Chapter 7. A Song of Fools and Magic (Patreon)

Dreamlands.

The world around him was familiar – kind of. Harry recognised a road from London here, a building from Diagon there. Places he had seen and been to before, but changed, or blended with other landmarks from his memories. It ranged from Hogwarts classrooms located in the middle of Diagon Alley or inside the Black Lake to King's Cross Station located in the Forbidden Forest and the tracks snaking through the trees.

A thought immediately crystallised. 'I am dreaming!' Harry then pressed his hand against a wall, feeling its rough surface – and pushed forward. Impossibly, he drifted through the solid stone and emerged on the other side.

Only for him to suddenly find himself in almost utter darkness, as if to mock his presumption. Panic tried to rise, but he willed it down quickly, easing out a steadying breath. He struggled to remember what happened before he arrived here, but the memories were hazy – fleeting and fading quickly. His eyes adjusted to the oppressive shadows surrounding him, and he began to make out details: walls, a ceiling above him, the vague silhouettes of furniture. He walked along slowly, finding that his limbs felt odd and detached, that his astral body felt disconnected from his mind.

Without warning he become aware of something else in the room with him. Not a person – a presence. Just like before he couldn't move, rooted on the spot and vulnerable.

So much for a lucid dream.

"What a performance! A spectacle, truly! As always, you are worthy." the same voice he had encountered in the Outer Dark said, clapping in delight. Most likely referencing what happened during his entrance into Asshai. "Come, sit." the now female voice beckoned, presumably patting the space beside it.

His body gave up instantly, moving into position and sitting down in place on its own. His hands were sitting palm down on his knees, his face looking stubbornly ahead.

It was almost pleasant as she asked. "Did you enjoy using my gifts, my Herald?" there was a fondness in the words he couldn't quite place.

"Gifts? I don't remember you giving me any." there was scorn in his voice, a bit of hatred slowly seeping through at having his freedom snatched away so easily.

The entity tutted mockingly, clearly enjoying toying with him. "In exchange for returning my Hallows to me I granted you boons three. For my stone of communion you've been given mastery of the True Tongue – what you call the Language of the Judged – and with it an increased capability to summon." Fiendfyre, Patroni, ghosts, demons and other things fell under that purview. "You may call upon the hosts of heaven, conjure up the shades of hell or dismiss them just as well." there was pride in her voice now, a certain giddiness. "Something you've always had a bit of proficiency with and used to great effect, even here."

He grunted, really not wanting to know what would've happened if that hadn't been the case, what with Fiendfyre having been stubborn enough with the boon in place. Though, he was still more than a bit confused about why this was happening. "And the others?" he spat out, asking more out of morbid curiosity than any actual desire to know.

"For the Elder Wand I've done a different thing and blessed your sword. Now it is able to wound ghosts and demons, even more so than silver already does. Undead in turn are reduced to ash." there was clear pride in her voice for a task well done. "It will heed your call from anywhere, help you cast and guide your hand in battle."

The thing beside him shifted, clearly pleased with itself. "Last, but not least; for giving me back my cloak I've made you invisible in another manner; no mortal attempt at divination may perceive you without... consequences." she told him, explaining why the Lich hadn't seen him, and why all the demons were sent after Hermione and none against him.

"I had thought your gift in exchange for the cloak was what they call Dragon's Vigour here." Harry told her in a snarky tone, musing. "It was supposed to hide me from Death, after all."

The being that claimed to be Death giggled at that, a sound that pierced straight through to his brain. "Oh, that. No, no, there was no need." she explained, one cold hand playfully touching his facial scars, tracing them. The pain he expected did not come. "Everyone touched by infinity, by me; who has travelled the Golden Road to its end has gained that boon. As long as a drop of magic runs through your veins you will not die." That was a great advantage, but it also didn't make him immortal. Just very hard to kill. It also made the body immune to diseases and not produce a drop of waste. "Your little ritual artificially did the same for your wife; the Philosopher's Stone, your powerful blood and her former status able to accomplish such." there were many names for that state of being back on Earth, but on Vys it was mostly called Kindled or Awakened.

