Chapter 25: Scary Westeros

At Blackhaven's gates, the guards were settled into the rhythms of their routine, exchanging stories to pass the time. Two of them—a young man set to be married in the coming week and an older guard reminiscing about his own days as a bachelor—laughed as they recalled wild nights at the whorehouses in town. Another guard, leaning casually against his spear, chuckled as he listened, shaking his head at the younger men's boasts. The evening was calm, and there wasn't much to expect from the forested path. After all, no one had come through those thick woods from the Stormlands in generations.

Their laughter was cut short by a sudden, distant scream. One of the guards cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he squinted toward the treeline. It was strange—usually, any traffic came along the main road connected to Kingswood, not from the overgrown forest to the south. They exchanged uneasy glances, nervously joking that the old forest had finally spat something back out after centuries.

But then, the screaming grew louder, a frantic, desperate sound that chilled them even at a distance. The guards tensed, hands tightening on their weapons as shadows emerged from the forest—a vast group of people, stumbling and crashing through the underbrush as if fleeing for their lives. Among the ragged crowd, to the guards' shock, were massive, prowling shapes—a pride of lions and a few tigers, weaving through the panicked crowd. Their fur bristled, their heads low, yet even they seemed unsettled, sticking close to the fleeing men and women.

"War?" one guard murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, while the others looked at each other, wide-eyed. "Since when do lions join armies?"

As they scrambled to process the scene, another guard grabbed the war horn, blowing it sharply. Its call echoed over the walls of Black haven, alerting the town to potential danger. In response, a line of soldiers hurriedly assembled inside the gates. But the guards themselves could hardly move, frozen as they watched the scene unfold.

The crowd reached the gates, collapsing in exhaustion, one person after another, a tangle of limbs and breathless bodies. Even the animals, panting heavily, seemed drained, with some lying protectively near their humans, eyes wide and vigilant. But the most unsettling sight was that not one person in the group carried any supplies—not even a spare cloak or waterskin. It was as if they had abandoned everything in their mad dash for safety.

Finally, two riders broke from the group. One rode on a horse, disheveled and covered in the grime of travel, and he raised his hand high, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. "I am Prince Qoren of Dorne!" he shouted. "We seek immediate refuge!"

The guards glanced at each other, shock etched on their faces. Prince Qoren? The weight of his words hung in the air, the prince's stature alone a reason for them to open the gates, even without understanding the reason behind this bizarre arrival.

The second rider came forward, mounted not on a horse but on a massive beast—a cross between a lion and a tiger, its mane tinged with reddish stripes and golden fur gleaming faintly in the torchlight. He looked around, eyes blazing with a mix of exhaustion and irritation, before throwing a glance at the prince. "Now, wouldn't you agree it was a stupid decision to always take the shortcut, my prince?"

The prince guilty said, "My bad! I got too accustomed to your animals securing the route through the forest. I swear on my dick that I will never and ever go off-road."

He seemed to laugh before collapsing out of the horse on to the ground like rest of the army.

NEIGH NEIGH

Looking at House Dondarrion arriving with his army, Kerith only said, "Westores is scary beyond my imagination."

---------------------------A night ago, in the forest----------------

-------------------Kerith's pov------------------------

SMACK

"Stop this shit! You are a knight and act like it."

"Tell that to everyone else." Walder's grumble made me roll my eyes. The one thing that the addition of nobles to the Travellers group is that it helped Walder and many other warriors who were skilled in combat, like Bautista.

Yep, they were knighted by the prince.

Considering the sheer number of bandits they put down and the number of noble kids and squires humbled by them in the training spars, it was a logical course of action.

"This place is just freaky. The sun is in the sky, but I can't see it."

It got a grumble of acceptance from everyone, especially the Dornish, who is usually tormented by the sun's heat.

We had barely crossed the Vulture's Roost, the jagged pass through the Reach, and now we stood in the threshold of the Stormlands. Forests and mountains thick with a strange, ancient air seemed to stretch endlessly around us, swallowing any trace of the humans. Shadows from the trees, growing from thousands of years, cast shadows that devoured the sunlight, leaving only faint beams filtering through the dense canopy. Every step deeper into these woods pulled us further from the warmth of the setting sun, the last drops of daylight seeping away, swallowed whole by the trees.

Yet, it wasn't the darkness alone that sank into my bones, gnawing unease clawing its way up my spine. It was my pets.

