19.7

ACT 963161069-26889.24.(M1.D09)(9697-8697 B.C.)-Eve-Smith-Silver Prime

It was well known that a legend was born in the dawn of the age when the sun's first rays kissed the sea, and the moon danced the waltz with the stars. In the heart of Braavos, shrouded in mystery and veiled by shadows, the Many-Faced Goddess forged her bond with the Faceless Men. From the ashes of a world consumed by chaos and strife, a new order arose, bound to the sacred calling of the elusive deity.

A religion built on murder and sustained by darkened gold.

In the land of the Free City, the whispers of a divine entity echoed throughout the night, woven into the very fabric of the darkness that enveloped the city. Playing as the Many-Faced Goddess, Eve was an enigma wrapped in riddles. She rarely revealed herself to the world, her presence as ephemeral as the mists that cloaked the lagoon.

This far in the past, the Faceless Men were a handful of lost souls seeking solace in the silence that pervaded the city. As twilight's cloak fell upon the world, they wandered through the labyrinthine alleys, their hearts hollow and empty, like a drum that beat a mournful tune.

Nothing could provide them a path forward until she arrived.

On a day where rain fell as the heavens wept with the weight of a thousand sorrows, Eve, as the Many-Faced Goddess, appeared to each of the First of the Faceless in their darkest hour. Her countenance a mélange of a thousand faces, and her visage ever-changing, she whispered secrets long-forgotten along with prophecies to come. To all who heard, her voice was the rustle of autumn leaves upon the cobbled stones. It hadn’t taken much to turn them to her side.

Eve calmly spoke of a purpose, a divine calling that resonated deep within their souls, the priceless echo of an ancient choice older than the stars themselves. The Faceless Men, drawn to the ethereal beauty of her countenance and words, allied with the mysterious goddess, pledging their undying loyalty.

Eve provided funds purloined from the nascent future merchants of the Iron Bank families to craft a place of learning. In the House of Black and White hallowed halls, the Faceless Ones honed their skills and sharpened their senses, learning the art of deception and the craft of illusion. They became one with the shadows, as adept in the dance of death as they were in the masquerade of life.

Even centuries after the first light of dawn caressed the gilded spires of Braavos, Eve, working as the Many-Faced Goddess, watched over her chosen acolytes, guiding them with her divine wisdom, bestowing upon them the gift of a thousand faces and the power to change their very essence with but a whispered prayer.

Through their devotion to the Many-Faced Goddess, the Faceless Men became the voice that lingered in the shadows, the hand that snuffed the flame of life, and the fingers that silenced the tumultuous clamor of the world. Bound by blood and duty, they served Eve faithfully, their loyalty unyielding as the eternal stones that bore the world's weight.

In the long river of time Eve had planned well, their names remain whispered in the highest echelons, their deeds forever shrouded in enigma. The carefully crafted legend of the Many-Faced Goddess and her Faceless Men endured time’s caress, an indelible mark etched upon the pages of history, a testament to the power of faith and the eternal bond that unites those who serve a higher purpose.

Eve was playing the long game, and she knew well the value of those who would kill without question.

Every day for almost a thousand years, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky was painted in crimson and gold, the Many-Faced Goddess continued to watch over her devoted servants, guiding them through the shadows of a world steeped in chaos and pain. The Faceless Men, now more than mere whispers in the wind, had become the unseen guardians of balance, the delicate fulcrum upon which the scales of life and death teetered.

Empires, kingdoms, and lordships rose or fell at their touch.

With time, their influence grew, as did their numbers, each new acolyte forged in the fires of devotion and tempered by the icy hand of death. The House of Black and White stood tall far before its time, its austere visage a symbol of the eternal bond between the goddess and her followers. Within its silent halls, secrets unfolded like the petals of midnight rose, each revelation bringing with it the promise of power and the burden of responsibility.

The Many-Faced Goddess, Eve, her visage ever-changing yet forever constant, bestowed blessings upon the Faceless Men. Her divine touch, as ephemeral as the morning dew, granted them the power to mold their countenance like wax, blend into the tapestry of life with but a thought, and walk among the living, unseen, and unstoppable.

