Tải xuống ứng dụng
58.33% A Game of Thrones: The White Hand / Chapter 7: Chapter 6. On the Road of Roses to the Dark Hollow

Chương 7: Chapter 6. On the Road of Roses to the Dark Hollow

290 С.A

Edmund Gardner

The first day after the Appearance of the Hand. Somewhere on the Road of Roses near the Dark Hollow.

The life-giving moisture trickled down the face of the heir to the Oak Throne. His eyes were squinted in pleasure. After a long night's chase, the source of fresh water he found a few dozen yards from the cobbled Road of Roses was nothing short of a blessing. Beside him, his faithful steed quenched its thirst, having gallantly carried the champion of the Seven through the night's silence, fleeing from the pursuing guards sent after the fugitive.

The bright sun, high in the sky, illuminated the endless fields of the fertile South, dotted with patches of trees of various kinds. A warm breeze gently rustled the boundless greenery, creating a beautiful symphony of nature. Like members of an orchestra, crickets and birds added their chirps and trills to the musical tableau. The scent of herbs pleasantly tickled the nose of the unwitting observer of such a lovely scene.

As if sent by the gods, this oasis in the sweltering desert aided many travelers on their way to the capital of the Realm and back. Sheltered by the shade of a few rare oaks, the brook was nothing less than a blessing left by Mother Nature for her negligent children. And even now, this desirable glade pleased the champion of the Seven, allowing him to rest and regain strength before the long journey ahead.

Edmund had nothing with him but the robe lent to him by the old septon Lionel, whose fate he often pondered on his way. What would become of him? Would they execute him for aiding the last Gardener, who had so brazenly crashed the royal feast? The heir to the throne of the Realm could only hope for the mercy of the Seven towards his servant, for whom Edmund could do nothing. He did not wish for the old man, who had long served at his family's crypt, to meet his end.

As he scooped another handful of water, Edmund felt a mix of emotions. On one hand, he had done all that the gods asked of him before sending him into the world, but was it worth it? Would it not have been better to act in secret, gathering supporters and building strength? Still, Edmund was certain that the gods had not orchestrated events without reason. The design of such beings was inherently difficult to grasp or comprehend.

The Seven clearly sought not only to find the one who would halt the Long Night but also to bolster their shaky positions in the pantheon and in the hearts of men. Remembering the plot of the series, Edmund pondered some events that had undoubtedly undermined the people's trust in the One God in His seven faces.

The explosion of the Great Sept of Baelor, the sacking of Oldtown and the Starry Sept, in particular. The Ironborn had trampled over sacred places during their rampage, and the fall of the main temple in the capital had sparked countless rumors among the superstitious inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. To top it all off, the King of the Seven Kingdoms had become Brandon the Broken, a greenseer, essentially a servant of the Old Gods on the throne of realms long dominated by the Andals, who all followed the faith of the Seven. Not the most favorable outcome, however you looked at it. Considering his rise and the involvement of the Seven in the affairs of Westeros, the canon of the series no longer served as a reliable source of knowledge; the main event—the Invasion of the Others—would happen regardless.

What to do after visiting the Isle of Faces, Edmund did not know. It was unlikely that the Seven had prepared an army of tens of thousands of swords for him to reclaim his homeland, which meant he would have to make decisions later. For now, Gardner pushed these thoughts aside. Perhaps the gods would themselves point him towards a new destination, and thus there was no need to speculate. After all, despite the murky plans, the Seven were on his side, a significant advantage in the near future.

After drawing several handfuls of water, Gardner splashed his slightly sweaty face. It was not the most convenient way to cool down, but the chosen of the Seven had no other means at hand. His stomach growled ominously, reminding the fugitive that he had not eaten a morsel since his resurrection. However, the nearest food consisted only of tree bark and the grass around him. With a sigh of despair, Edmund looked at his companion.

The snow-white horse was too conspicuous for his situation; not only did Edmund's robe make him highly noticeable, but the horse's noble appearance also drew attention, such a steed was clearly not easy to come by. The aching pain in his lower back, caused by the night's gallops, reminded Gardner that he did not even possess a saddle. Truly, the beginning of his journey already hinted at the trials that lay ahead.

