Chương 1: Prologue Chapter 0
In a place inaccessible to human sight, behind the fabric of time and all physical phenomena, a debate unfolded among entities that lacked any human form yet undoubtedly left an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of many peoples. It is difficult to imagine what drives such amorphous beings, whether ideals or even primitive instincts, as these concepts were certainly alien to their nature. Moreover, it was hard to call their interactions a dialogue in any form familiar to humans; the closest understanding lay in thought-forms that conveyed various shades of emotions, as incomprehensible as their very possessors.
For us, it will be easier to envision this communication as a conversation, for our minds are unlikely to grasp, with our limited bodies and intellect, these forms of existence.
- The dragons have fallen. — A powerful presence filled the space, which could, without irony, be called emptiness. Had it possessed a physical form or voice, one could confidently say it held a certain primacy and undoubtedly status among all others.
- The bet did not play out. The prophecy turned out to be false. — Like a creaking willow, the presence of another kind echoed. If we heard this voice in a crowd, we would assign its owner an age far older than some could even imagine, yet we would have no doubt about the wisdom of the speaking entity. — However, there are still options. The lines of fate are unpredictable. The dragons may return. Or they may fade into oblivion. As has been before. As is now. And as it will be.
- How sadly it all turned out. Their love didn't even have a chance to truly blossom. — A enchanting presence echoed the wise words of the previous entity. In these phrases, one could hear a sorrow and sadness inaccessible to ordinary mortals.
- Pff… Love, which became the reason for the fall of the dragons, the strife among mortals, disunity, and all this on the eve of a war that will determine the fate of the world. The foolishness of humans never ceases to amaze. Enough relying on them; the freedom we granted them out of mercy will soon lead to disaster. It's time to take control of the situation! The dragons have not lived up to expectations, as was to be expected from the servants of the Fallen. So let us choose our champion, as we once did!!! — The presence was undeniably more fierce and warlike than the previous one, capturing the attention of others with sharp remarks and accusations. Its seemingly biting phrases pierced and cut like any weapon of war, making these words seem all the more significant in this peculiar assembly.
- Do not judge mortals so harshly. After all, they are still children, and it is unlikely that will ever change. Their lifespan is short, and their flesh and minds are weak. We must understand them. — A gentle voice, like a mother's song over a child's cradle, responded.
- Understanding and humility are different things. We must make a rational decision that will not lead to the destruction of the world as it is. However, I will note that although the dragons are outsiders, we are just the same, so we should not dismiss them. But! The option of having our own champion, like Hugor, seems far more preferable to me. — A direct voice, as sharp as tempered steel, interrupted any potential argument in its infancy.
- Dragons are fickle and chaotic. Their souls and minds do not belong to us. It's like betting on a blind shepherd, hoping he will lead the flock past an active volcano rather than straight to it. On the other hand, among mortals, there are none left who are close to us. Those who remember the rituals and legends. Those with the bloodline and dignity to lead the others. — The wise, aged voice spoke again. It seemed to merely declare established and unchangeable facts, yet something mysterious lay behind all this impassivity. - But... nothing stops us from making two bets at once.
- Wise. — The presence, filled with authority, voiced its approval.
- And how shall we do this? It is known that mortals have lost contact with us. So who shall we choose as our champion? And how? — The enchanting voice resonated with shades of anxiety and doubt.
- The blood of the Andal is strong in almost every mortal house on the continent, except, of course, for the followers of the Forgotten. Choose from any you like. From the old and young, the orphans and the wretched, warriors and scholars. The main thing is! He must be able to fulfill the duty we lay upon him. — The direct voice left no room for doubt.
- True. But, as has been said, none of the living can bear this burden; I fear it is an impossible choice for all of us. — The gentle voice sounded as though its owner was shaking their head in disapproval.
- Perhaps I can help? — Suddenly, a grim presence of cold descended upon all the interlocutors. The voice was hoarse and hissing, barely distinguishable among the others; however, the pressure it exerted left no chance to ignore the speaker. - One can always turn to the dead…
- Unknown. We rarely hear anything from you, and even less often do we have the opportunity to use the power of the realm of the departed. In that case, we must decide who among the mortals will return from beyond the veil. — The authoritative entity was perhaps the only one who could respond to the mysterious presence of cold.
