A Thousand Year Voyage- chapter 25

I try to make a shedule- this chapter should be published at other sites in sunday, hopefully with the next chapter (26) ready to be put on patreon at the same moment, so that you can read it a week in advance.

***

The dusk settled low over Oldtown like a veil of rust, the last embers of sunlight bleeding across the sky in bands of gold, crimson, and deepening violet. The towers and roofs of the ancient city basked in that fading brilliance as shadows began to stretch long and lean across the cobbled streets. As the sun began to dip behind the Hightower, the city’s rhythm began to soften. Footsteps grew fewer. Market calls faded into silence. One by one, lanterns flickered to life across the city, small hearths of comfort warding off the slow encroachment of night.

Within the Starry Sept—the old heart of Westerosi faith carved from black marble—the light that filtered through the arched windows painted the walls with fleeting colors.

In a small chamber above the main hall, its windows open to the last light of day, a man knelt before the setting sun. He knelt on a plain cushion, hands clasped in prayer, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Despite the beautiful view, his thoughts were turned inward—drawn down into a well of worry and sorrow. His lips did not move—there were no words in his prayer, nor did he expect any answer. It was a conversation conducted in silence, shared only between a soul and the Divine.

Most of days, Septon Gerold prayed because he felt it was right. Today, he prayed because he no longer knew what else to do.

The air in Oldtown had grown sour in recent weeks, thick with unease and ill will. Something was festering beneath the streets and within the hearts of men. He had noticed the way voices dropped into whispers when he entered a chamber, how rooms that once welcomed him now grew still when he passed. There were meetings he was no longer invited to, conversations he could not join. He, the Septon of the Starry Sept—once the guiding light of faith in Oldtown—was becoming a stranger among his own, distrust overcoming the friendships Gerold tried to cultivate over the years.

The faithful, too, had grown colder. The once-packed pews of his sermons now lay half-empty. Familiar faces had vanished, replaced by unfamiliar ones who left quickly and did not linger. He could hear the whispers passed between townsfolk like smoldering coals, full of fear and ominous tales, murmurs that the land itself was being tainted by foreign presences.

People feared the inbetweeners.

And Gerold feared what would come of that fear.

He had tried to change their view, Gods knew he had tried. Both in sermons and in public he had preached patience and tolerance. He assured that the inbetweeners were not some malignant disease, but travellers in a need of light— the same children of the Seven they all were, if ones that not yet found the salvation the Seven provided. He reminded people of the Father’s justice, of the Mother’s mercy and the Maiden’s grace.

But his voice was one against many, a lone plea of peace amid the rising tide of indignation, paranoia and fury. Whenever he assured of the inbetweeners’ peaceful intentions, tens more screamed of foul magics and abhorrent monsters preying on the faithful. Every day, the tide rose a little more, and with it, his sense of powerlessness.

In the end, the faithful chose to see evil instead of good.

The realization hurt Gerold more than any wound he had suffered in life.

The pain was increased by the fact that even his brothers and sisters grew distant as of late. Cold glances shadowed his steps. Some no longer met his eyes. And every time he returned from the church of vows, where he tried to understand the inbetweeners further alongside Miriel, the stares grew colder, as though he had carried poison back with him.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when the halls of the Starry Sept had felt alive—full of purpose and fellowship. Now they felt hollow. The silence was not peaceful but strained, like the moment before a storm.

And in that fading light, with the day dying before him, Septon Gerold remained on his knees, speaking in silence to the Seven. Not for miracles. Not even for answers. Just for strength.

Because something was coming. He could feel it in the weight of the dusk. Something terrible.

He remained kneeling in his private chamber, lost in reflection, until a knock— a single, measured knock—shattered the stillness.

Gerold turned his head. The door creaked open, and in stepped Brother Toman, his posture straight and eyes unreadable.

“People have gathered for the sermon, as you have requested, Septon Gerold,” Toman said. His tone was polite, yet flat—too flat—and his gaze, cold and heavy, held an edge Gerold could not name.

Brother Toman, as brilliant a man as he was in other areas, never hid the fact he was against Gerold’s stance towards the inbetweeners. Gerold tried not to blame him too much- he had served in the Starry Sept longer than most, one of the men influenced by the previous Septon’s…fervent ways when it came to other faiths.