Noticing Edmund's intense gaze upon him, the horse raised its head and looked back into his eyes. A few long seconds passed in this prolonged contact before the stallion returned to quenching its thirst, giving a dismissive snort in the champion's direction. This scene struck Edmund as absurdly amusing, as though the horse could read his thoughts, responding with mockery. Unable to hold back, Gardner burst into laughter.

"Ha-ha-ha!!!" Edmund laughed heartily, releasing the stress that had accumulated after the exhausting night. "You're right, my friend. It's too early for me to hang my head. Perhaps you have a name, since you're so clever?" he asked to himself, receiving only a few more snorts from the animal in reply.

"Indeed. You're clearly no ordinary horse." Edmund said in astonishment, not expecting such a unique response from the stallion a second time. As if responding to his words, the horse reared up, tossing its snowy mane and letting out a loud neigh. "Well, well, I get it. You're magnificent and willful, and I'm just a pitiful commoner in rags." After that, the horse tilted its head upwards, as if showing off before Edmund.

"Oh. And how shall I name such a beautiful creature?" Edmund pondered, squatting down on the grass in a Turkish position. Accepting the animal's unusual intelligence as a given, the chosen of the Seven reflected that there were all sorts of wonders in a fantasy world. Just recently, dragons had been cutting through the sky. "Perhaps Chamomile?" In response to this suggestion, Edmund was met with clumps of dirt in the face.

The horse proudly galloped from the brook to a particularly large patch of tall grass, having first loosened the earth with its hind hooves, sending a good portion of mud flying towards the chosen of the Seven. After that, the horse began to graze nonchalantly, ignoring the now-muddy Gardner as he spat out dirt.

"My line is certainly known for its love of agriculture, but not to the extent of eating soil." Edmund grumbled, finishing to wipe the dirt off himself, though the septon's robe was irreversibly soiled. "You'd be better named Thistle, you willful beast." Noticing that the horse was lifting its hind hooves again, seemingly to reward Gardner with another shower of dirt, Edmund waved his arms in desperation. "Alright, alright. I understand. Joking with you is dangerous. How about Bayard? He was also considered wise." He then raised his hands, bracing for another underhanded attack from the animal, yet none came.

The horse merely turned its head slightly, as if listening to the sound, pondering the meaning. Then, the stallion stuck out its tongue, as if tasting the proposed name. Finally, after contemplating Edmund's suggestion, it shook its head with a neigh of refusal and returned to grazing.

"Not to your liking, then." Gardner thought seriously, reclining back on his arms against the ground. Throwing his head back to the blue sky, devoid of any clouds, the chosen of the Seven lost himself for a few moments, closing his eyes. In the shade of the tree, he resembled not a fugitive in the eyes of the crown, but rather an ordinary traveler enjoying life. "Bingo!" Edmund exclaimed, snapping his fingers. Catching the horse's displeased snort, Gardner hurried to amend his words. "Not that, but I know what to call you. How about Kanrit? You are, after all, a royal steed now, and the meaning fits well, considering our acquaintance. What do you think?"

The stallion's response was to cease his activity and approach the resting place of Gardner. With a gentle nuzzle against the heir to the Oak Throne's face, he licked him, and then, as if to show no affection at all, he whipped his tail and turned sideways. With a motion of his head from Gardner to his own back, he indicated it was time to set off. Edmund could only laugh at the behavior of his one and only friend in this world.

"Ha-ha-ha! I'm glad I've finally pleased you, my friend. Well then, carry this name with pride; after all, it's no ordinary name. An extraordinary name for an extraordinary horse, just the thing," Edmund declared loftily, brushing himself off as he climbed onto the horse. In response, the stallion, now nobly named Kamrit, raised his head even higher and galloped away, picking up speed back onto the Road of Roses. "Easy there, friend. Try to be a bit gentler; otherwise, by the end of this journey, I'll have more than just a sore backside—I'll be one big bruise."

The horse only accelerated, forcing Edmund to grip tightly around Kamrit's neck with his arms. The wind whipped against his face, and the oasis, which had been so timely, quickly fell far behind.