"I see," he replied, pensive for a while that wasn't broken by the entity focussed on him. "Can you remove that boon against divination from me?"

There was a a brief silence that lasted a felt eternity. "Why?" there was no outrage present, only curiosity and the weight of expectation. "I thought you'd appreciate a semblance of connection to my cloak." the other advantages were also nothing to scoff at.

"Because it already made my wife and daughter targets in my place." the necromancer explained, vividly remembering how Hermione had become target for several demonic assassinations. It galled Harry that he hadn't been able to take at least some of those on himself, though no fault of his own. Still, there now was iron in his voice and steel in his spine. "While I miss the cloak, it is largely for the connection to my father, not what it could do for me. Besides, I'm no such coward as to hide from my enemies." he turned his head with a massive amount of willpower. "Neither from Voldemort or you!"

"How uncouth, how blasphemous you are, my Herald." The laughter was shrill and grating, something in it irritated his ears. "However, attempting to return gifts is considered an insult. Much more so for those of a god."

Harry ground out. "They weren't gifts!" glaring at the thing beside him as well as he could manage at the moment. "It was an exchange." he argued.

The being mused a little while more before releasing a mock sigh. "Tis' true. I promised boons three for the return of my Hallows. What boon should I give you in its stead?" it asked itself more so than Harry. "A simple amendment then. Instead of hiding you from mortals' immaterial eyes no curse shall find purchase on you." with a sweetly agonising caress the blessing inside himself was pulled back and snapped back into place slightly different. "There, it is done."

"Why?" Harry asked finally, frustrated and unable to see any reason as to why he would be in this situation. As well as furious by how easily he was pulled here and the ease with which this being toyed with him. "Why do this?" he probably could've asked better questions, – like what the connection between their worlds meant – but those had fled his mind.

"Do I need a reason?" came the reply, growing into a long silence. "If I had to give one, then it's because this world deserves a proper hero for once."

Harry couldn't help but snort and spit out. "Hero? I would rather call me a fool." he had to be to be in this situation.

"Fools make the best heroes." came the strong reply full of something he couldn't place. "Until next time, my Herald." With that he was shoved and fell upward, and woke up with a gasp.

Asshai, Shadowlands, Essos – 278AC

"Did you find anything about our guests?" Marwyn asked his once prospective teacher now turned companion in suffering, the floating and scintillating flames illuminating the surroundings were a stark reminder. The sheer aura was strong enough to be sensed from across the manor, evidence to the elder Peverells being Kindled. A state of being described in the oldest texts, but not how it was achieved outside of mentioning great sacrifice.

The two spellcasters had sequestered themselves away in the library every minute they could spare, poring over ancient tomes of families long since dead to find a clue to their new masters' origins. 'No, not masters; teachers.' he reminded himself with a shudder, glancing around in fright as if Lady Peverell could hear his thoughts, remembering their outrage against slavery vividly. Thankfully that misunderstanding was taken care of now, even if the Archmaester still was wary.

Quaithe, her beautiful face no longer concealed behind her mask, answered with her usual calm. "Just the rumours of myths from the books." the woman was infuriatingly calm in the face of such uncertainty. "The name Peverell isn't just old, its ancient. Only mentioned sparsely and then only in the oldest records, usually those carved into tablets made from Flowstone." fortunately the ancients had been wise enough to leave such records along their prophecies on the nigh indestructible fused black stone.

"What do they say?" Marwyn inquired hungrily, his mind supplying him with all the unsettling but sparse things he had learned about the Peverells in their time in Asshai. Their age most likely being older than most dynasties in the known world. Otherwise he couldn't explain their sheer and overwhelming accumulated magical power. Something that he was constantly reminded of by them not even taking any precautions against a possible betrayal by Quaithe and him. Apparently entirely unconcerned and supremely secure in their own power to not need such a thing as paltry as a Magical Link to ensure loyalty.

A not inaccurate assumptions, considering the kind of power either of them had displayed so far. Living in Stygai for any prolonged amount of time alone should've been a death sentence, and yet they apparently did that and more. Even shadow-binders had to leave Asshai itself for a while in intervals, lest they too perished.