The Septon rose slowly, brushing dust from his knees, his fingers trembling more than he would have liked.

“Thank you, brother,” he murmured, his voice quiet.

This sermon was no ordinary service. It had taken a lot of influence Gerold could pull to gather as many of the city’s faithful as he could tonight. The timing, so close to twilight, had been rather awkward yet deliberate. The moon, full and bright in the sky, would soon rise through the vast arched windows of the sept.

That, too, had been planned.

It was no secret that Princess Ranni Caria, and thus the inbetweeners at large, were tied to that celestial body.

And tonight, as Gerold’s voice will ring through the marble chamber speaking of peace and understanding, the gentle moonlight will fill through the window and illuminate the grand chamber, hopefully making people realize the ‘moon’ wasn’t as bad as they had been suspecting.

It was mostly a symbolic gesture, yes. Maybe even manipulative. But what else could he do?

He had preached patience. He had preached compassion. And the people had turned from him all the same.

This was his last attempt to reach them before something irreparable happened.

He longed to speak to Miriel, to confide in him. But Miriel was not here—and the sermon couldn’t wait.

Toman lingered in the doorway as Gerold passed. Eventually, he followed Septon, but his gaze on Gerold’s back felt like an accusation, unspoken yet sharp as any blade. Gerold felt it dig between his shoulder blades, but he did not slow, and he did not look back.

The walk from his chambers to the great hall of the Sept felt longer than it had any right to be. His shoes clicked softly against the stone floor, each step echoing through the silence like the tolling of a bell. Braziers along the sides had already been lit, casting flickering shadows that danced along the columns like ghosts.

And then he reached the Great Hall.

The pews were full—at least one thing he had managed to do right.

Hundreds of eyes turned toward him as he entered, the silence swallowing all else. The glint of torchlight in their gazes gave them a strange shimmer, like watchers carved from onyx.

He walked slowly down the central aisle, flanked by the vast wooden panels—depictions of the Seven in all their glory.

Soon, he reached the altar— a slab of polished marble stone, shaped like a seven-pointed star.

He turned to face the crowd and found the eyes of countless many locked on him, expectant and unreadable.

And then, from somewhere deep within him—despite all the worry and weight—he found his voice.

Gerold drew breath, and he began to speak.

***

Not far from the towering majesty of the Starry Sept—within a house of worship less prestigious but no less important tonight—Septon Gerold’s worst fears were quietly blooming into terrible reality.

In a narrow, stone-walled chamber below the main floor, the air hung thick with candle smoke and the stench of sweat. A dozen men stood in a loose circle, their robes heavy with the symbols of the Faith, the Seven-Pointed Star pendants on their necks. Their shadows flickering on the cracked walls as candlelight trembled above them. The air was hot and stale—too many bodies packed into too small a space—but none of them seemed to care.

At their center stood Septon Ralf,  a stocky, balding man and the Septon responsible for the Sept they were currently in. He was a man, whose voice rarely rose above a whisper, yet when he spoke, everyone heard. His face was lit from below by the candle he was holding, giving him a look of a hollow-eyed prophet.

“Everything is in motion.” Ralf said, his tone low and reverent. “The weapons had been gathered, the flock is ready, even that fool Gerold is exactly where we want him—spouting his lies to a hall of uninvolved fence-sitters and fools, wasting time trying to stop the inevitable. And even if he notices something amiss, Brother Toman and the others will keep him from intervening.”

The others listened in silence. Some wore expressions of focus. Others, cold satisfaction. One broke the mold, however, the sharp bark of laughter breaking the silence.

Brother Pate spat on the floor with disdain. “We should’ve simply gutted him at the start. One clean cut through the belly, and we wouldn’t be dancing around like this, worrying about that doddering fool preaching poison while we are preparing for the cleansing.”

“It would not be wise to do so just yet.” Another said—it was Brother Ellery, a man with blond hair and thin mustache. His eyes were alight with devotion yet tempered with reason. “Gerold’s still liked—by lords and flock alike. He’s grown roots among the Reach’s nobility and his bond with the flock still exists despite our efforts, if in weakened form. If we cut him down now, people might panic, possibly even turn against us. We need him quiet and visible, not dead.”