- What is there to think about?! In all our existence, there has only been one mortal worthy of such honor. Let us revive Hugor, and he will lead his people to dawn, as he once did! — The martial presence eagerly declared.
- Undoubtedly, Hugor is the noblest of mortals, but he left the world of the living too long ago. Besides, he would not agree to this. He has fulfilled his duty, so let him rest in peace. I have another proposal. — The owner of the direct voice actively participated in the discussion. — It is not necessary to unite all the peoples, but we can choose the strongest and grant him power.
- Life against death. Cold against warmth. Desolation against abundance. South against north. — The wise voice replied understandingly. — Certainly a valid choice. In those lands, faith in us is stronger than anywhere. Their kings were the first to see the light and knelt before us. But for this to work, we need a direct descendant of Greenhand; there will be no problems with that now that the Unknown has finally decided to intervene. However, we will need a sign, one so bright that there will be no doubt about our favor and the champion's origin.
- We will take care of that. The sign will leave no room for misinterpretation, and the gift that the champion receives will make mortals strive towards him themselves. We just need to choose the identity of the chosen one. — The presence full of authority once again filled the emptiness, taking absolute primacy in this conversation and putting a kind of period on the discussion. — The choice is obvious. The first heir of the last king will be reborn, wherever his soul may be now. Take care of this, Unknown.
- At once, Father. — The hissing voice instantly replied.
- Eldest. Legends and interpretations. Prophecies and visions. Let the mortals turn to mysticism and be ready for our champion. A warrior. The soul that will be reborn must be prepared for any battle it will face. A smith. The best equipment and armor—death must not come for him again before his time. Also, we should work on our gift for the chosen one. Mother and Maiden. Your gifts will be useful to him later, but we must not forget about them.
- Yes, Father!!! — A chorus of voices resounded in the singular emptiness, becoming one in an instant.
The one god in seven faces. Born under the shadow of human faith and seven stars. Deciding to grant freedom to the peoples that chose him as their shepherd and to refrain from interfering in their fate after the invasion of the Andals, he once again resolved to bless the mortal races and save them from inevitable catastrophe, at least this time. Now the pieces are in place, and the Game of Gods will begin much like the Game of Thrones.
A dragon, the gods that have fallen. A raven, the gods that have been forgotten. A hand, the god that never intervenes. Any victor of this clash will become the salvation of Westeros, but if none of them reach their goal, then… eternal cold will reign over all.
****
285 from the Conquest of Aegon
In the countryside, a village near Highgarden
- Grandmother, grandmother! Please tell me a fairy tale. — A little girl, about seven years old, with blonde hair like many from the Reach and expressive blue eyes, looked at the elderly woman with an adorable gaze. The old woman, who had lived through several kings and lords in this rich land, merely smiled at her granddaughter's request. She adjusted the old linen blanket on the sturdy oak bed and sat at the edge for a more comfortable time.
It was an ordinary, solidly built oak house, like many in every village. Unlike other provinces of the Seven Kingdoms, the peasants of the Reach could afford much, as they were the main source of wealth for many noble houses. The primary source of income in this region was agriculture, which is why many peasants engaged in it, but those with a craft were also held in high esteem. In this case, the head of the family, like his father before him, and his father before that, practiced carpentry. This trade allowed him, in addition to a good house, to maintain a small livestock farm, his own workshop, and a bit of extra land, which logically made him more prosperous than his neighbors.
However, it should not be forgotten that the life of a peasant, even one as successful as he, did not allow for extravagant living, as most of the income went toward various fees and taxes to the actual landowner—the lordly knight who owned the village. From there, taxes traveled up the heraldic ladder until they reached Highgarden—the capital of the region.
The dry old woman gazed with a certain melancholy at the flickering tallow candle, lost in long-forgotten memories. Meanwhile, her granddaughter squirmed with impatience on the bed, waiting for her request to be fulfilled. With the lively joy characteristic of all children her age, she shifted her gaze from the candle to her grandmother, whose gray hair and eyes sparkled faintly in the candlelight.