"Well, you're a stubborn beast, Kamrit," Edmund gasped in pain as they hit another uneven bump, jolting him against the firm spine of the animal. The horse merely neighed mockingly in response.

Though Edmund knew the geography of his homeland well, the horse seemed to know it even better, for he knew exactly when and where to turn. On one hand, this was beneficial—it was hard to stray off course; on the other, the horse had no sense of restraint and ran at his own pace, entirely indifferent to the suffering of his passenger. Soon, they would reach the Dark Hollow of Virvelos, which meant they would have to circle the town to remain unseen and unapprehended.

Still, the advantage he had gained the previous night on the Lily Bridge had evaporated the moment they stopped to rest. The guards would not spare their horses in their eagerness to catch Edmund and earn favor with the king, which increased the danger of being captured. But Edmund had no intention of overexerting Kamrit. The horse was essential to him, and Edmund had grown attached to him, especially since the steed had saved his skin more than once. Gardner knew how to be grateful.

 ***

The Night Before. Near the Lily Bridge.

The paved road was illuminated by the moon, the stars burning brightly, forced to be unwilling witnesses to the events unfolding below. The wind, once warm, had turned piercingly cold, as if from the North. The sound of hooves behind grew louder, the distance closing, though the pursuers had set out significantly later than their quarry. Edmund's breath came in ragged gasps, cold sweat trickling down his back; the snow-white horse was giving its all, yet the pursuers showed no sign of relenting.

Edmund knew he had to act, or this brisk start to his new life would not last a day, ending on the executioner's block. He saw that his horse wasn't tired; rather, it was simply outpaced by the horses chasing him. This meant he needed to devise a way to widen the gap, even if just a little, to shake off the pursuit. Yet, frustratingly, no useful ideas came to mind.

After several agonizing minutes, Edmund caught sight of the familiar Mander River. Like the Great Nile, it was a source of prosperity for the region and the many people living nearby. In the dim light of night, it seemed dark and foreboding, as the starry sky vanished behind clouds. But as the light of the celestial bodies fell upon the vast surface of the great river, it transformed into a divine, cosmic canvas, ready to engulf any observer whole.

In the distance, he spotted the first crossing—the Lily Bridge, once one of the most crucial crossings in the kingdom of Prosperity, named after one of the wives of the wise kings. This bridge connected Highgarden, situated at the confluence of the Golden Stream and the Mander. If only Edmund could somehow delay the guards at the bridge, preventing them from crossing, it would only be a matter of time before he could shake them off enough to catch his breath.

As if in response to his thoughts, the body that had recently weakened to the point of almost falling from the horse surged with strength. Muscles, aching as if from spasms, began to contract, and movement returned to his arms. Edmund realized, "This is it!" He patted the horse's neck, urging it to speed up, and turned to look back.

Several hundred yards behind them, shadows raced on horseback. It was nearly impossible to discern the colors of the banners they bore, but that hardly mattered. Edmund knew all too well who his pursuers were. He had caught snippets of threats directed at him, along with the triumphant shouts of the guards who believed they had nearly captured their prey.

They should not relax so easily. As soon as the horse crossed the bridge, Edmund raised his arm and concentrated. The mysterious power wielded by Gart Greenhand, though not as eager as before, responded to his call. Thorny bindings, strengthened by his intent and the energies he had poured into them, burst from the earth, coiling tightly around the stone structure of the bridge. By design, the faces of the Seven were meant to be carved on both sides of the bridge; however, over time, they had become blurred and hard to recognize. Now they resembled grotesque masks of demonic beings, entwined with roots and thorny vines.

The arriving guards halted in confusion. The horse slowed, allowing Edmund a moment to examine his handiwork. Though the thorns were not alive as they had been at the royal feast—Edmund simply lacked the strength for that—they were stronger than good steel, as the knights had learned. Dismounting, several of them attempted to clear the path with their swords, but had to abandon the effort as their blades merely sparked against the vegetation, failing to slice through as a knife through butter. After a few more futile attempts, the guards had no choice but to turn their horses around.