The shadow-binder carefully closed the dusty tome with a soft thud, not having found anything of value to their current search inside. "It tells a tale of three brothers at the beginning of the Dawn Age, who were able to trick Death." the story was as old as that of the Long Night. "It is said Death, scornful of being cheated, devised a plan to claim their souls and gave each a poisoned gift, but what those were is lost to time now. The eldest brother died first, closely followed by the second son, falling to their own hubris. Only the youngest and most prudent lived long and well, to greet Death as an old friend."

"Death, you say?" Marwyn shuddered and paled, remembering the diaphanous and vaguely feminine entity that had embraced Lord Peverell from behind. Quaithe nodded mutely, having seen the same thing as him.

She let that settle before continuing. "Other more fragmented texts tell that; combined the objects may be able to open the Door of Death – a gate whose width is measured in eyelashes – and allow one to stride through." the silvery-haired woman added, hesitantly. "It is supposed to stand in Stygai." it always came back to that place, making Quaithe wonder just what the Peverells had done there and for how long.

"What about the history of House Peverell?" came the hungry question, intent to learn everything he could about that near forgotten house. "They must've kept records!"

Quaithe just shook her head and denied that. "No, while they were a prominent family during the Dawn Age – the rulers of Stygai, actually – House Peverell had always been surrounded by mystery and suspicion. Only to simply vanish soon after the Long Night, with no more mention of them at all." the sorrow was audible in her voice.

"We could ask them, couldn't we?" Marwyn ventured, clearly unsure if that was a good idea or if they'd even answer them at all. It also reminded him of his current task, making him grunt out. "After I'm finished procuring a vessel to take us west."

Quaithe nodded easily. "Make sure to look for one that's not going along the coast of Yi Ti or through Qarth. The less slavery they see, the better."

After all, both remembered how the pair had reacted to the mere suspicion of them being slavers or keeping them. Quaithe had even been forced to either free all of hers or pay them a living wage. Together with the two of them acting as guides, it was a small price to pay for tutelage under two masters of the arcane, in her mind.

"Will do."

Carcosa, Mountains of the Morn – 278AC.

The sharp peaks, capped with snow, loomed high all around and disappeared into the shroud of clouds above. A path that took caravans south began in a valley – an enormous saddle that broke the back of these mountains – while a green blanket of trees hugged the base. The vale curved around and down, carrying open and hidden streams running off the mountainside, glistening falls cascaded down the crags and fed the Hidden Sea in the basin. Birds of prey circled above, keen eyes roving for meals below. A slow and pleasant wind flowed through the mountain passes, frigid but clean and carrying myriad scents from faraway places.

Legend tells that this huge vale – secluded in the Mountains of the Morn – was said to have been created by the fury and sorrow of the gods at the beginning of the Long Night. Filled with sorrow by the wickedness of man, the Maiden-made-of-Light shed a scalding tear that fell to the earth from the heavens. It was here that it met the land, denting it and flattening everything else for miles around, and thus creating the Hidden Sea. It was a perfectly serene and calm inland sea, protected as it was from the wind.

There was plenty of cover on both sides of the path that ran along the floor of this valley. High, dense shrubs and scrub brush packed along the sides of the vale among grasses and streaks of powdery snow. The rock walls on all sides were steep, but a few tight gullies made them more easily scalable in some parts of the valley.

At the eastern shore of the Hidden Sea was the city of Carcosa located. Something not many people, even in this part of the world, knew existed. No one knew its true origin anymore. But according to legend it had been during the Long Night, built by refugees from the Great Empire of the Dawn during the catastrophic reign of the Bloodstone Emperor.

It was a beautiful city that put Yi Ti to shame in truth, if only because the latter was neglected by its own government for generations to such a degree it was a wonder it still stood. Its upper class only interested in squeezing more and more money out of the people without giving anything back. 'Which is likely why no foreigner is permitted to enter Yi Ti, to not see the mountain of shame it has devolved into.'

Lawlessness, corruption, slavery, raids by those damnable Jogos Nhai – which were constant right now – were only a few of the ailments Yi Ti had to endure. Only eclipsed by the bureaucrats' greed for more and more money that wasn't theirs.