- Well, dear, as you must already know, we have a new king for the first time in many years. — The woman decided to approach the subject gradually, gently playing with her granddaughter's soft curls.
- Yes, yes! And he's not a Targaryen, grandmother. Father talks about this with his friends often. And mother also frequently says that the Targaryens were bad, and now we will all live well. Look! — The girl boasted of her knowledge gathered from her father's banter and her mother's slightly religious lamentations.
- Ha. Yes, and it's not Targaryens but Targaryens, dear. They ruled our land, though not from here, for nearly three hundred years. Only the gods know whether their departure will be a blessing or a curse. But do you know who ruled our region before the Targaryens? Who were the true kings of the Reach?
- Who were they, grandmother? Oh, wait! I think I know! It was the Tyrells, right? They rule the Reach—so Dad said. Look! — The girl displayed her enthusiasm, eager to show off her knowledge.
- Your father is correct—the Tyrells do rule the Reach. But that is now. Back then, they were merely stewards, quite respectable, but not like they are now. — The old woman shook her head, looking at the girl with love.
- What are stewards? — The little one asked curiously.
- Hmm. Those are the people who manage the household at the castle. An important and honorable position, but hardly comparable to that of the lord of the Reach. No, the kings of the Reach were the Gardener family, the first descendants of Garth Greenhand. I've told you about him before. Many noble lords and ladies trace their lineage back to him, which they take great pride in. The Gardeners were the first among all others, and their power over the Reach was undisputed. However, when the dragons arrived, everything changed. The last king, Gardener, gathered a vast army and set out with his sons to defeat the first king Targaryen. But what could ordinary men, no matter how many, do against dragons? Right, nothing. Mern, as the last king was called, along with all his sons, grandsons, and nephews, was burned on a field now known as the Field of Fire. With no more forces capable of opposing the dragons and claiming the Oak Throne, the Reach submitted, and the Tyrells were appointed lords of our land. — The woman finished her tale with sadness, as if she herself had witnessed such terrible events.
- How frightening, grandmother. What happened to the ladies? Ladies don't fight, so they should have been safe. — The girl asked with a hint of fear in her voice. The flickering flame and the play of shadows fueled her imagination, making the terrible and mighty dragons seem very real and dangerous. She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket, leaving only a pair of frightened eyes visible.
- Don't worry, child. — The old woman soothed her granddaughter, gently stroking her head. — Those are matters of long ago; the dragons are no more. The ladies of House Gardener were already married by then, and the last queen, before she went to spend her remaining days in the Starry Sept, which, as you know, is located in Oldtown, uttered a wonderful song that is rarely sung but still echoes among the people of the Reach, whether commoners or nobles. — The grandmother smiled at the child, who had stopped trembling, her eyes beginning to droop, signaling that she was on the verge of sleep.
- What song, grandmother? — The granddaughter asked with a light yawn, turning onto her other side towards the candle, trying not to fall asleep before the end of the story, though we all know how futile those attempts can be.
- When the dragons of the king shall fall,
And the land is drenched in crimson tide,
From the damp earth shall rise a call,
A warrior with a golden cup held high.
Draped in the black ashes of sleep,
He'll awaken, seven gifts in hand,
Returning to save, our souls to keep,
From darkness and cold, he will stand.
And in that pre-dawn hour's glow,
Conquering the evils we forgot,
He'll claim the Oak Throne, regal and bold,
In the capital of gardens, where dreams are sought.
Under the shade of the Seven's grace,
He'll be crowned in peace, our guiding light,
He'll green the lands that fire did erase,
Turning ashes to life, restoring the right.
With wisdom, he'll rule the realm so fair,
A shield for kindness, a sword for strife,
And mercy for all, he'll ever spare,
For the hearts of his people, he'll cherish life.
Crowned in the wreath of victory's song,
Seven years of battle, fierce and grand,
Seven years of quill, where stories belong,
Seven hundred years 'neath a peaceful hand.
And when that moment draws near and clear,
This hero shall leave our world behind,
Hearing the whispers of the gods so dear,
Bequeathing the Reach for all humankind.
On this glorious, almost whispering note, the old woman finished her tale. The girl had already entered her third dream, lulled by her grandmother's steady singing. Outside, the full moon shone brightly. It seemed that, at that very moment, the gods themselves had turned their gaze upon the blessed, evergreen land.
However, that was not far from the truth.
***
2015 A.D.
Earth. Outskirts of Dublin.
Dublin. The capital of the Irish Republic was shrouded in darkness on a hot July night. Outside the postmodern-style house, the stars shone brightly, and the full moon illuminated the narrow streets and homes of the outskirts, which could easily be considered a suburb. Neat street lamps cast a faint glow, as at this time of night, there were rarely any visitors in the compact area.
In one of those houses, for the seventh night in a row, a young man suffered from insomnia, having recently crossed into his thirties. His name was Louis McMurphy. An ordinary man with slightly reddish hair and a hint of light brown strands, he was a middle manager with a decent salary. His mother was French, which explained his somewhat unusual name for a native Irishman of many generations, tracing back to his father—of course, old McMurphy.
His gray eyes, slightly reddened from lack of sleep and with a barely noticeable steel sheen, stared thoughtfully at the laptop screen. As he scrolled through page after page of various forums searching for advice to relieve him of his recent affliction, McMurphy grimaced as he finished the tea laced with a certain dosage of sleeping pills prescribed by his doctor, which unfortunately proved completely ineffective. Louis had sought help at the hospital on the third day of his problem, which had hit him like a snowball, and so far, to no avail.
On the very first night, the young man dismissed the lack of a sleepy reflex. After all, he thought, he had just had too much coffee at work. However, by the second night, he expressed concern, as the accumulated fatigue from the past few days began to weigh on him. By the third night, after his visit to the doctor, he was under considerable stress, especially after the double dose of the medication prescribed by Dr. Williams had no effect. A follow-up visit to the hospital yielded no results. Dr. Williams ran some tests again but simply shrugged and said that Louis's body had an increased resistance to sedatives, prescribing a few more medications and scheduling a follow-up appointment in a week if these didn't work either. And that's how it went.
Realizing that the local Hippocratic oath-takers were powerless, Louis decided to turn to the most powerful source of knowledge in the 21st century – the Internet. However, so far, his searches had not yielded any significant results, except for a slight stomach upset after consuming a few plants whose names in the Celtic variant of the Irish language were utterly tongue-twisting.
Strangely enough, on this seventh night, McMurphy was unusually calm. No, he was still not inclined to sleep, but… Louis felt deep down that something was about to happen. A slight tingling inside told him of some significant changes, the nature of which he, a young man, was still unable to grasp. Or maybe it was all due to his condition, as the phase of fatigue gradually shifted into a phase of physical hallucinations. McMurphy didn't have an answer yet.
Trying to shake off the remnants of fatigue, Louis stood up from his chair, set his laptop aside, and headed straight for the window. Releasing the stifling air that had accumulated in the room, McMurphy took a deep breath of relief. Outside, there was impenetrable darkness, punctuated by the rare lights from neighboring houses. It was three in the morning, and since summer was in full swing, dawn would soon be on its way.
With a gaze full of melancholy, Louis was about to return to his interrupted activity when suddenly his Irish eyes caught sight of the night sky, or rather, something extraordinary even for this place. The starry canvas spread its lace pattern in every direction where the gaze of an ordinary mortal could fall. The celestial bodies seemed to have engaged in a whimsical dance. McMurphy wasn't an astrophysics expert, but he was sure that stars should not move like that.
The clumps of gas and plasma appeared to have turned into mischievous children, forgetting all the prohibitions of their parents as soon as the latter disappeared behind the front door, leaving them alone. They took on various shapes and patterns, sometimes lining up and then scattering again. As if enchanted, McMurphy hurriedly walked toward the front door. Once outside the now too cramped and unpleasant house, Louis stopped on the neatly trimmed lawn, catching a glimpse of a few neighbors whose names he had long forgotten, who, like him, had stepped out of their homes and were now capturing the spectacle with their phones, mouths agape. Most likely, McMurphy looked no better; he had just forgotten his phone on the table, but he didn't consider that an unfortunate loss. After all, he could always ask one of the bystanders to send him the recording later.