Brother Ralf nodded once, slowly, his expression one of solemn approval. “Exactly. Gerold won’t have the luxury of neutrality after tonight. With those abominable inbetweeners scattered and hostile, supporting peace would be inconceivable. He’ll either throw his weight behind us, or lose what little authority he still clings to. And if he still tries to preach poison despite that…well.” He smiled, thin and cold. “Then we can once again think about the ‘cut through the belly’ plan.”

A new wave of silence passed over them, heavy and reverent. The group basked it in for a few seconds, then Brother Elbert broke it, eager to start their mission.

“We should review the plan. One last time,” he said, voice hoarse. “Does everyone remember where they’re to go?”

“Yes,” Brother Ellery replied first, stepping forward. His voice was mostly calm, but quivering with tightly-wound anticipation. “I will take a strong band of the faithful into the so-called Perfume Quarter—though it’s not perfume that lingers in those streets, but poison. A nest of unholy commerce and hedonism, where the long-limbed monsters drape themselves in riches, posing as merchants. They peddle falsehoods—artifacts no man should own. I’ve seen good people ruined, their homes emptied, deprived of their belongings by unfair deals.”  His voice rose slightly, his words full of heat. “But no more. We’ll storm the place. Tear down their banners. Shatter their stalls. And then we’ll put every one of them to the sword. Their flesh will feed the flames, and before the sun touches the sky, that place will be cleansed.”

Murmurs of approval rolled through the chamber—soft and fervent. A few brothers closed their eyes in prayer, others simply nodded, faces still but resolved.

“I’ll lead the second group, brother Lucifer going with me.” said Brother Elbert, stepping into the wavering light. His voice was lower, but not quieter—carved from iron, steady as the grave. “Our target is their den, though they call it their village. It’s a cesspit where they live and breed, a place where their abominable filth stews. I’ll take half the flock and march on the main gate, drawing their eyes and forcing their hands. Meanwhile, Lucifer and his flock will circle and strike from the east, setting their dens on fire. Smoke and panic will blind them, making our job easier. Both groups will meet at the center—and that’s where the cleansing begins. Nothing will crawl out of that ruin once we’re done.”

Another surge of assent passed through the chamber.

Elbert's voice dropped a notch, becoming colder. “Then there’s the lair of the necromancers. The so-called Deathbed Companions…” He spat the name like it stung his mouth. “They’ve done more than infest the outskirts. They’ve slithered into the city proper—woven themselves into its bones, built their lair inside the walls after casting their foul spells on several nobles.”

The brothers stiffened, the air thickening with tension. Fighting monsters outside the walls was one thing, but purging rot from within risked harm to innocent people in the city.

“But fear not,” Elbert said, and now his lips curled with joy and pride. “Brother Benjen has prepared their undoing. When we spoke last, he had assured me that each and every Deathbed Companion would be penetrated by the Westerosi steel before the moon sets.”

The room swelled with a low, reverent admiration. Brother Benjen was always the first to act, the first to sacrifice for the cause. A man of flesh, fire, and conviction. His plan had been in motion before the rest of them had even finished whispering their intentions among each other. That meant this task was already as good as done.

Brother Allard stepped forward next, his shaven head slick with sweat.

“I will take my flock to the island,” he said, voice resolute. “Their blasphemous sorcerers hide there. A foul platform created on our beautiful water, where they chant words that don’t belong to this world. It’s from there they strike with unseen hands—curse the crops, taint the minds of boys and girls, and try to dim the light of the Seven. The boats are ready, moored in the harbor. We’ll row under cover of dark, with no torches to expose us. And when we land, we’ll rise up like judgment itself. They’ll have no time to speak their filth or raise their hands in magic, as we will pierce their throats with our blades.” He paused, face illuminated by the flickering candlelight, then gave a solemn nod. “By the time the morning bells ring in Oldtown, the island will be silent.”

“Others,” Brother Elbert continued. “will scatter across the city and its edges. There will be stragglers—drifters who wandered off before we struck, who slipped between the cracks like vermin. They may hide in houses, in basements, or in the arms of sympathizers. But the Seven will guide our hands like lanterns in the dark. We may not find them all, but every inbetweener death is a righteous blow against the rot.”

A ripple of murmured assent rolled through the room.

“And the church?” a voice asked then—low and hard-edged, and cold.