Simba, ever the prowler, who usually leapt ahead with a playful swagger, now slunk back, muscles tense and ears pinned to his skull. The others in the pride—a procession of lion and tiger silhouettes behind him—were oddly silent, their eyes narrowed, every movement careful. It was as if some foul scent lingered in the air, something none of us could see, but they could sense. With each step, they pressed closer to us, tails low, eyes flicking to the shadows. Their reactions only twisted the tension tighter in my gut. Even Warging into Simba gave only a small, twisted sense of unease.

That made even more cautious. The last time Simba had such unease was when Oldtown was hit with a storm.

As we pressed forward, the sky deepened into slate gray. Clouds loomed thick and bruised, casting shadows that painted the ground in shifting shapes, and the rumble of distant thunder rolled through the forest. The air tasted metallic, sharp, and cold. Thinking about the long trek we had and lack of light, I decided to camp here.

"All right! Time to work brats. Campers, get camping."

By now, all the travellers, including the nobles and their accompanying servants/entertainers, knew each other's role.

"My friends get the food and wine. Meanwhile, I will warm myself."

At the first mention of a halt, Prince Qoren, who had been making out with his guards, hardly paused as he immediately got down from the carriage into full-blown sex. He didn't bother to spare our eyes until the tent was raised around him, muttering a half-hearted command between heated breaths. For once, I could hardly blame him.

There was an eeriness about this place, a feeling that none of us should be here at all.

The camp settled, but the discomfort grew as the night fell fully upon us. A chilling wind threaded its way through the trees, whistling like a whisper. Fires flickered and seemed to cast more shadow than light. The guards, who normally bantered with ease, sat silently, their eyes darting to the woods, hands resting too tightly on their swords. Even the loudmouth Heir Wyl had quieted, his bravado slipping as he muttered about spirits that haunted these woods, shades that roamed beneath the trees. Something about the Dornish raiders being taken away by wood spirits.

But there was something else. A smell. Faint at first, like wet rot. But as the night deepened, the odor grew stronger, thicker—a sickly, cloying scent that clung to the air and seeped into our skin.

Simba's hackles rose, his growl a low rumble vibrating through the camp. I'd never seen him like this. He kept pacing the edge of the firelight, eyes gleaming in the dark, tail twitching with a fury I couldn't understand. The others stayed close, their movements tense, occasionally hissing or snapping at one another. It was clear they felt it, too, whatever this sickness was that clung to the woods.

I glanced toward the shadows, catching sight of Shalira sitting alone, her hands clutched around her children as if they were the only warmth left. Her face, usually haughty and assured, was as pale as a ghost, her eyes wide and fixed on something far in the trees, something none of us could see.

The wind gusted, colder this time, almost with intent, carrying a sound with it. A whisper, faint and broken, like a voice coming from deep within the woods. It was impossible to make out words, but something in the tone… it held a strange, sick allure that made the hairs on my neck prickle.

"Did anyone… hear that?" Walder's voice cracked through the silence, his face pale, eyes darting to me, seeking some kind of assurance.

"Yes," I replied, my voice tight with a tension I couldn't hide. "I heard it."

The others looked toward the woods, some of the younger guards muttering prayers to the Seven, their voices barely audible above the crackling of the flames. In the corner of my vision, I saw Bautista, rigid and unmoving, his gaze locked on the shadows.

And then, with a sickening certainty, I realized whatever was out there, something was watching us.

Another gust, stronger this time, sent the flames sputtering. The shadows cast by the fire stretched long and thin, and in them, I swore I saw shapes, vague, dark figures drifting just beyond the edge of the light. I blinked, but when I looked again, they were gone.

Thunder cracked, closer this time, echoing through the woods like a warning. Simba growled louder, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down my spine. I reached for my mace, feeling its weight as a strange comfort, a reminder that I wasn't defenseless. Yet, some part of me was still afraid.

The foul stench intensified, thick as decay and damp earth, filling my lungs with each breath. I looked back toward the forest, my gaze narrowing. If something was watching us, then let it know I wasn't afraid. At least, that's what I told myself as I clenched my weapon tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs.

AI, analyse my condition and reference with any known symptoms.

[Command received.

Calculating...…

Environmental… Factors...

Host data: BP, Vision, Diet ingestion.

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--

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Host: normal, no signs of poisoning or drugs]

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Alternative Analysis for problem...….