Edmund was not deceived. The chase would not end so easily. Magic was not eternal, and this was not the only crossing over the river. Of course, the next one lay in Dunstonbury, the former castle of Manderly, handed over by one of Edmund's ancestors to the Peaks. The hunters would have to take quite a detour to close the distance between them. However, at Dunstonbury, they could replenish their supplies and, without waiting for their horses to rest, acquire new mounts.

In any case, the decision had been made, and Edmund now had the chance to breathe. A thin trickle of blood ran down his lip. Licking it away, he realized that every power comes at a price. The gods' free support had ended. Feeling a wave of wild fatigue wash over him, Edmund wiped the blood on his sleeve and tried to hold on tightly to the horse that carried him down the Road of Roses, skillfully navigating its twists and turns. Aware of this, he managed to last for another hour by his own reckoning before finally succumbing to exhaustion.

Edmund awoke the next morning by the stream that had helped him catch his breath and wet his throat. Naturally, he immediately tried to replicate his feats from the previous day, but no matter how hard he tried, the plants beneath his feet refused to grow, and his hands disobeyed him.

 ***

The Following Days. On the Road of Roses.

It wasn't until the next night that the aura of blossoming returned to him, but it was much weaker than before. Gardener felt that this power was influenced by the time of day and his physical condition, but experiments had to be postponed, as they were drawing near to the Dark Hollow. One had to remain vigilant. For where a large castle stood, there were always villages of peasants nearby, paying their lord taxes, and an encounter with them could be an unpleasant surprise—at least until Edmund was ready for such a meeting.

His monologue with Kamrit somewhat alleviated the boredom of the journey, but unfortunately, it couldn't quell the gnawing hunger that was slowly undermining Gardener's spirits. The horse was well-fed in the Reach—food was everywhere. Being caught or stealing from the peasants was not something Gardener desired, so he resolved to try his luck with bartering.

Gathering what little knowledge he had about medicinal herbs from the flowers and plants that had sprung up beneath his feet overnight, Edmund made his way to a nondescript village of several dozen houses. Unfortunately, he couldn't control what grew with his magic just yet; otherwise, the problem would have solved itself. Even the thorns that had saved his life several times grew small and reluctantly.

He left Kamrit in a nearby thicket, where he had rested the previous day. The clever horse understood his intent and calmly settled in the grass, hidden from sight by the sparse trees and bushes, waiting for the return of the Chosen of the Seven.

Edmund wrapped the herbs in his robe, grateful that the size of the garment allowed for it. With slow steps, he trudged under the scorching sun toward the abode of the local residents, hoping for some measure of success. It was unlikely that word of his description had spread through the villages in just a couple of days, but some apprehensions lingered. After all, the Dark Hollow of Virvelos was quite close to Highgarden, and rumors traveled faster than horses. Nevertheless, Edmund had little choice but to take the risks.

The small village he entered was nothing special. Close-set buildings, sturdy oak houses built many years ago, well-trodden paths, and the smell of animal waste—an ordinary picture for such places. The local inhabitants immediately noticed the unexpected guest as soon as Gardener stepped onto what appeared to be the main road separating the houses.

A young man, who had been working in the yard of one of the houses, approached Edmund hastily as soon as he appeared in his line of sight. The young man seemed eager to greet the strange figure in the septon's robe.

"Good health to you, septon. Where are you headed? We don't have any inns and never have. Or perhaps you're here on some business?" The russet-haired youth spoke with a strange hesitation, as if swallowing some of his words.

The young man looked unremarkable. Standard russet hair and brown eyes, mostly hidden beneath a long, shiny fringe. His slightly tattered shirt bore stains of sweat and dirt, evidently from long and hard work. Instead of shoes, he wore rough cloths wrapped around his feet. His trousers looked equally worn.

"Greetings, lad. I don't need lodging. Tell me, is there anyone here who could trade for some healing herbs? Unfortunately, I lost my last belongings on the road. My horse, the foolish beast, bolted off the reins. It galloped away through the thicket at night, and I followed. My belongings were on it, and I couldn't catch up," Edmund delivered his premeditated tale. In his mind, he apologized to his friend for using him as an excuse.