The room went quiet again, as they all knew what he spoke of. The temple of the inbetweeners. The mockery of sanctity. The den of falsehood and corruption wrapped in the illusion of faith. One led by the most loathsome of them all.

Miriel, pastor of corruption— the animalistic beast that had started it all by poisoning Septon Gerold with its filth.

Ralf stepped forward.

There was nothing theatrical in his movement. He simply moved with certain inevitability, his face hard and carved into grim purpose.

“I will bring it down,” he said, each word heavy with finality.

Another murmur followed. Some men whispered quick prayers. Others closed their eyes, overcome by the gravity of what had just been declared. A few smiled—quiet, anticipatory things, full of devotion.

“I will take the flock.” Ralf said. “Not the faint-hearted, but those whose hearts burn with clean flame. We will clog our ears with wax and cloth so that the beast’s voice cannot poison us. We will not listen. We will not flinch.”

He lifted his hand, fingers curled slightly, like holding an invisible hammer.

“We will bring ropes to pull the blocks. We will bring hammers to shatter stone. We will bring fire to scour what remains. We will strike the foundation of the temple of deceit with the force of the Seven themselves. And then, stone by stone, idol by idol, we will undo their sanctuary. The beast will be buried under the weight of its own falsehood.”

A soundless exhale passed through the room. The brothers straightened as one. Their eyes shimmered with candlelight and divine resolve. Their hands twitched—not with fear, but with longing. Longing for steel. For fire. For the holy absolution.

And Ralf raised his hand, fingers spread in benediction.

“Tonight,” he intoned, voice thick with emotion, “we remind Oldtown what it means to walk in the light of the Seven with no fear in heart.”

He turned slowly, deliberately, locking eyes with each man in turn.

“Tonight,” he declared, “we purge the rot.”

No one cheered.

No one needed to.

What followed was silence. Cold, terrible silence, heavy with dangerous conviction.

And then, one by one, they moved—like shadows. One by one they stepped into the twilight, into the streets of Oldtown, where the faithful waited and the city’s darkest night was about to begin.

***

To the west of Oldtown, nestled on a flowery hill, stood a peculiar stone structure. It had no roof and no floor—only great, weathered stone blocks arranged in the shape of a church. From a distance, an unaware traveller might have mistaken it for an abandoned ruin, a temple abandoned by the believers long ago.

It was the Church of Vows.

Within that open space, exposed to wind and sky, was a figure in a most peculiar hat, a tortoise larger than most and yet so small compared to some living in the south of Westeros.

Miriel, pastor of vows.

At the moment, his long, scaled neck extended upward, his reptilian snout tilted toward the dying sun. The air around him stirred gently, as if even the breeze paused in reverence.

His eyes—wise and ancient—studied the sky as if it were a book written just for him. There was no sign written in stars. No voice booming from clouds. And yet, he knew.

Something was coming.

He could not tell what it was, but he was sure something was bound to happen tonight. It was a message more felt than heard, more spiritual than physical, caused by his particular attunement to the ways of the world.

While most chose only one path, pledging themselves to one aspect of the world or another, Miriel had learned to listen to them all. For that reason, while he had never become sufficiently proficient in any particular aspect, he was always in reach of many.

He had heard the song of the distant creator. He had heard the scream of the spurned sibling. He had heard the silence of the celestial watcher, the lullaby of the loving mother and the demands of the stern father.

And today, even the local gods, usually less active and demanding than the ones known to him, began to stir. It was not a voice meant to him, the local deities still distrustful towards the new arrivals, but he had felt it all the same.

They were trying to speak.

To whom? And what? He couldn’t say with full certainty, though he had his suspicions.

He exhaled softly, the breath low and shuddering. His scaled shoulders lifted, then settled with quiet gravity as he turned his gaze from the heavens and toward the marble pillars surrounding the temple’s heart.

There, watching as always, was Jolán.

She leaned against one of the columns, half-shadowed, clad in her blackened armor, only her eyes visible from beneath her spiky helmet.  

“Jolán,” Miriel said at last, his voice slow and measured. “I fear that something…troubling may happen tonight. Do you perhaps know if something out of ordinary is stirring in Oldtown?”

The woman didn’t answer right away, her head titling ever so slightly, as if considering what she should say. When she finally spoke, her tone was cool and even. “No, your excellency. Never once have I seen anything troubling while visiting the city.”