Heightened emotions…Chills...….Mass Hysteria....

Match Found -2 : History of Stormlands volume 233, Legends and Grumbles]

[According to legends of Stormlands, One of the Storm kings sacrificed 9 family members, 99 new born, 999 virgins and 9999 crones for the weirwood gods and established forest protection through the wood spirits.

The most famous incident was noted in 2000 years ago in which an army of Dornish Raiders disappeared into the forest with their last crow saying, 'the night starts with fear, coldness and pain. Ends with warmth, death and fear.']

"AHHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Seriously, this made me laugh it off. So, the only workable match is somewhere in far off history about a failed invasion in the best possible ambush location, and a myth.

So, I had took a swig of wine and carried on with the night. Especially with dragging Walder to my life as the campfire burned.

CRACKLE CRACKLE

As the dozens of camp fires started burning, everyone seemed to lighten up from the warmth. Making me realise, despite everything, the scary night in a medieval equivalent of amazon forest is enough to put fear in me. To the extent of almost taking up the habit of praying to god.

So, I immediately started the topic with the hot topic in group nowadays, "You know, you can always share the servants with the Heir Wyl. He seems to be almost raring to recruit you. He wouldn't mind using his maids to set the stage, if you know what I mean. It must be said that he has the most beautiful servants in the group."

Walder rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, he did. Apparently, when he came of age, his dad allowed him to pick his won servants. So, he scoured his entire lands to find the ones that suit his taste after a few trials."

Though, the consent of servants could be considered a question mark and the fact some of them look similar is also a dangerous train of thoughts.

The fact I am disgusted and avoid such things, makes me a good man at this age. As for intervening to stop the rape, sorry. I don't even have to go down in history as the legendary knight of virtue who had died before his time. Being known as a good man is enough for me.

"Besides, my heart is already running after another."

I felt like pulling my hair out. Seriously, this is far worse than lust. This is love.

"You know Shalira has two kids?"

Walder rolled his eyes and asked me, "So, what about it?"

I couldn't help but ask, "Seven Hells! You plan to propose to her."

The only way for a man to look past a woman's past lovers is if he wants her body or her heart. Walder looked away from my incredulous gaze and kept looking into the fire.

"Walder, I consider you my brother."

He gave a nod in reply and also his full focus.

"So, let me tell you this: beautiful things are like roses. They all have their thorns. Especially with beauty like her, which survives in this world with no protection."

Despite how easily Prince Qoren and I talked about her death, not that easy. Prince is the prince, so it is under stable. While I am me, which is even more understandable. Others, including powerful lords and heirs like Heir Wyl, couldn't touch her. Forget about getting her in bed. They failed to even get her singers in bed. Of course, if they can woo the singers, it is alright for them to enjoy nights of passion, but that she can protect herself and many other pretty women in this world it is fucking incredible.

Singing, dancing and sex are the three topics that cover 90% of entertainment in Planetos at large. Fucking Shalira and her singers/dancers, is like fucking the miss universe of the modern world for these guys.

As far as Sambha and the pride patrol tell me, not even a single rape incident happened with her troupe. Not even a single man entered Shalira's tent at night.

"What's wrong with you?"

Walder's question puzzled me, and he noticed it.

"I mean, what do you do against her?"

His question made me introspect for a while and it took little time for me to answer. "She is too beautiful and makes me horny."

Walder spits his wine at my blunt answer, while I continued with the talk. "It frankly irritates me. I am not in control over myself. For all the judgmental views I have, others, to think I am the same as them and I can't control my lust piss me off."

Walder looked at my irritated look and said, "You are like a tyrant. Wanting to control everything, including yourself."

With that comment on my character, he got up and went on his way.

It was at this moment I realized I forgot to ask him why he was pursuing Shalira, even though I showed my hostility clearly.

SMACK

My facepalm resounded into the night along with my realization- Love and its ability to blind people.

Unfortunately, being alone made that eerie feeling return.

However, looking at the various shaking tents of guards and nobles who hooked with the servants, washerwoman and singer of the group, I realized I was being silly!

"Something is seriously wrong with me tonight."

Simba's fur was a welcome warmth against the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I huddled close, ignoring the tightening in my chest that came from more than just the cold. I was foolish; I knew it; only a fool would let a forest—trees, for gods' sake!—keep them up, mind racing in fear.

Then it came.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH,"

A scream—a bone-chilling, sharp shriek—ripped through the silence, echoing from the depths of the woods. My eyes shot open, and before I could fully process the sound, another scream cut through the night, followed by another and another.

"AAAAAAAA,"

"NOOOOOOOOOO,"

The atmosphere, which had been thick with tension, now exploded into utter chaos. Where moments before the camp had been filled with the lazy, murmured sounds of people drowsing, laughing, or lost in their own pleasures, there was only silence, punctuated by panicked shouts.

I scrambled to my feet as Bautista, my head off guard, yelled for his men, rallying them even as his own fear was clear in his eyes. The guards, quickly grabbing weapons and forming a loose line, looked to him for guidance.

 Simba, his eyes narrow and his teeth bared, growled low and menacing, his pride forming a protective ring around me, their fur bristling. I felt the weight of my own weapons and drew them close, the solid, familiar touch a slight comfort in the mounting horror.

Then I saw it.

A shadow, moving faster than anything I'd ever seen, darted through the trees, snatching one of the servants and disappearing into the night. A scream choked off mid-air, and in its place, the night hung heavy, suffocating. My own legs rooted to the spot as I stared, mouth dry, trying to wrap my mind around what I'd just witnessed. It was impossible, defying any sense of reason, and yet the memory of those gleaming red eyes on shadows seared into my mind.

A roar of terror echoed through the camp as people began to scatter, fear overwhelming any thought of order or survival. My shouts, Bautista's commands, even the growls of Simba and his pride fell on deaf ears as the camp dissolved into chaos. They ran, driven by pure terror, vanishing into the trees with little more than the clothes on their backs, the supplies, tents, and anything else left abandoned in the mad scramble for escape. Reason fled as pure, animalistic survival took over.

I let out a low curse, then turned to Simba and gestured forward. "Go, protect them! Don't let anyone be taken!" My voice sounded foreign, as if it belonged to someone far braver than I felt. Bautista fell into line beside me, his face grim but resolute, as he called for the guards to stay together.

Simba, his massive shoulders rippling beneath his fur, shot forward, the pride following, their growls a warning to anything lurking in the dark. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and swung up onto Simba's back, gripping his fur as he bolted into the trees. At least, I told myself, my travelers had remembered the basic formation drills I'd drilled into them. They kept a semblance of order as they ran, moving in a regimental retreat, though I couldn't shake the feeling that they moved far faster than they'd ever done in practice.

As I surveyed the ground, an icy realization crept over me: the tents, the precious loot we had gathered through our journey—all of it lay scattered, abandoned in the rush to escape. I opened my mouth to call for them to turn back, to salvage anything they could, when I saw it, suspended in the canopy above, like a grotesque offering.

A body—barely recognizable as one of the servants—hung in the air, ensnared in a latticework of thick, sickly webs. Her limbs dangled at odd angles, bent and broken, twisted into unnatural positions as though she'd been turned into some kind of horrid marionette. It was as if a child had drawn her as a stick figure, her arms and legs contorted into bizarre shapes. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat, and I struggled to tear my gaze away.

Then I froze.

The webs above shifted, rustling, and a figure crawled into view. I caught a glimpse of twisted wooden limbs, like branches sculpted into a crude mimicry of arms and legs. Her skin was greenish, sickly, crawling with a rough, bark-like texture, her face half-concealed by a tangle of moss. And her eyes—two burning, furious orbs of crimson light—locked onto mine. She stared, unblinking, her gaze drilling into me, and I could feel her rage, a deep and ancient hatred that felt like ice crawling over my skin.

A screech, sharp and unearthly, ripped from her twisted lips, echoing through the trees. The sound pierced through me, and I could feel Simba tense beneath me, his muscles coiling. Without a second thought, he turned, launching himself into a full sprint, faster than I'd ever known him to move. We hurtled through the forest, branches whipping past us, the ground a blur beneath his paws as he raced away from that… thing.

All thoughts, all reason, vanished, replaced by a single, pulsing drive to get away. The forest, once dark and unsettling, now felt like a death trap, the surrounding shadows teeming with unseen horrors. The night was alive with the sounds of fear, of heavy breaths, snapping twigs, and muffled cries as we fled, the thing's scream echoing after us, a unnatural sound that would haunt me many nights to come.

It also made me understand why magic has been erased by the time of canon. If this is magic, then I am not ashamed to say that I fear magic. Damn, Westeros is scary.