The celestial phenomenon occurring beyond Earth's atmosphere lasted at least seven minutes, Louis noted. And again, the number seven. This number had haunted Louis for as long as he could remember. The best and worst moments typically happened on days associated with seven. And today, if one were to glance at the calendar, one would be surprised to find the number seven next to the day of the week. So it turned out that on the seventh day of the seventh month, on the seventh day of his insomnia, an event occurred that was scientifically inexplicable and lasted seven minutes. Coincidence? Perhaps. However, Louis was ready to wager his month's salary that it was not just a coincidence.
However, thoughts of these oddities vanished in an instant as McMurphy suddenly heard and felt a loud and painful thump of his own heart. At first, Louis didn't even realize what had happened. The second blow was much clearer and stronger, knocking all the air out of him. By the third, his legs buckled, and McMurphy felt himself falling to the ground. In a last-ditch effort, the Irishman managed to throw out his hands, barely avoiding smashing his face into the ground. The fourth strike elicited a sharp, raspy groan from his throat, and his neighbors, who had been outside, rushed over, with some of the smarter ones frantically calling for an ambulance.
Through the thick haze of pain that engulfed his body, Louis heard the voice of his neighbor, Lorraine, trying to bring him back to his senses. The sounds reached him with difficulty, as if from a distance.
"...Louis! You need to lie on your back! Can you hear me?! You need to lie on your back!!!" Lorraine yelled, trying to get through to McMurphy. "You might be having a seizure! Do you understand?! He needs air and space. Step back, quickly!" This was directed at the crowd of people who had gathered around the lying McMurphy.
Even though he wasn't fully aware of what was happening, Louis understood what the woman he saw a couple of times a month—if even that—wanted from him. With some effort, he managed to relax his arms, which felt heavy as lead, and was quickly lifted and laid on his back. During this time, a fifth thump of his heart occurred, after which even a normal breath seemed impossible, and his body arched at an unnatural angle. The sounds faded from his waning consciousness, so Louis no longer heard Lorraine asking people to hold him down firmly, nor did he feel as a makeshift gag, hastily assembled from available materials, was shoved into his mouth to prevent him from biting his own tongue.
At the sixth thump, Louis's eyes rolled back, and all sensitivity and the sense of smell completely left him. Seeing the critical condition of the young man lying on the ground, Lorraine, in a desperate attempt to save his life, began performing artificial heart massage, as she had noticed a strangely slow heart rate after her initial pulse check.
However, Louis was hardly concerned about anything anymore, and when the seventh fateful thump occurred, the pain receded. Consciousness fully left the young man, and his body lay motionless on the ground, no longer kicking or twitching. "Damn that seven again!" was Louis's last thought in this life.
***
The same emptiness. The same entities, whose designs were hidden from human understanding behind a veil of mystery and something greater than all of us. However, this time, the singular god in seven faces had a guest from a world entirely different from the one this entity was responsible for. A small clump of transparent light was all that remained of Louis McMurphy, standing before the god.
As strange as the situation might have appeared to a 21st-century man, Louis viewed everything with a certain degree of melancholy and curiosity. After all, he had died, and with his body, a large part of the emotions that body had housed had been lost. What was happening led McMurphy to a variety of thoughts about the meaning of life and the religious truths of different faiths. Since the clump had no means to speak—after all, it had no mouth, and Louis didn't know how to express himself otherwise—he had to patiently await the actions of the indescribable entity before him.
"Mortal!!!" The voice, reminiscent of choral singing, resounded from the depths of this creature's essence. "You are summoned to us not out of whim, but out of great benevolence towards your mortal kind!!!" It seemed that the very emptiness surrounding them trembled with the creature's unified roar. "Rejoice, for you are chosen to become a conduit of our will!!! Our name is the Seven!!! Here is our decree and our choice!!!"