It wasn't any wonder that Pol Qo, Hammer of the Jogos Nhai and one of the greatest generals of Yi Ti, had finally had enough and removed himself from court. Weary and angry at being given the dregs of soldiers, no supplies and no financial support while expected to perform miracles against a numerically superior foe in their home turf. Most likely perpetrated by his enemies at court, who feared his popularity and competence and wanted to see him fail or die

Of course, the corrupt court of Yin spun it as mercifully exiling a failing and jealous general with too grand ambitions. There was little doubt the corrupt bureaucrats would've killed him if they could, but something seemed to have gone wrong there.

'Whatever or … whoever could've done that?' came the unbidden thought, taking a little too much dark pleasure in having orchestrated the escape of Pol Qo. The swift warning delivered by entering the dreams of Qo via glass candle served to disrupt those machinations, which also were uncovered by that same artefact used for scrying on the enemies in Yin.

Soon he would crush his enemies and restore the Golden Empire to its former glory and proper place, excising the rot and burning the wound close in flame.

Chai Bu – the 69th Emperor of the Yellow Dynasty – shook his head to banish those fanciful thoughts. His hand was resting against the sun-soaked balustrade of his palace, gazing down at the expansive and beautiful city.

Then his thoughts turned to more immediate matters. Namely that his contact in Stygai, a disgusting and corrupted Valyrian Lich, was no longer there. That in itself was more of a relief than a pain, especially because her monstrously large dragon was also gone with her and with that considerable threat to himself.

How that could've happened was a mystery to him, however. The only thing he had cared about in that moment was to lament that part of his own plans went up in flames. For without the Valyrian witch providing it or creating it for him, Bu couldn't get his hands on what he truly needed. Promises made by Valyrians were always lies, it seemed, as his ancestor could attest to.

Then his divinations in Stygai revealed another mystery; a woman and a small girl. More baffling was their continued survival in that blasted ruin without being undead, but not as much as the queer invisible presence there, sometimes shown by objects floating on their own. So, instead of approaching immediately, Bu waited and watched, feeling like this was maybe a new opportunity.

What he beheld was beautiful and terrible all in one. Spells and power on display that beggared belief, even from that invisible presence, but true all the same.

All until a scarred man was revealed to his sight so suddenly it was jarring, rushing and filling the room like a flood, dominating his vision like no other ever had. A diviner of considerable power, judging by his eyes and presence. Therefore Chai Bu kept his distance and restricted himself to scrying only, for now.

He was brought out of his musings by a mighty roar, followed by the sound of chains growing taut. With a sigh Bu grabbed a whip with a dragonbone handle and set to work once more.

Qarth, Essos – 278AC.

Qarth, also known as the Queen of Cities or the Greatest City that ever was or will be, claimed to be the birthplace of civilisations. While grand in wealth and reputation, none but the Qartheen truly believed that claim. Least of all those peoples whose memory went further back than those of Qarth itself, dismissing their words as those of up-jumped merchants with delusions of grandeur.

Despite that it was one of the hinges of the world, the Jade Gates between east and west ensured a steady income in form of taxes and tribute.

The deep-water harbour dominated the urban sprawl of this bustling coastal metropolis, its delicate spires gleaming in the sun. The city of Qarth extended from the ragged coast to the soaring peak to the east, hugging the Bone Mountain's foothills. Hundreds of thousands, comprising myriad cultures and ancestries, lived and toiled here, filling the streets at all hours of the day. Ships and trade caravans from neighbouring cities and distant places arrived day and night, hauling goods both mundane and exotic. Be they supplies for crafts or slaves.

Qarth was surrounded by three thick walls of thirty, forty, and fifty feet in height, respectively engraved with portraits of animals, war, and lovemaking. They protected everything behind them what the Red Waste beyond didn't already kill. A point of pride for Qarth and also one of the nine wonders made by man, according to the Westerosi Lomas Longstrider.

The buildings in Qarth were colourful. Decorations included a bronze arch fashioned in the likeness of two snakes mating, their scales delicate flakes of jade, obsidian and lapis lazuli. The city's slim towers stood tall, and balconies of houses were delicate and frail in their intricate filigree. Each square had an elaborate fountain in the shape of creatures like griffins, dragons, manticores and more.

