and he had a pair of sturdy trousers tucked into worn boots.
As Addam waited in line, his gaze frequently turned towards the dragons. The line moved slowly, and the anticipation in the air was thick. While he waited, the sounds of anguish pierced through the general noise of the courtyard. Occasionally, screams of agony echoed from the direction of the dragon pens, where the dragonseed faced the dragons in their attempts to tame them.
After a long wait, it was finally Addam's turn to face the dragons. As he stepped forward, the cacophony of the courtyard fell away, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he approached the enclosure where Seasmoke awaited.
For the first time, Addam faced Seasmoke up close. The dragon's pale silver-grey scales seemed almost spectral, reflecting light in a cold, ghostly manner. The dragon's body was sleek and built for deadly speed, its wings folded tight but capable of terrifying power when unfurled. Surrounding Seasmoke were scattered bones and the remains of a partially devoured carcass. Blackened, charred strips of flesh clung to the bone, and the rancid odor of burnt meat permeated the air, mingling with a smell of ashes.
Addam approached cautiously, every step deliberate and measured. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the oppressive atmosphere and the dragon's intense gaze. Seasmoke's deep blue eyes watched him in every move. Slowly, Addam extended a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out. The dragon flinched slightly as he gently touched Seasmoke's scaled flank, but did not pull away.
Addam took a deep breath, grounding himself in the weight of the moment, and continued to stroke Seasmoke's side.
"Lykiri…Lykiri.(calm down)"
The dragon's eyes watched him with a mixture of curiosity. Gradually, Seasmoke seemed to relent, allowing Addam to draw closer.
With great care, Addam positioned himself at Seasmoke's side and took hold of the reins, feeling the dragon's powerful muscles tense beneath his touch. He carefully adjusted the reins, ensuring a firm but gentle grip. After a few tense moments, Seasmoke's resistance eased, and the dragon accepted him, its gaze softening ever so slightly.
"Dohaeris Seasmoke…Dohaeris.(Serve)"
Addam climbed up to the saddle, his legs trembling slightly as he settled into place. The leather saddle creaked under his weight, and he adjusted the reins, gripping them firmly.
"Soves!(Fly)"
Seasmoke roared as its unfurled wings and launched into the sky, the force of the takeoff sending a rush of wind and adrenaline through Addam's veins.
With a powerful thrust of its wings, Seasmoke launched into the air. The sudden rush of wind and the intense vibration of the dragon's muscles beneath Addam was exhilarating. They ascended quickly, the ground falling away rapidly. The sky opened up around them, a vast expanse of blue stretching as far as the eye could see.
As they gained altitude, Addam's laughter grew louder, mingling with the roar of Seasmoke. He adjusted his grip and leaned into the dragon's movements, feeling the subtle shifts as Seasmoke navigated the currents of the wind. As they soared, the landscape below became a blur of color and shadow.
Just as Addam was beginning to savor the freedom of flight, a thunderous roar shattered the sky. The sound echoed through the heavens. Addam's heart skipped a beat as he looked up and saw a dark shadow looming above them.
———
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder