Sacred Duty #41

In the dim, frigid interior of an improvised snow-block igloo, Threya cast a critical gaze at the makeshift shelter. "This shelter of yours is as ugly as giant shit, but it works," she commented, extending her hand to touch the inner walls cautiously. 

Gale couldn't help but respond with a warning, "Careful. It's barely holding against the wind," causing Threya to withdraw her hand with a grimace.

He shifted his attention to the enigmatic stranger, who had settled quietly alongside them. "So... what's your story anyway?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

The stranger regarded him with a blank look and inquired, "Why do you ask?"

Gale leaned back against the snowblock walls and shrugged, offering a casual smile. "Just trying to make conversation," he explained. "I'm bored out of my mind, and I don't imagine you've had many chances to speak with other people in this place. I don't reckon you'll get many more either," he added with a chuckle.

The stranger nodded slowly. "I was... am a priest of R'hllor, the Lord of Light and Flames," he admitted with a sigh.

The stranger nodded slowly. "I was... am a priest of R'hllor, the Lord of Light and Flames," he admitted with a sigh. "I've forgotten many things over the years, but my name is Melorian... I think," He added.

Gale couldn't help but furrow his brow at those words. The fact that the stranger wasn't even sure of his own name meant he had likely lived for a considerably long time with no one to call him by that name, signifying a lonely existence. Still, there was something else that piqued Gale's curiosity.

"A priest of R'hllor? You, an undead creature associated with cold and death, are a priest of R'hllor?" Gale asked, giving Melorian a puzzled look.

Before Melorian could answer, Threya chimed in. "What in the hell is R'hllor?" She asked, clearly confused. Normally, it was Tormund's duty to ask such questions, but he was on lookout duty, so Threya took it upon herself.

Gale turned to her. "R'hllor is a god widely worshipped in Essos, beyond the Narrow Sea and far to the East," He explained. "He's considered the lord of light, the heart of flames, and the embodiment of all that is good, according to his followers," He added, turning back to Melorian. "As far as I know, R'hllor and his devotees tend to despise the undead."

Melorian gave a slow nod. "Indeed, the Lord's grace does not extend to the abominable undead. However, I am not among them," he clarified. "My continued existence, despite my unsightly state, is a divine blessing granted to me by the Lord to fulfill a sacred duty."

Gale pondered this revelation, casting an appraising gaze over Melorian's otherworldly appearance. "I've heard that R'hllor's priests can resurrect the dead, but I expected a more... pristine outcome," he commented, his frown deepening as he examined Melorian's unique condition. Melorian appeared taken aback by Gale's awareness. 

"You seem well-versed in our faith," he said, his eyes filled with hope. "Has the reach of the Lord's glory extended to these distant lands?"

Gale shook his head with a wry smile. "Not really. No," he admitted. "The worship of R'hllor is primarily concentrated in Essos. My knowledge comes from too much reading." 

Melorian's shoulders slumped with a hint of disappointment. "A pity," he mused. "Nevertheless, my current state is a result of a delayed ritual. My body had suffered severe damage, and the priests were not swift enough to retrieve it."

Melorian's words sparked a recognition in Gale's memory. He hadn't personally read the books, but a friend once mentioned how a priest of R'hllor resurrected Caitlyin Stark after her death, similar to how Melissandre resurrected Jon Snow.

Apparently, she still looked like a corpse because of the horrid state her corpse was found in weeks after her death, though she still maintained her intelligence. Her personality, however, seemed to have changed. 

"I see..." Gale acknowledged with a thoughtful nod. "And I presume your sacred duty is connected to what you're guarding?" He inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Indeed. But I've spoken too much already, so I'll--" Melorian began, seemingly ready to conclude the conversation. However, he was interrupted by Tormund's urgent voice from outside the shelter. 

"Look sharp! We've got guests!" 

Tormund's words carried a sense of immediate danger, and Gale, Threya, and Melorian exchanged quick glances before scrambling to their feet, ready to face the visitors.

...

As the battle raged on at Moat Cailin, the tide was rapidly shifting against Ser Barristan and his dwindling forces. They fought bravely and fiercely, but the attackers kept pouring in, increasing in numbers. 

Meanwhile, Tyrion observed the battlefield from his vantage point, acting as an impromptu strategist. His keen eyes scanned the area for any flanking forces and alerted Ser Barristan to their advances. 

He would ring the alarm bell, signaling the archers to light up the areas where the enemy approached, and he even attempted to throw rocks at the attackers whenever he could.

However, despite the archers' determined defense, they were slowly running out of arrows. On the ground, more than half of the men who had initially fought alongside Ser Barristan had already fallen, leaving only six men, including the seasoned knight himself.

The situation looked dire, and they were faced with a daunting challenge.

Tyrion's mind raced as he desperately tried to find a solution to their perilous situation. He carefully analyzed every detail around him, hoping to uncover a way out of this dire circumstance. Yet, no matter how frantically he looked around or squeezed his brain, there was no clear way out of this mess he found himself in. 

The soldiers closing in on them were clearly no mere bandits; they moved with discipline and were well-armed. They were clearly sent by someone with a specific purpose: to eliminate someone within their party or perhaps the entire group. 

The pressing question was who would orchestrate such a dangerous operation and for what reason?

Tyrion's initial suspicion naturally fell on his father, Tywin Lannister, as he considered the possibility of familial treachery. However, he swiftly dismissed the notion. 

Tywin thought too little of his own son to orchestrate such a complex plot and waste so many resources to eliminate him. If the old Lannister wanted to kill Tyrion, he would have employed simpler, more direct methods. 

Additionally, Tywin was far too astute to target Ser Barristan, who was a beloved and respected figure throughout Westeros. Any suspicion falling on Tywin would have far-reaching consequences, and he was too shrewd to risk such fallout.

Tyrion's mind continued to race, his thoughts swirling as he attempted to unravel the enigma before him. It was clear that this was no ordinary assassination attempt; the perpetrators sought not just to eliminate their targets but to broadcast their actions to the world. The question that loomed, however, was the why and what for.

As Tyrion pieced together the clues in his mind, strange animal calls pierced the air, creating a disorienting symphony of sound. Suddenly, their assailants began dropping one by one with arrows and darts stuck to their backs. 

Confusion washed over Ser Barristan and his companions. Yet, they wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to strike back.

From the depths of the surrounding forest, a band of enigmatic figures emerged, their forms deceptively small, obscured by the verdant foliage that camouflaged their movements. 

Clad in garments that harmonized flawlessly with the lush greenery of the woods, they seemed like an extension of the very bogs from which they hailed. 

Their attire, a mosaic of earthy greens and browns, allowed them to slip through the undergrowth like spirits of the forest, unseen and unheard.

These bog-dwellers wielded an array of arms that appeared alien to the traditional weaponry used on the battlefield. Short swords, their blades honed to a gleaming edge, hung at their sides. 

Their skill with these unusual weapons was undeniable, as they deftly struck down their foes with grace and precision. In addition to the short swords, they brandished throwing blades with lethal accuracy, launching them like furtive flashes of silver through the air, each one finding its mark.

The sudden and unexpected arrival of these forest guardians shifted the course of the battle in an instant. With the unyielding determination of those who fought to protect their homeland, the newcomers unleashed a storm of swift, coordinated attacks upon the bewildered assailants. 

A battle cry, both primal and resolute, reverberated through the forest, invigorating the spirits of Ser Barristan and his fellow defenders. 

With this formidable assistance, the combined might of Ser Barristan and his newfound allies proved insurmountable, allowing them to ultimately drive away their adversaries and secure their position within the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin.

...

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