Miriel regarded her for a long moment. There was something odd in her tone, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Still, he turned his gaze skyward again, where the moon now began to peek through the clouds. “I see…”

He did not know which god breathed unease into his bones, only that whatever was happening was important for this land.

After a few breaths, Jolán spoke again, her tone softer, edged with something that might have been reassurance. “But whatever it is that worries you…I assure you I will do my best to keep you safe.

Miriel lowered his gaze, a trace of sadness playing at the corners of his eyes.

Having someone fight on his behalf, Miriel thought with certain sorrow, was the last thing he would ever want.

***

The scent of herbs filled the cottage.

Roderika stood at the hearth, a wooden spoon in hand, stirring the pot with slow, deliberate circles. Chunks of potato softened beside slivers of onion and delicate ribbons of mushroom, the Westerosi ingredients giving the meal a strange, exotic feel.

Outside, the village had begun to quiet. Doors shut with soft clicks, muffled voices exchanged their final words of the day, and the soft, bluish light of magical lanterns cast the settlement in a gentle glow.

Inside, the cottage exhaled the warmth of habitation—wooden walls filled with books and trinkets gathered through the centuries, bells of all kinds lying around in the surprisingly tasteful fashion, paintings of landscapes long left behind placed in strategic places around the building.

Finally done with the meal, Roderika wiped her hands on nearby cloth and ladled a generous serving of stew into a ceramic bowl. Doing her best not to spill it, she walked slowly through the hallway of her home, her feet brushing against the smooth planks of the floor. At the end of the hall, at the end of the hall was an open door, a warm light pulsing from within.

She stepped through it, into the forge.

The blast of heat struck her at once—dry, suffocating, and absolute, one that dominated the entire room. A massive furnace roared near the back wall, firelight dancing wildly on the stone. The walls were cluttered with smithing tools—tongs, hammers, and the floor was littered with shattered blades, broken pommels and armors half-mended. In front of the furnace was the anvil, the object quite crude yet beautiful in its own brutal way.

And in the middle of it all, as always, stood Hewg.

His figure loomed—hunched, broad and oddly powerful despite the wear of years and endless toil. His hands, massive and knotted like roots, moved with mechanical rhythm, shaping a glowing strip of metal on the anvil. His skin was a dull grey, , his beard unkempt, and his bald head slick with sweat. Bone jutted from his limbs in unnatural ways, a reminder of his misbegotten nature.

He was muttering to himself as Roderika entered the forge, quiet words and promises whispered to ghosts long gone. He didn’t seem to notice her approach, preoccupied as he was with his work.

“…It’s time for dinner,” Roderika said gently, the girl trying to grab her mentor’s attention. “I made a stew.”

If Hewg heard her, he offered no answer. The hammer rose again, then fell. Sparks scattered across the stone floor.

She stepped closer, the wood creaking under her feet. She reached out and laid a hand—small, soft and trembling—on his shoulder. His muscles tensed upon contact, then slowly unwound. The hammer lowered.

He looked up, his eyes looking into Roderika’s with no recollection, the man clearly not recognizing the girl he had trained once. His eyes were wide and blank, confused almost, like he was in the middle of a dream.

“…What?” Hewg asked, bewildered. “I… I can’t stop now. Not yet. A weapon. I promised her. A weapon to kill god.”

Roderika’s breath hitched. She’d known he would say something like that. Despite the long centuries that passed since the destruction of the Roundtable Hold, Hewg had not yet recovered his memories, neither Hadwyn’s ascension nor Roderika’s gentle words improving the man’s mental state.

“It’s done.” she said as she had many times before, her voice trembling with grief. “You forged it, Hewg. You gave Hadwyn the weapon and he used it. The god is dead. You’re free now.”

But Hewg only shook his head, movement  slow and heavy.

“I promised her.” he said again, softly. “I said I’d make it right. Make it strong. A weapon to kill god.”

He looked peaceful when he said it. Not joyful, not triumphant—but content. As though the endless work gave him purpose, even if the purpose no longer made sense.

His face showed no sorrow. No anger. Only stillness—an almost eerie peace, as if the obsession that had consumed him gave him some comfort. And yet there was something unbearably fragile in that calm, a tragedy that Roderika couldn’t put into words.

