19 Premonition
Maester Luwin pov :
As I watched the golden haired boy who was silently reading old tomes in the corner of my library, I couldn't shake off the disquieting feeling I first felt when I heard him speak in the great hall.
The prince had changed....more than people seemed to realize.
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He knew of prince Joffrey since long ago , of course, just as he knew how haughty and short tempered he was .
News spread fast in Westeros , and gossip even faster. All one needed to do was keep their ear close to the ground...
That's why he was so surprised when the boy who should have by all means stuttered up a storm while calling for Jon to be executed for his treason started talking like a king.
And he talked well...very well...with eloquence and grace , while also appealing to the northeners love for battle.
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I find myself pondering the transformation of Prince Joffrey's way with words.
It's quite a departure from the haughty and impulsive demeanor he once exhibited.
While education and training certainly play a role, I can't help but wonder if there's more to it.
Could it be that there is an innate talent for eloquence within him? Some individuals possess a natural gift for expressing themselves, for weaving words into persuasive arguments or captivating tales.
He had Lann the Clever's blood running through his veins after all.
But even so...this doesn't fully explain the extent of Joffrey's change.
Also ,the way he held himself, the newfound confidence he exuded—it was as if a switch had been flipped, revealing a side of him that had been hidden beneath layers of youthful arrogance.
The boy who once reveled in the luxuries of his station now walked with the stride of a young man who had tasted discipline and responsibility.
As I watched him from my desk, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this change than met the eye...
This transformation could have far-reaching implications, not only for his own future but for the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that defined our realm....
Alas , I was just a Maester and so , I stood to serve the realm .
I would advise Lord Stark to be wary of this future king, but leave my own misgivings aside.
'For a Maester must always remain neutral'
I thought, as I touched the chain around my neck ,each link made from a different precious metal...
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Negary pov :
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The library was useful, just not as much as I would have hoped it to be.
There were many myths , yes , talking about dragons and White Walkers and children off the forest.
Of the wars between the first men and the Andals.
Of Aegon's conquest and the king who knelt.
And most importantly....
The gods of light and darkness.
Locked in an eternal war.
These guys seemed quite familiar...
The book I found talking about them was also proclaiming that the seven star gods are but a fable.
That clearly wasn't true , since I knew from the show that they helped destroy the Children of the Forest along with the Andals.
There were many lies sprinkled within the truth , and I couldn't understand how this whole narative fit together.
All I knew was that the Seven Pointed Star hated in the Old Gods of the Forest , and that there were also the gods of Light and Darkness fighting each other in the background.
Too many unknowns...
But it's gotten late.
And I still have things to do tonight...
I glanced up from my reading, noticing Maester Luwin's curious gaze.
Truth be told I knew he was watching me for a while but he didn't seem keen on speaking so I just ignored the old man.
I raised an eyebrow and leaned back in my chair, speaking with a smile and a touch of sarcasm.
"What? Haven't you seen a prince read before? It's not that fascinating, you know."
Mester Luwin was quite startled but I didn't give him a chance to speak.
"Is there something on your mind, Maester Luwin? I can't help but notice your inquisitive look. If there's a question or matter you'd like to discuss, I'm all ears."
I stretched and yawned, feigning a touch of weariness.
"But truth be told, I've had quite a long day. Training with Ser Barristan takes its toll, and I believe a good night's rest is in order.
My apologies if I seem hasty, but I think I'll retire for the evening.
Perhaps we can pick up any conversation tomorrow when we're both a bit more refreshed."
With a polite nod, I rise from my seat and heads toward the door, leaving the option for further interaction open while still indicating my intention to get some rest.
In the end , the old maester remained silent , watching my departing back deep in thought.
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I left my J01 Flesh Golem on its charging station (bed) , and quickly phased through the castle walls , making my way towards a specific place.
My spirit sense has improved by leaps and bounds after I started siphoning my own residual soul energy into the atmosphere, allowing me to sense the general direction of strong soul energy fluctuations within a few kilometers.
Even though I could control the ambient soul energy , I had to focus on it , as opposed to my own , which was literally part of me.