As soon as the gods/god finished their peculiar and undeniably pompous greeting, McMurphy clearly realized he had the opportunity to respond, as if a sixth sense whispered this to him. However, given the recent events in his life, that so-called sixth sense could very well have been a seventh.
"Um… Thank you, of course, for such a high honor, but… was it really necessary to kill me? And why me, specifically?" McMurphy had no illusions, and thus, weighing the facts, he could confidently say who was responsible for his untimely death. However, Louis had been raised in a conservative Catholic family; although he had become an agnostic over the years, manners, as his mother said, were above all else. So, maintaining politeness, he calmly inquired about the motives of such a powerful being.
"Your soul belongs to us!!! So it was in the past!!! So it is now!!! So it will be henceforth!!!" The entity responded with utmost clarity. This answer left McMurphy more puzzled than enlightened, which, apparently, the entity understood. "In your past life, you were born under seven stars, which embody our will. Born to become a king, but perished by the flames of a dragon. Edmund Gardener before, now Louis McMurphy, you are summoned to once again embrace this name and the fate that it carries." This time, the voices seemed to divide, and the reply came from the face that had the most wrinkles, vaguely resembling Louis's great-grandmother on his father's side, whom he had seen only once in childhood. However, in his current state, any distant memory surfacing in his semblance of consciousness was clearer and more vivid than ever before.
"Well, thank you for the explanation. If I'm not mistaken, this is about who I was in my past life, right?" Louis clarified, beginning to vaguely grasp whom he was dealing with.
"Correct!!!" The unanimous choir of seven voices rang out again.
"I see. I think there might be a possible mistake; please don't take it personally, gentlemen/lord Seven. You speak of who I was, but I am a completely different person—or soul—now. I don't quite understand how I can help you and why you need assistance right now. After all, I have no memories from my past life and thus no understanding of what's happening." Louis tried to appeal to the voice of reason of this being, hoping that everything could still be turned back.
Now they would find out that the plan to summon him was not quite right. McMurphy would wake up in his armchair in the living room, with his laptop on his lap, relieved from the insomnia that had passed. Then he would go to work and forget everything that had happened like a rare, realistic nightmare. Or he would awaken in a hospital room after an unusual heart attack for his age, and after spending an indefinite period undergoing expensive treatment, he would return to his normal life as if nothing had happened. In any case, he would come out ahead, and the local higher entities would find someone else for their undoubtedly great mission. Perhaps that young twenty-year-old geek from the next street, O'Brian, if he remembered correctly.
"There is no mistake in our decision, young Edmund. The memories will begin to return once you pass through the veil between the worlds of the dead and the living. After all, it is weaker than ever in the face of the Long Night. It is because of it and the return of our ancient enemy—the Great Other—that you are needed by the mortal peoples, child. Westeros must endure. You must endure." The voice, with a slight French accent, resonated in the emptiness, answering Louis's questions.
If McMurphy had the ability to cry, he certainly would have, for the voice belonged to the visage of his deceased mother, who had passed away from cancer seven years before his own death. The events unfolding before him felt surreal, like a dream of a sick schizophrenic, but for Louis, everything was real. The longer this strange dialogue continued between him and the divine entity, the more he understood that he would never return to his old life. Especially after several key words spoken by the interlocutors, since McMurphy, while not a fervent fan of the series gaining worldwide popularity, had watched it with great interest.
"I… I… don't understand. Why me, then? I have no skills that could possibly help you. I'm not a leader or a warrior. Not a sage or a wizard. Just an ordinary mid-level clerk with no great ambitions, living a measured everyday life. You say I'm supposed to vanquish an ancient evil of an entire world, armed with necromancy and cold magic, leading an army of the dead. That's… simply impossible." Louis was bewildered and completely confused by the motives of the deity before him. For him—a regular person—everything happening was illogical and incoherent.