Eve knew that as the centuries to come passed and the world changed with the inexorable march of time, the legend of the Many-Faced Goddess and her Faceless Men would be set as fact, not fiction. Though cloaked in shadows and shrouded in secrecy, their deeds reverberated through the ages, echoing the eternal song of life and death, balance and purpose.

In the hallowed halls of the House of Black and White, the Faceless Men forever stood as a testament to the power of devotion, a living reminder of the sacred bond forged between the mortals and the divine. Their loyalty was unwavering, their faith unyielding. They served the Many-Faced Goddess with a fervor that burned like a thousand suns, a flame that illuminated the darkest corners of the world and cast away the shadows that threatened to consume it. In the silent whispers of the wind, the rustling of the autumn leaves, and the gentle caress of the moonlight, the legend of the Faceless endured, an eternal testament to the power of faith and the indomitable strength of the human spirit.

In the last few decades, as the health of Eldon Blackwater began to fail, Eve made preparations. Careful planning had placed her at the point where the Gold Road and Blackwater Rush meet, a place where weary travelers from far and wide sought solace and respite. If any looked, it was where stood a modest tavern. Its timbers creaked and groaned like the boughs of an ancient weirwood tree, yet its warm hearth fire and welcoming ambiance were like a beacon to all who passed through this junction. The proprietor of this establishment was a stout-hearted woman, a tavern keeper of no small renown named Lady Maera.

Eve had created this persona for a particular reason.

Lady Maera was a woman of middling years, her fiery red hair streaked with the wisdom of silver. The lines etched on her face bespoke a life that had seen its fair share of hardship, and her eyes held a knowing gleam that could pierce the soul. She was comely, but her beauty lay in her confidence, and her manner conveyed a sense of unyielding strength that was rare in the realm.

According to well-spread rumors, she had spent her formative years traversing the Seven Kingdoms. Maera had developed an uncanny understanding of men and their desires from the Iron Islands' icy shores to the sun-kissed sands of Dorne. This knowledge she applied with great skill in the tending of her tavern, which she had christened "The Crossroads Hearth."

It mostly revolved around seamlessly cheating to provide an incredible number of drinks.

The Crossroads Hearth was a peculiar establishment, unlike any other in the realm. Eve had planned it out to the minor details. Its walls were adorned with the myriad sigils and banners of the great houses of the First Men. Within its hallowed confines, alliances were forged and broken in the private rooms, secrets traded in the cellar, and fortunes won and lost within the gambling hall. Yet beneath its roof, the rules of chivalry and honor were held sacrosanct, and those who dared to violate them found themselves cast out into the cold night, their names forever blackened from the list of guests. If they managed to make it a mile without dying, it would be legend told in the bar on long nights.

Plenty knew that within the place, the Faceless could be found.

Eve, as Lady Maera, ruled her domain with a firm hand and a soft heart. She was known to dispense advice as readily as she poured the finest Arbor Gold, and her laughter could fill the room like the sweetest songbird's serenade. Her patrons were many and varied, from the highborn lord to the lowliest hedge knight, and each was treated with the same courtesy and respect. For in the Crossroads Hearth, all were equal before the hearth fire, and their stories and dreams intermingled like the smoke that curled up towards the rafters.

Eve had worked hard to ensure that with time, the fame of Lady Maera and her establishment spread far and wide over the decades since it was created, and the Crossroads Hearth had become a hub for all folk.

Merchants, minstrels, and mummers would gather there, seeking solace from their weary journeys and the chance to regale others with their tales of adventure and intrigue. And through it all, the Crossroads Hearth stood like a beacon, its presence a testament to the indomitable spirit of the realm, a guiding light in a world shrouded in shadow and uncertainty. Armies came and went, but none ever passed within ten miles of the Hearth. It was a well-known saying that the Hearth was home. It was also an excellent location to ensure her assassins had full access to Westeros.

It wasn’t like the Faceless questioned her spatial powers, either.

After ensuring everything was proceeding flawlessly, Eve shed her tavern-keeping persona upon hearing Eldon Blackwater was on his deathbed. She had already planned for when she wasn’t at the Crossroads Hearth, a Faceless One who typically posed as barmaid took her place. The girl played the part perfectly, never questioning where her goddess went.

Eve used Spatial Steps to shift her position without care. Time moved differently in this realm compared to Charlotte’s world. Due to her immortality, it felt like water off a duck’s back to her. The System would ensure that when she returned, barely a fraction had passed from her departure. This differential gave her time to plan and pilfer the world.

Under the starless sky, the night was dark and full of whispers, as if the shadows conspired to shroud the land in secrecy. The wind howled like the mournful cries of a hundred lost souls, tugging at the tendrils of black mist that clung to the lone figure standing in the moon's pale embrace.

Eve had spent her time waiting for Eldon Blackwater’s death by becoming a goddess of ancient legend, the Many-Faced. Her hair was a tempest of silver streaks and danced like serpents in the wind, while her eyes were two burning embers of silver light, piercing the inky darkness. She wore a midnight velvet cloak, its hem adorned with liquid silver trim shimmering as it contained the souls of those who had dared to refuse to pay her Faceless Ones.

With the languid grace of a panther, she approached the cold stone of the ancient House of Blackwater, her steps echoing like the distant rumble of thunder. The old runes etched upon the weathered mansion wall’s gate seemed to come alive under her fingertips, their glow casting an eerie pallor upon her visage.

"My time has finally come," she whispered in a voice both sultry and sinister, the words weaving a dark incantation that seeped through the cracks of the mansion. "It is time to claim what is rightfully mine. Power lent, now to be returned."

The ground shifted softly beneath her feet as if the very earth feared her power, and the metal-wrought gate groaned in protest, finally giving way to the sorceress's will. The silver-tinted black mist that had accompanied her swirled into the darkness, seeking the source of the power she had once lent.

The mansion door was no more of an impediment to her than water was to a blade. Inside the multi-story mansion, the halls were dimly lit, the shadows writhed, and the air grew dense with ancient magical defenses. Eve let her senses flow through the defensive spells of the mansion, subverting their purpose. It took mere moments to find her target, and she used Spatial Steps to arrive at the highest floor. There, lying in repose upon a comfortable bed with fluffy pillows, was the one who held her power. Eldon Blackwater, a sorcerer of vaunted renown, his life hanging by a thread, his body preserved through spell-crafted sacrifice. An old man replaced the child from before, and sorcery woven with grace stalled him from the embrace of death.

The large poster bed was surrounded by countless associates, family members, and noble guests. It was as if the old sorcerer was trying to hold off death by sheer dint of people. The bedside contained those among his family with direct lineage.

As she flowed through the crowd, Eve watched Eldon’s eyes snap open, silver orbs tracking her progress. Constant use of mana had leeched all other colors from his eyes. The air crackled with energy as the sorceress sang the surrounding crowd to spellbound silence, her voice weaving a sonorous incantation brighter than the stars themselves. There was no need for interference in this undertaking.

Eve approached Eldon, his once-youthful visage was now etched with the lines of time, yet his eyes still burned with a fire that could consume worlds. Even bedridden, the air around him crackled with the energy of his magic.

"Silver Witch," he murmured, his voice a blend of reverence and pride. "I have awaited your return. It has been a long time."

Eve's lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes narrowing into slivers of silver. "Indeed, who knew the boy adventuring in a forgotten library would turn into the Sorcerer of Silver? There are hundreds of books written about you to this day."

Eldon nodded, his gaze unwavering. "The seed you planted within me has borne fruit, the likes of which this world has never seen. I have peered into the depths of the cosmos and unlocked the secrets of the arcane. My power is unmatched, a tribute to the gift you bestowed upon me."

Eve tilted her head, her fingers tracing patterns in the air, her voice like a lullaby to the stars. "Do you have any final requests?"

“Please ensure that a King always sits upon the Silver Throne. I spent many years creating that artifact as a focal point to guard humanity in Westeros.” Eldon asked in a whisper. “I know you are behind the Faceless, so this small favor is easily done.”

“Correct.” Eve said, “Are you prepared?”

Eldon closed his eyes and said, “I go to the next great adventure and regret nothing. Goodbye, timeless creature.”