"Ah, well, that's unfortunate, septon. I'll help you; it's no trouble. We have a healer here, a woman named Molly. And her mother, too. She's also a healer. Now, together with her daughter, she's living out her last years. Completely blind now. But don't stand there, septon. Come, I'll take you to her," the young man gestured invitingly. He continued speaking, "My name's Vitor. I work with my father tending to the livestock. And where are you from, by the way? Were you heading to the gardens? You've missed the royal celebration, it seems, while trudging along without a horse."

"I'm from Golden Grove. I was traveling downstream, and then trouble struck. No matter, when I get there, I'll ask the local parish for a new horse," replied Gardener. It was surprising how the boy showed no astonishment at his age and quickly accepted him as a septon. Paranoia whispered that he should run, but he saw nothing suspicious in the busy villagers.

They hardly paid him any special attention, glancing once before turning away, losing interest entirely. It seemed that even a guest was rare for this place, yet there was no curiosity whatsoever. Edmund recalled that in his life, there had been cases when younger sons of noble houses became septons, as they could not rely on anything else from their parents' inheritance. Apparently, it was the same now. Even the local girls, though they lingered on him much longer than the older residents, turned away in disappointment as soon as they noticed the traveler's garb.

If that was the case, disguising himself as a septon was one of the most effective strategies in the villages. However, this was only true as long as it was not the primary means of identifying oneself. Gardener had no intention of keeping it on, but he made a note for the future; it was far too easy for him to blend into the local atmosphere.

"Well, here we are, septon. You can go in from here. Molly doesn't like me, so I won't go any further," Vitor said, chatting with Edmund about various stories from his life and asking questions along the way.

They arrived at a cottage a bit apart from the main settlement. It was slightly crooked, with a sagging roof, but adorned with a little garden in front where plants grew, some of which were just like those in Edmund's robe. Next to the house, in a kind of kennel that resembled a box, lay a yard dog. Behind the house, a barn could be seen, from which the clucking of chickens was audible.

"And why is that?" Edmund asked for the sake of politeness.

"Well, my father, back when he was my age, promised to marry Molly, but he never did, choosing my mother instead. That's when she got upset with him. If something serious arises, she'll certainly help. Otherwise..." he waved his hand dismissively, "she'll just swat you with a rolling pin, especially if she's in a good mood."

"I understand. Thank you for your help, but unfortunately, I can't repay you," Gardener said, spreading his hands to hold back the laughter bubbling inside. Though the worlds seemed different, the stories remained the same.

"Ah, it's fine, septon. It was a pleasure to help. You're a rare guest, and I've spoken to everyone in the village already; it gets dull. And now you're here. Well, I'll be off. I hope she doesn't chase you away. If she does, come to us; bread and salt, we'll always find something. Just don't say you're from me. She'll send you packing right away." And without waiting for a response, he retreated.

Watching the simple-minded lad leave, Edmund pondered how hard life often was for peasants in the harsh medieval world. Lords, in essence, had little concern for them, as long as taxes were paid on time. And yet, every decade or so, wars raged in various corners of the Seven Kingdoms. If life in the Reach was still somewhat sheltered, how the peasants of Dorne and the North survived was beyond Gardener's understanding.

Maesters, no matter how skilled they were, only treated their lords and their close ones. If a peasant fell ill, their only option was to seek out a healer. The skills of such individuals were highly questionable, and results varied. Diseases like the Grey Plague circulated through this world with alarming frequency, leading to unsettling thoughts about mortality among the common folk. Dragons were beasts on the brink of calamity, thankfully extinct—at least for now.

In short, a peasant's life in the Seven Kingdoms was perilous and challenging. The thought of Essos made Edmund shudder. Slavery and hordes of nomads—that was the mainstay of that arid continent. It was no surprise that it was considered a breeding ground for all sorts of filth, like the sorcerers of Qarth and shadowbinders from Asshai. It was astonishing that, given the existence of living gods, no catastrophic events had occurred, like a demonic invasion, as was often the case in stories of this genre. Yet the incident with Valyria raised certain suspicions.