Something in him had withered long ago, rotted slowly beneath the weight of his duty. The man who had taken her in, who had shown her how to attune to spirits and how to guide them—he was no longer there. Not truly. What remained was his body, still moving, still working, unaware that the purpose animating it had long since been fulfilled.

And once again, as she had done so many times over the centuries, Roderika cursed Marika.

Cursed the golden chains she’d woven around Hewg’s soul. Cursed the cruelty that bound his will to an oath she made him take. But the curse fell flat—the Eternal Queen was long gone, her ashes scattered. The only thing left was the suffering she had left in her wake.

Her eyes burned. Centuries of time should have softened the pain, dulled the sorrow, yet it never did.

With care, she set the bowl beside him on the edge of the bench. The stew’s scent—rich and warm—drifted between them, unnoticed.

“Please,” she murmured, the words quiet. “Eat. You’ll need your strength… for the next weapon, right?”

For a long moment, there was no reaction. Hewg’s brow furrowed, as through a need for sustenance was a distant and ancient memory he needed time to recall. Then—slowly, as if the movement required permission from every bone in his frame—he nodded.

“…In a while.”

That was all.

She didn’t argue, didn’t try to coax him further. She knew there would be no point. So she turned quietly and left him alone, the sound of smithing echoing as she walked away.

The main room of the cottage was dim and quiet, the lanterns humming faintly in the corners. Roderika eased herself down into an armchair by the fire, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She sat still for a while, then finally reached for the second bowl she had left for herself. She ate slowly, chewing each bite like it might anchor her, but nothing could fill the hollow that sat just under her ribs.

She had hoped—so dearly hoped—that this land would change things. That this strange, foreign place, so far from the violence and weight of their history, would grant Hewg a moment of peace, a chance to recover.

She wasn’t alone in that hope- the village was filled with people who had hoped the same.

The ones who had stayed behind in the village were the broken ones. The ones who had given everything and had nothing left to give. They were those who had lost more than could be spoken aloud and who had no more strength for another adventure. While the more resilient, perhaps the more insane ones, ventured forward—be it in Hadwyn’s entourage, on the Wisdom of the Moon or simply travelling on their own—the village that remained was filled with those who had simply… stopped.

They didn’t seek new stories. They just wanted to forget the old ones.

Roderika was like that too.

She had never been strong, or brave, or even particularly talented. She had begged Hadwyn to avenge her fallen friends because she couldn’t even imagine herself fighting against Godrick’s forces, let alone winning against them. After Hadwyn fulfilled her wish, she lingered in the Roundtable Hold, never leaving the place, finding herself simply offering spirit tuning to the tarnished more valiant and courageous than her.

Yes. In the end, she was as broken as the rest of them.

She was simply able to hide it better.

And so she bowed her head and prayed—it was not directed to the Erdtree, not to Princess Ranni and certainly not to Marika. No, there was no god left to worship for Roderika. So she prayed to herself. To the spirits. To whatever might be listening.

She prayed for peace.

For sleepy mornings and quiet nights. For time to mend. For healing.

She prayed for Hewg, who still hammered steel for ghosts that would never return.

***

The moon hung heavy above Oldtown- round and pale and watching. Its cold light spilled across the Reach, painting with its bone-white sheen the hills and meadows, the roofs of the sleeping city and the inbetweener village just beyond its western edge.

There, in front of the inbetweener village’s main gate, a single figure sat upon a wide, flat stone set deliberately in the middle of the road. He placed it there himself, not for his own comfort, but for clarity.

 Elbows resting on his knees, fingers locked together, Tragoth sat still as a statue, the night breeze tugging softly at his short, red hair and long sideburns. His Bull-Goat helmet lay beside him, its broad horn catching the moonlight like polished ivory. On his other side stood the Giant-Crusher—an enormous slab of stone and iron that resembled a hammer only in theory— leaning lazily against the rock like a loyal beast awaiting its master’s call.

This was his post.

This was where he belonged.

This was where the line would hold, or fall.

He exhaled, slow and deep, closing his eyes for a single heartbeat. The sounds of the village behind him were hushed—some flicker of life could be heard here and there, the whisper of a door, a footstep on gravel, but mostly the night was filled with silence. A peaceful silence. A silence that was his to protect.

In that moment they appeared, just as Jolán warned.