With a flick of her wrist, she extracted the essence of Eldon's power, the seed nurtured by the world’s magic. It pulsed within her grasp, a kaleidoscope of energy that swirled and danced with the colors of creation. The power she had granted him, a boon he used to protect his people in their darkest hour, began to spin. Within moments the colors siphoned away until only silver remained, pooling around her fingers like a river of liquid light turned into orb form. There were several soft crunches in the resounding silence of the room.

Eve gave a sultry moan as she licked her fingers clean.

The sorceress's eyes flared with triumph as the last vestiges of power vanished into her body. With a final, shuddering gasp, Eldon’s body slumped against the pillows, his soul surrendering to time’s touch. A thousand years of fighting, finally over.

With her power reclaimed, Eve, the Many-Faced Goddess to some, looked among the gathered guests. Their unseeing eyes stared blankly ahead, unaware of what had occurred here. She used Spatial Steps and exited the mansion back into the night, the wind and the shadows once more her willing accomplices. As she vanished into the darkness, the mansion’s door closed with a haunting echo. It was an excellent seal silencing the scream on the highest floor after she released the guests from her spell.

The next day beneath a somber sky, shrouded in veils of gray and silver, the mourners gathered to bid farewell to the great sorcerer Eldon Blackwater. The biting wind blew with a mournful sigh as if the elements had come to mourn the passing of the one who had once tamed them.

The funeral procession wound its way down the cobbled streets of Blackwater's Rest, the ancient stronghold home to the Blackwater’s Sorcerer of Silver for a thousand years. Silent as wraiths, the hooded figures moved like shadows, their faces hidden behind dark masks of sorrow. The soft patter of their footsteps echoed through the narrow alleyways, bearing witness to the end of an era.

Lord Castor Blackwater, the late sorcerer's eldest son and heir, strode at the head of the procession. His eyes, once bright with promise, were now veiled in grief. The responsibility of continuing his father's legacy rested upon his broad shoulders, a burden that weighed heavily upon his heart. Behind him, the bier was drawn by six great black stallions, their ebony coats shining like the dark waters from which the family took its name.

As the procession reached the edge of the Silent Sea, the mourners came to a halt. Here, on the rocky shoreline where the waves of the sea kissed the cold earth, the final resting place of Eldon Blackwater had been chosen. A circle of ancient stones encircled the site, their runes pulsing with the faintest glow of magic.

The High Priestess of the Red Temple stepped forward to perform the rites. Her voice, as cold and crisp as the winter air, seemed to carry the weight of eons. "We gather here, under the watchful gaze of the heavens, to commit Eldon Blackwater, the great sorcerer, and master of the arcane, to the eternal embrace of the sea."

As her words echoed into the silence, the air thickened with the moment's tension. Even the wind held its breath as if fearful of disturbing the ancient ritual. The High Priestess raised her arms, her voice rising to a chilling crescendo. "From the depths of darkness, he brought forth silver light. From the chaos of the elements, he forged order. May the currents of the Silent Sea carry his spirit to the farthest reaches of the unknown, and may the stars guide him on his journey."

With a final flourish, she drew a gleaming dagger from within the folds of her robes and cut a lock of her brilliant red hair. As she cast the lock into the churning waters, the other mourners followed suit, offering a piece of themselves as a tribute to the departed sorcerer.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of crimson and gold, the time had come to bid farewell. The bier, adorned with wreaths of black roses and nightshade, was carried into the sea by the six stallions, their hooves churning the water into a frothy, inky maelstrom.

And as the waves claimed Eldon Blackwater's body, the mourners stood silent, their eyes filled with the setting sun's reflection. The world had lost a great sorcerer, a master of the arcane arts, but his legacy would live on in the hearts and minds of those he left behind.

The mourners dispersed in the shadows of twilight, their whispers carried away by the wind. The great sorcerer Eldon Blackwater was no more, but his memory would endure like the eternal dance of the stars in the night sky.

Eve turned away from the funeral, merely one mourner among hundreds. Using her power of Spatial Steps, she blinked out of existence. There were many things to be done, and she only had eternity to do them.

Eve took a breath and used power once more. There was the possibility of detection by the Children of the Forest, but she wasn’t distraught. Her next stop was a direct result of personal meddling. Satisfied with the work in place, Eve turned her attention to the essential pieces of this world.

The Dragons.