Shoving those unwelcome thoughts aside, Edmund glanced at the dog, which lay peacefully asleep in its home, undisturbed by the voices or the presence of strangers in its territory. Upon closer inspection, he noticed its matted gray fur and pus around its eyes, likely a result of age-related ailments. Deciphering the secret that was no secret at all, Gardener knocked on the door.

It wasn't long before the entrance to the healer's home opened, and a middle-aged woman appeared on the threshold. Oily black hair, a myriad of wrinkles, and a weary, discontented gaze said much about her master. In the healer's hands rested a cleaver made of poor steel, and she wore a simple gray dress adorned with numerous knots.

"What do you want?" Without further preamble, the woman narrowed her eyes at Edmund.

"Good day, madam. I seek to trade some herbs—medicinal ones—for provisions and spare clothing. I was told you could assist me." Using all the charm at his disposal, Gardener addressed the healer.

"Who said that?" Not the slightest bit impressed by the guest's amiability, the woman pressed further.

"Just a local. I'm afraid I didn't catch his name. He claimed that the finest healer in these parts was none other than yourself. May I come in?" The heir of the Oak Throne refused to let her brusque demeanor deter him; this meeting was far more vital to him than to her.

"Lies, both from him and you. Fine, step inside. I hope you haven't brought me some berries that made you see divine revelations, only to offload them on the nearest village, septon." With that, she turned and vanished into the house, leaving Edmund standing on the threshold.

As he crossed the threshold, a mixture of dust, herbs, and some sour odor assaulted Gardener's senses. The spacious interior he found himself in served as a foyer, sitting room, and kitchen all at once. The floor was strewn with several fur pelts, presumably for warmth. The wooden shutters on the windows sagged and appeared far from well-kept. In the center, a fire crackled, with something bubbling away in a pot suspended above it. It could be soup or some sort of brew; Gardener leaned toward the former, noting that the mistress of the house had returned to her task of butchering what seemed to be a chicken.

Closing the door behind him, Edmund tread carefully further inside. Unknown dried herbs hung from the walls, and clay jars filled with similarly mysterious contents lined the shelves. A large table, where healer Molly prepared her food, was cluttered with various components used in folk medicine—roots, flowers, berries, and even parts of wild animals like claws and eyes.

"A colorful place." Edmund noted to himself, catching sight of another figure in the house. Against the far wall, opposite the hearth, sat an old woman swaddled in several fur pelts. Her eyes were white and sunken, barely open. A headscarf made from an unrecognizable fabric covered her hair, and her long yellowed nails clutched the armrests of a creaking chair, which rocked back and forth. Her face, lined with deep wrinkles, looked as though it might slip from her skull like a wax mask, and her skin bore a similar pallor.

"Have you had your fill of sights?" Molly asked, not tearing her gaze from her cooking.

"Um, my apologies; it's just that your home…"

"Looks like something out of a peasant's tale, I know. What have you brought? Let's see it. I haven't time to indulge your blathering." She cut him off, finishing with the chicken. With a swift motion, she darted to the pot and tossed the butchered meat inside, clearing the cutting board from the table.

"Of course. Here." Gardener handed over his collection, feeling increasingly uneasy in her presence.

"Ha! Not a bad haul for a lad who traded his youth for septon's hymns." She eyed the herbs he had gathered, without further ado beginning to sift through the leaves and flowers. "And what do they call you?" she asked, still focused on her task.

"Ed… Eddard, madam. Septon Eddard, at your service." Edmund replied, slightly stumbling over his name.

"Your services are of no use to me, boy. And I doubt you are a septon at all. Perhaps a novice, if I'm being generous. You can fool the villagers all you like, but I know your brother well enough. A true septon wouldn't come seeking a bargain with a witch. Ridiculous." She smacked her lips and began inhaling the scents of the herbs.

"I was told you are a healer, not a witch." Edmund attempted to defend himself, relaxing somewhat after the simpleton Vitor.

"Ah…" Molly extended the word. "To your brother, it matters little. What lineage do you claim?"