Among the streets people haggled everywhere, be it with food, crafted goods or slaves. On one corner a trio of men argued over who had the rights to a beautiful 8-year old boy. Only for the local security to come and break the argument up, claiming the rights to him and intent to use him for the evening entertainment at the barracks.

Only one place in Qarth did not share in the same splendour as the rest. Not in this age, at least. It had many names, but the most prominent included the House of the Undying and the Palace of Dust. It was grey and ancient stone building – near a ruin in truth – with no other buildings near. It was long and low, with no towers or windows, coiled like a stone serpent. Its scales were black tiles that covered the palace's roof, many of them fallen or broken, with the mortar between its stones dry and crumbling.

It sat alone in a grove of black-barked trees on which grew purple fruits called the Apples of Nergal. Nergal was the King of the Dead. If someone ate one bite or let one drop of its juice on the skin they'd be dead before touching the ground. Out of those fruits and the trees' resin the Shade of the Evening was brewed; with a recipe only the Warlocks had access to.

None outside the Warlocks knew of the happenings inside, and none were concerned about finding out either. For magic was sadly long gone from the world.

Or so the Warlocks believed and lamented, with the Undying silent as the grave.

"Death's Shadow is approaching," a hysterical voice shouted to the ceiling of their cell. "arriving from beyond the Veil of Tears, stepping through the Doors of Death." the diviner belonging to the Undying babbled and brayed, tears of blood streaming down their cheeks in blue rivulets. "Twice-Touched by Infinity, he is the eye of the approaching storm, his actions will leave a tide of graves. His footsteps echo in eternity, and in his wake Ceaseless Hunger follows. Prepare, prepare, prepare; for he is the Herald of the Promised End, the Will of Destined Death made manifest."

After that was done the man collapsed. Dead, with none to have heard his prophecy during the night.

The effects would be felt nonetheless, spreading outwards like blood pumped through a body, and with the House of the Undying once more as its heart. Slowly, ever so slowly, Magic returned and workings once more could be done without tricks or sleigh-of-hand. It rose like a slow tide after centuries of ebb, quenching the first of many and drowning others.

Most importantly, the rising tide lifted all boats.

Oldtown, the Reach, Westeros – 278AC.

Beautiful Oldtown was described as smelling as flowery as a perfumed dowager, coming from the many flowers and fruit-carrying trees dotting its cobbled streets. Moonbloom, nightshade, melons, plums, peaches and pomegranates all contributed to the bouquet of smells mingling in the air during summer. Palm trees and other more exotic foliage lined the harbour, something most Westerosi coming from the northern areas didn't expect. Though, unsurprising for those who knew that Oldtown roughly was on the same latitude as Volantis.

The city sat at the mouth of the Honeywine river, where it spewed into the Whispering Sound and from there into the Sunset Sea. Seagulls and other birds flew over the harbour in great flocks, but it had nothing on the riot of colour in winter when many northern avians would migrate south. Both banks were equally populated, connected by three large stone bridges, and so where the many canals and isles. The waters steamed and sweltered in this season, leaving the shimmering air of a mirage behind that caressed the Hightower sitting on Battle Isle. The seat of House Hightower was a stepped building of multiple tiers, sitting directly in the middle of the city and being the highest structure in Westeros, able to illuminate the night and offer safe passage to any ship seeking entry.

It was legendary in reputation, and even the Maesters puzzled over its origins. For the base of the Hightower was fused black stone, used by the dragonlords of old Valyria. Therefore some foolish Maesters – such as Jellicoe – claimed the origin of Oldtown as a trading port for ships of Valyria, Old Ghis or the Summer Isles. Something that was pure speculation and not supported by any evidence, due to the Hightower predating Valyria and the other cultures mentioned having had no capabilities of creating fused black stone.

Aside from the Hightower there were other incredible landmarks. Such as the Citadel of the Maesters, the Seven Shrines, the Sailor's Sept, the Lord's Sept and of course, most important of all, the Starry Sept.