"You know about the coming Battle for Dawn and the threat beyond the Wall. That's already more than we could expect from an ordinary person, believe us, young Edmund. You're right, you have no skills worthy of a king or a warrior, but you have a soul that can be reborn, blood that can boil and lead an army, a will that won't let you give up. What you lack, we will supply with our power and the legacy you will gain by returning to the world of the living. Believe in yourself, young Edmund, as we believe in you—our champion." The gentle voice calmed all the anxiety that suddenly washed over Louis. It felt like a light autumn breeze, and its owner resembled his first school love, Kessy Sanders, so much that if McMurphy had a heart, it would have certainly raced with double strength. It seemed he had not only died but had also fallen in love again.
"And yet. Do I really have no choice? Can I return to my world, the one in which I lived a life I remember at this moment, rather than some time before?" Louis's last desperate attempt to convince the gods sounded more like the bleating of a lamb than a confident protest.
"NO! Our mercy is not easily obtained, lad! We have expended considerable effort to return your soul to this plane of existence, even despite the fall of your gods. The collective unconscious of humanity in your world, like a clumsy demon, is ready to devour any higher entity that approaches the lower spheres of existence. Evading its gaze and retrieving your soul proved to be no easy task, so the path back is closed to you, as your soul has become foreign to it. The moment you come near, you will be devoured, sharing the fate of the gods of that world." The voice, full of authority, responded to the man's pleading exclamations.
Information pouring onto McMurphy raised more questions than answers, but Louis chose not to argue—he wasn't in a position to do so, and he had no reason to doubt the words of the divine entity. He simply saw no sense in lying about something like this to a mere mortal like him. Still, he wanted to clarify something.
"If my soul belongs to you, then how is it that I was reborn on Earth?"
"You were born under seven stars but were consumed by dragon fire. An ancient pact bound our hands, as anyone burned by a dragon belongs to the gods of Valyria. However, to prevent wars among the immortals over mortal souls, we made a pact. Its essence is that each disputed soul remains with the original pantheon but is purified and sent to another world. Only after seven— in our case—deaths does it return. Over the years spent away, you have already gone through four incarnations and were supposed to undergo three more, including the one during which we summoned you. But there was no time to wait. We had to intervene prematurely. Although it was a minor violation, it still struck us, and had the Fallen been stronger, war would have been inevitable." The authoritative voice expressed itself with an impassive tone; it seemed utterly unconcerned with the unfolding events. However, Louis sensed with his seventh sense that it was this visage, resembling an older version of McMurphy, that held a leading position among the rest.
"I see. I suppose, since I have no choice left, I will have to humbly accept my fate. So, I need to stop the Long Night and the army of the Great Other?" The lack of strong emotions positively affected Louis's cognitive abilities, allowing him to immediately focus on the task at hand. Since there was no turning back, he would have to make do with the information he had. However, McMurphy was sure that once he came back to life, he would regret more than once what would happen in this whirlwind of emptiness.
"Correct!!! But you must not forget whose champion you are. Strengthen your faith, protect the weak, respect age and death. Do not forget honor and labor. Remain human. Rule with dignity."
"Rule with what?"
"Soon you will remember and comprehend. We are the Seven!!! We bestow upon you seven gifts as our champion! From the Father, as a son, we grant you the Right! From the Mother, as a son, we grant you a Home! From the Crone, as a grandson, we grant you Knowledge! From the Lady, as a beloved, we grant you Love! From the Warrior, as a brother, we grant you Skill! From the Smith, as an apprentice, we grant you Equipment! From the Stranger, we grant you Life/Death! Go now, champion, fulfill your duty to us!"The chorus of voices from the single god in seven faces seemed to thunder from everywhere. The transparent light that was McMurphy began to be drawn somewhere.
"Wait?! Where will I even end up? When will I remember everything? What should I do after that? I have so many questions!!!" Louis shouted with all his might.
"When the time comes, you will know everything. We do not abandon you, champion. Now we are bound, and that will never change. Remember this, Edmund Gardner!!! Remember, king of the Realm and chosen one of the Seven!!!"
That was the last thing Louis heard before disappearing from the void, leaving the abode of the divine entity. The realization of the final phrase promised him both a multitude of problems and opportunities.
The Game of Gods had begun.
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