"I have renounced my lineage, stepping upon the path of faith." Edmund replied, assuming a rather pious posture.

"Now it's clear you're lying. A noble would never abandon his father's name. Speak such nonsense, and no one will believe you. Now, tell me—where did you find these herbs?" The healer waved aside his words, demanding another answer while offering a yellow-orange flower with a long bud.

"A few days' journey from here, near the Whispering Woods, at the forest's edge." Edmund responded, lacking any enthusiasm.

"Ah, such a fine lad, yet lies to the elders without a flicker of shame. That's amber nightshade, found only in Dorne. My mother, well over a hundred now, saw it but twice in her life, and that was during her own studies. I only learned of it because we have a couple of dried leaves left. And they weren't plucked just a moon ago." The woman chattered on, studying the bewildered look on Edmund's face.

"Fortunate, I suppose." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you sure, boy?" Molly squinted at him.

"Enough." Gardener collected his thoughts. "I can't disclose where and when I gathered these herbs, or I wouldn't have come to you. I'm not asking for much—just supplies for the road and some change of clothes." He insisted, standing firm.

"Ha! So you are no longer a boy, but a man come to my door." The healer laughed. "Well, these herbs are indeed rare and valuable. I won't pry; you're clearly a decent fellow, though your lies are pitifully obvious. I will prepare you a pack for a week's journey. All I have left of trousers are my father's rags. Will that do?" Receiving a nod, Molly rose from the table. "Stay here. I'll head to the cellar and gather what you need. Don't let anything go missing while I'm gone." She paused. "You'll be having chicken for supper."

"I'll keep that in mind." Edmund swallowed hard, watching her leave. Something about her threatened to fulfill her ominous words.

Minutes of anxious waiting passed before Gardener heard a strange mooing sound. It was eerie, resembling an ancient, mournful music. Turning around several times, he realized the unnatural sound emanated from the elderly woman, who had begun to sway more violently in her chair. Feeling tense, the heir of the Oak Throne approached the old woman, straining to listen to the strange song of the former healer. Ultimately, unable to make sense of it, he decided to give her a gentle nudge, thinking she merely spoke in her sleep.

As soon as his hand extended within reach, the old crone seized it in an instant. Her sharp nails dug into his tender skin, binding him in her grip. The blind eyes of the old woman opened wide, fixing upon Edmund with an intensity that sent a chill through him. The mooing that had been barely audible morphed into a wail, akin to a banshee hunting its prey.

Attempts to free himself from the frenzied grasp of the old woman proved futile. The flimsy shutters burst open against the gust of wind. Outside, darkness fell abruptly. With a loud cawing, a raven swooped through the window, spiraling above the ceiling. The wind, fierce enough to toss aside furniture, stripped the old woman of her frail scarf. Her tangled, gray hair writhed as if alive, and her face twisted into a wicked grin as she continued her eerie chant.

"Is it not befitting, descendant of the First Men, servant of the Ancient Ones, to grovel before false gods?!" The voice that issued from her throat was inhuman, a horrific blend of hyena's laughter and a bear's growl. "Repent! Embrace the faith of your ancestors! Acknowledge their power!"

"Never!" The shout erupted from Gardener's lips unbidden. A fleeting fear, sparked by the sudden turn of events, was quickly replaced by a fierce resolve that felt like fire in his heart. Warmth enveloped him, shielding him from the bone-chilling wind. "My kin have forsaken the Old Gods, for they could not protect our people. Like jackals, they demanded sacrifices and gifts while we perished under the weight of Andal swords. By accepting the faith of the Seven, we found unity, knowledge, and pride that has bound our peoples for centuries. It was they who returned me from the dead, not your masters, abomination!" The words flowed from Edmund's tongue like a torrent, quicker than his thoughts, an intrinsic part of his being.

"And what of it?! Where are they now?! They have left you, their champion, to be torn apart by the lapdogs of a drunken king! Ha-ha-ha! Your life belongs to us, as does all your kin!!!" The old woman's assault did not relent; she laughed at his words.