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As I made my way towards the forest surrounding winterfell, I couldn't help but wonder if I was too hasty.
There was still a chance that I wasn't yet noticed by the ,,gods,, of this world, but absorbing a soul that should probably have reached this world's version of the afterlife would probably draw attention to me.
Unfortunately, there were no other options to increase my strength in the short term.
My magic practice was bearing fruits , but they were tasteless, shriveled fruits.
I was sure that I was doing something wrong , just as I was sure that by having a stronger soul , the effects of my magic would be stronger.
And so I chanted.
,,No gods, no destiny shall bind my spirit. I am the architect of my own path, and my defiance burns brighter than the stars themselves."
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Third person Pov :
In the heart of the Haunted Forest, the moon's feeble light struggles to penetrate the dense canopy of ancient trees.
Shadows stretch and intertwine, casting a tapestry of darkness upon the forest floor. Among the towering sentinels of the woods, a small clearing reveals itself, bathed in the faint silvery glow.
At the center of the clearing, a crude platform has been erected, its wooden surface worn and weathered by the elements.
The earth beneath is packed hard, as if countless feet have trod upon it in ages past.
The ominous outline of an executioner's block lies atop the platform, a somber monument to the grim purpose of this place.
Invisible to the naked eye, a presence lingers in the aftermath of the grim scene.
It hovers, ethereal and intangible, like a whisper caught in the wind.
It's a soul untethered, bound by lingering attachments and unfinished business that refuse to fade with life.
As the moon's pale light filters through the canopy, this unseen specter remains close to the lifeless body, its form a faint shimmer in the darkness. It's a presence filled with a mixture of emotions—regret, fear, and a sense of longing that transcends the mortal coil.
The soul watches, unseen and unheard, as the world around it continues in ignorance of its existence.
It hovers near the body, as if unable to let go, its connection to the physical realm refusing to be severed.
It's as though time itself has stilled, allowing this soul to remain suspended between the realms of the living and the departed.
Fleeting memories and sensations tug at the edges of its consciousness, remnants of a life once lived.
It yearns to convey its emotions, its story, to those who walk the mortal plane, but its voice has become an echo, lost in the vast expanse that separates the living from the departed.
From the shadows, a hand cloaked in darkness stretches forth, fingers curling like talons eager to grasp.
With an almost spectral intensity, the hand closes around the lingering soul, its grip firm and relentless.
The soul, unaware of the impending intrusion, trembles with a sense of unease as it is ensnared.
In an instant, the tranquility that surrounded the soul is shattered, replaced by a surge of raw energy. The hand's grip tightens, and the very fabric of the soul begins to unravel. Threads of ethereal essence fray and splinter, their delicate bonds yielding to the forceful pull. A sense of violation and agony radiates through the soul as its essence is torn asunder.
The soul's being, once cohesive and singular, splinters into multiple fragments, each piece tinged with the echoes of emotions, memories, and fragments of identity.
It's a violent fracturing, like a mirror shattered into countless shards, each reflecting a distorted version of the whole.
Amidst the chaos of this metaphysical assault, the soul's once-integrated essence becomes scattered, a fragmented tapestry of existence. The hand cloaked in darkness pulls, tears, and rends, as if seeking to obliterate every vestige of the soul's former self.
A chilling void opens, consuming the essence of the soul and leaving behind an emptiness that defies comprehension.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the assault ceases. The hand releases its hold, and the fractured soul's remnants hover, suspended in disarray.
A profound silence settles, a space between the moments of agony and the void that follows.
The shattered pieces of the soul drift, disconnected and adrift, each fragment a mere echo of the entity that once was.
In this aftermath of rupture and dissolution, the darkness recedes, the shadows retreating to their hidden recesses.
The fractured soul remains, a testament to the fragile boundaries that separate existence from obliteration—a reminder of the forces that dwell beyond the realm of the living.
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Negary pov:
As I watch the last remains of Will's soul , a man who was unjustly killed by Lord Stark for deserting the night's watch , I can't help but feel a little silly.
The reson?
There was no afterlife in this world..
I was worried for nothing.