At first, it was only a distant flicker—torches dancing on the horizon like fireflies. Then came the sound: a low rhythm of boots and steel, a sign of the mob’s imminent arrival.

Tragoth opened his eyes and stretched slowly, joints creaking with purpose. He reached for the Bull-Goat helmet, taking it in both hands and lowering it over his head, the world narrowing to a visor’s gaze. The long-forgotten excitement filled his chest, the approaching mob bringing some nostalgic memories.

It didn’t take long for them to reach him. There were tens of them, perhaps even over a hundred. They spilled across the narrow country road like a sluggish tide, their shapes slowly revealing themselves in the torchlight.

Tragoth tilted his head, finding himself strangely disappointed.

It was a mass of feeble men, some draped in rusty chainmail, others in padded jerkins and yet others completely unprotected, marching against him in plain clothes. Some of them held torches, some simple weapons—woodcutting axes, rusted swords or sharpened pitchforks. Their eyes were wide with fury and hate, their mouths spitting prayers or curses as they approached.

Still, despite their underwhelming appearance, a smile curled beneath Tragoth’s helm.

He hadn’t faced a crowd like this in a long time—not since the Storm King had thrown his rabble at them in waves, thinking numbers could crush skill. Him, Hadwyn, Vyke, Vargram, Lionel—all of them, shoulder to shoulder, cutting through thousands to find a real challenge.

This wasn’t that. Not even close. But it was close enough to make his blood stir.

As the zealots drew closer, their murderous intent finally reaching his spot, Tragoth slowly stood up from his rock and reached for the Giant Crusher, gauntleted fingers curling around the thick hilt.

The moment he lifted the weapon with one hand, a feat seldom few could replicate in Westeros, a visible ripple moved through the front ranks of the crowd. The massive slab of stone gleamed beneath the moonlight, held with effortless grace by a single man.

And as he saw them falter, the men clearly needing some time to gather their wits and attack, Tragoth casually raised his voice.

“You’ve picked a fine night.” he said, his tone affable, like a man greeting guests who’d shown up to a dinner. “The moon is bright. The ground’s dry. No rain or mud to spoil our fun. Perfect weather for a fight, I’d say.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, heavy boots thudding against the road. With one gauntleted hand, he pointed to the left and then the right, where two large, rough stones stood like sentinels. Each was roughly waist-high, placed precisely at each side of the road—creating a line, stark and unmistakable.

“You see those rocks? I put them there myself.” He declared, his voice firm. They mark the line. Cross them and I will take it as your answer—that you’re here to fight, to kill, and to die. You may do it for your gods. You may do it for your lords. Maybe for your land or family. In the end, it doesn’t matter. I will respect your courage regardless of the reason.”

Then he lifted the Giant Crusher fully with both hands and rested it across his armored shoulders, the massive weapon seeming to weigh no more than a wooden staff.

“I’ll be waiting for your answer.”

Silence followed.

Hearing the declaration, the mob seemed to lose some of its previous conviction. A few men shuffled in place. Others looked at one another. The flames in their hearts wavered as uncertainty surged through them. Some even seemed ready to step back.

Then, cutting through the hesitation like a knife, came a voice.

“Do not be afraid!”

The crowd parted slightly as a man stepped forward. He was better armored than the rest, the man wearing a polished breastplate on his body, a plain robe hidden under it. Seven-pointed star was painted on his armor and a religious pendant hung from his neck.

If Tragoth were to guess, he was a leader of this gathering, a man of the local faith if he was to gamble even further.

“He is one man!” the man shouted, turning to his brethren. “One creature against so many of us! Don’t you remember that the Seven are with us?! With them at our side, there is no enemy we cannot fell!”

Some nodded. Others raised their weapons with renewed fervor. The doubt hadn’t vanished—but it was being buried. Buried under righteous fury and devotion that began to once again fill their hearts.

A mob, once cracked, began to seal itself together again.

“Kill him!” the zealot bellowed, and then he ran—headlong, sword up, charging past the stone markers as if they meant nothing.

The men followed.

Their cries tore through the night. They passed the line. They gave their answer.

As Tragoth watched their charge, a smile bloomed under his helmet.

“Good,” he said happily, lifting the Giant Crusher from his shoulders. “It’s good to have a conviction when you come to die.”

He raised his hammer, ready to strike the first one to reach him.

“Let’s begin.”