"My kin belong to none but themselves, as my life belongs to me alone, vile spawn. Begone! Or…"

"Or what?!" the entity disguised as the old healer howled mockingly. With her other hand, she clutched Edmund by the chin in a demonic grip, pulling him closer. "They hold no power beneath the sun! The god born of men under the stars during the Long Night has no right to act in the light of day! The people, in their search for warmth and light at the edge of death, birthed in despair a god who cannot aid them!"

"So be it." Spitting the words defiantly into the old woman's face, Edmund did not relent, attempting with his free hand to pry free from her grip. "Yet it is this god who cast you into the cold lands of the North! It is he who rules these realms, not the Old Gods!" Those words ignited a firestorm; the old woman hurled Gardener against the far wall of the house.

"Think wisely, young Edmund." Her voice shifted to a deep, resonant tone. "You wear the rags of servants, though born in royal halls. Your strength ought to shine under the sun as was once decreed by us, the bestowers. All you need do is forsake the path laid before you. Reject your false masters and embrace the true faith. For this, the Long Night shall pass you by." With that, her head fell back against the chair, and the raven, which had been watching intently throughout the exchange, fluttered back out through the window.

Her wild hair settled, her milky eyes closed. Outside, the sun shone brightly once more, and the wind calmed, returning the warmth of summer rather than the chill of winter. Only the chaos wrought in the room and the dying embers in the hearth testified to the fact that this was no dream or trick of the mind. And Edmund wouldn't allow himself to think otherwise, well aware of the mystical side of the world.

"It seems I have stepped into the shoes of a Baratheon far sooner than I wished." Edmund smirked to himself, feeling warm crimson liquid trickle down his chin and arms. The wounds inflicted by the pagan deities in the body of the old healer ached, perhaps worse than any broken bone he had suffered during training with the Osgrens.

"What chaos have you wrought here?" A displeased Molly appeared in the doorway, surveying the wreckage. "I left you for but five minutes, and already you've turned the whole place upside down. Did my mother do this?" She glanced down at the sprawled Gardener, who nodded in surprise. "Curse her! Always the same!" Setting down the pack she had prepared, she began to restore her mother, retying her scarf and wrapping her in animal furs. "Did she frighten you?"

"Yeah, well… not really." Edmund grunted, rising from the floor with a groan. "And I've seen worse."

"I can see you didn't wet your breeches. Listen, how about I toss in a little extra for you, and you forget about that old hag's antics?" Molly suggested, beginning to tidy up the disarray in her home.

"That'll do." Gardener wasn't in a position to argue. "But I have a question of my own."

"Hmm?" Molly's interest piqued as she looked at him.

"Is this a common occurrence for you?" he asked, stretching his arms, revealing the cuts and scrapes adorning his skin.

"Ah." She waved her hand dismissively. "It varies. That old crone got caught up in some witches' rite of the Old Gods when she was young, and now she's paying for it. Tried to drag me into it too, but I took a good look at her sisters and sent that wretched lot on their way. I don't need any of that pagan nonsense in my life."

"I understand." Edmund nodded, newfound respect forming for the woman before him. "In fact, I fully support that decision."

"Shh. Enough of that, lad. Just tell me what else you want, and be on your way."


next chapter
Load failed, please RETRY

Tình trạng nguồn điện hàng tuần

Rank -- Xếp hạng Quyền lực
Stone -- Đá Quyền lực

Đặt mua hàng loạt

Mục lục

Cài đặt hiển thị

Nền

Phông

Kích thước

Việc quản lý bình luận chương

Viết đánh giá Trạng thái đọc: C7
Không đăng được. Vui lòng thử lại
  • Chất lượng bài viết
  • Tính ổn định của các bản cập nhật
  • Phát triển câu chuyện
  • Thiết kế nhân vật
  • Bối cảnh thế giới

Tổng điểm 0.0

Đánh giá được đăng thành công! Đọc thêm đánh giá
Bình chọn với Đá sức mạnh
Rank NO.-- Bảng xếp hạng PS
Stone -- Power Stone
Báo cáo nội dung không phù hợp
lỗi Mẹo

Báo cáo hành động bất lương

Chú thích đoạn văn

Đăng nhập