The proof laid in front of my eyes.
A slew of half melted souls , in the process of dissipating into the atmosphere.
The most intact one was Will's and that's why he became my test subject.
But this answered many questions.
Why was there soul energy in the atmosphere?
Why couldn't I absorb it effectively?
What were the so called gods?
It was all related.
After a soul died , it's energy returned to the atmosphere, probably allowing for new souls to be born.
I couldn't absorb it because it was so convoluted , full of thousands of fine pieces of souls scattered from throughout the realm. It was akin to trying to absorb the souls of all these people at the same time.
When I absorbed another's soul energy, I had to make mine ,,resonate" somehow , and meld them together into a greater whole , after I cleansed it of lingering emotions and memories to not corrupt my own soul , of course.
As for the so called gods?
They were most likely souls who managed to keep their reason against all odds and found a way to grow throughout the centuries , fighting amongst themselves for hegemony.
It was by no means a foolproof theory , but it all lined up.
But that's not important right now...
I had an experiment to do.
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From the shadows, my hand emerges, cloaked in darkness and guided by an intention as focused as a razor's edge.
My grasp is deliberate , as I close my fingers around the lingering soul.
It's a moment of connection—a thread of my consciousness reaching out to touch the essence that lingers here.
As I hold the soul, a surge of exhilaration courses through me.
It's a feeling of power, of agency over the intangible fabric of existence.
I'm here to extract, to select, to reshape.
My purpose is clear, my goal defined—a specific set of experiences and memories.
The soul's essence is delicate, its threads woven into a complex tapestry of identity.
I navigate through the fragments, tracing the echoes of moments that define this entity. With each touch, I sense resistance, a consciousness aware of my intrusion.
Yet, I press on, driven by the knowledge that what I seek is here.
As I weave my touch deeper, the soul responds, its essence quivering and shifting. I feel the unraveling, the untangling of threads that were once intertwined.
It's an art form, a symphony conducted with ethereal fingers, each movement deliberate and purposeful.
Piece by piece, I extract the essence I seek, threading together specific experiences and emotions into a new composition.
The soul's fabric reshapes under my influence, a dance of shadow and substance that transcends the limitations of time and space.
Each memory, each emotion, is carefully chosen, selected to weave into the new creation.
And then, as the last thread is woven, my grip loosens.
The essence I've chosen is separate now, distinct from the rest of the soul's fragments.
The threads I've extracted resonate with a sense of purpose, a significance that stretches beyond the immediate present.
It's a creation of my influence, a tapestry of experiences shaped by my hand.
It was a resounding succes , and the bundle of soul energy I now held in my ethereal palm contained about 20% of Will The Extra's combat experience gained from his years of service for the Night Watch.
It wasn't much , and the man himself wasn't the finest warrior, but this was a proof of concept.
I could , with enough control , separate the skills and experiences from the emotions tethered to them , allowing me to literally steal years of hard work from the people whose souls I obtained without any side effects.
I couldn't help but smile a little bit.
And as I finished assimilating the years of sword training that Will the Extra so magnanimously donated to my cause , I felt a shift in the surrounding soul energy.
With a slow and deliberate movement, I pivot on my heels, my gaze directed toward the heart of the clearing.
There, bathed in the moon's ethereal glow, stands a weirwood tree—a sentinel from ancient times. Its white bark gleams ghostly in the darkness, and its red leaves are touched by the pale luminescence.
But it's not the tree itself that commands my focus—it's the figure perched atop its highest branch.
A three-eyed raven, regards me with eyes that seem to pierce through the layers of existence.
It exudes an aura of ancient power, a force of nature that defies understanding.
The raven's gaze holds a weight that goes beyond mere sight.
It's as though it has glimpsed the depths of my essence, my actions, and the very threads of my purpose.
"Well well well..." I say as I look directly into the ravens eyes. "Did you enjoy the show so much that you finally decided to show yourself?"
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A.N :
"You're broken down and tired,
Of living life on a merry go round,
And you can't find the fighter,
But I see it in you and we're gonna work it out."
-A fragment of a song I heard somewhere, sometime.