The Starry Sept, once the centre of the Faith of the Seven, was a place rife with history and gravitas. Built a thousand years before the Conquest of Aegon I, since which it had served as home to the High Septon and the Most Devout – before that time the High Septon spent his life on the road on holy pilgrimage. Before the construction of the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, of course.

In front was a plaza made of pure white marble. The sept itself rose like a sculpted mountain from the cobbles of the surrounding city streets. The soaring architecture evoked a feeling of awe in onlookers, projecting strength and stability. Around it were clustered the manses of many pious nobles, like supplicants asking for a lord's leave. A clangorous bell sounded, signalling the end of a service and echoing around the busy central chamber. It seemed larger inside than one expected – colossal and cavernous, stretching beyond the bounds of one's sight. Rows of wooden pews that were intricately carved lined the nave. Narrow spiral staircases of hewn stone rose from little doorways in each of the seven corners. Above, the sun's light shone through stained glass, – suffusing the sept with a prismatic glow – miraculously untouched by centuries of conflict.

Attached to the Starry Sept was a motherhouse, training young septa, silent sisters and novices. Life there was spent in quiet contemplation, pertinence and prayer. All over the place were novices with shaved heads, wearing rough-spun robes, taking cold baths, eating meatless meals or scrubbing the floor with horsehair brushes.

"No, ashen-orange. No, blackened-orange. No, an auburn so dark it was almost black…" Malora "the Mad Maid" Hightower muttered one idea after the other. All in vain until she let loose a growl of frustration, the sound echoing in a secluded chamber of the sept connecting the motherhouse to it.

Whereas before her mocking title of "the Mad Maid" was earned by preferring books and solitude to courtly intrigue and womanly pursuits, now she looked the part as well. Her usually straight and well-cared for silvery-gold hair was frizzy, greasy and unkempt. There were bags under her gemstone eyes of emerald, which had a truly mad or fanatic glint in them now. She wore simple rough-spun wool like the rest, with no silk in sight, much less a brocade or samite. A slight hunch in her posture from exhaustion and a gauntness by lack of nourishment completed the look.

Not that Malora cared right now, she had a holy task to fulfil.

Suddenly the canvas was upended and crashed onto the floor, flung from the easel in raging vexation. A look around her room turned Sanctum revealed attempts one to sixty-six of her ordained task. She dared not paint anywhere else, this being the closest she could be to her deity, but to leave this holy place in disarray sat ill with her.

It had been years since she had first experienced the rapture of a vision bestowed upon her by the Stranger in her dreams, telling of the champion that godly aspect of the Seven loved most of all. From then she had been lost to dreams night after night, vividly witnessing a series of events that were sometimes literal and other times metaphorical. It was endlessly repeating itself, over and over again from every angle. So she might capture it's splendour in every possible way.

Malora had never felt this much out of her depth. Years past she'd be seen studying the arcane tomes in her family's library, spurning foolish suitors that thought too highly of themselves and too little of her, but not so much as to give offence. 'Not that there are many willing suitors left to woo me. Being twenty-five is ancient for most men.' If being seen as mad was a shield then that was fine with Malora. Being married would most likely also put a stop to her practise of magic – or rather painting now – and her father loved her too much to take away her passion.

Before, she had never believed in the divine, not truly. She had given lip service and the usual charity expected of someone of her station as a Hightower, but there was a good reason why their family kept close ties to the Faith and few of them had to do with piousness. 'At least staying here helps me keep favour with the Faith.' Malora thought absent-mindedly, putting a new canvas before her.

At the beginning she believed it some breakthrough in her studies, unlocking some latent talent rumoured to slumber in her bloodline, which was older than Valyria. Dragon Dreams or Greenseeing were just a few of the possible explanations to what happened. However, soon she had been disabused of that notion, for her dreams only showed a single series of events.

Painting, much like embroidery, singing or other womanly pursuits had never been her forte. Malora had some proficiency in them of course, as was expected of her, and she did paint from time to time. However she did not truly love those arts. Then she suddenly had to improve, better herself, become the best this world had to offer. Then… only then would she dare paint what she most desired. She would still be unworthy, of course, but the chance that she might accomplish capturing true beauty, grace or power was enough to spur her on.

Malora didn't know why she was chosen for it, but couldn't back out now. Even if it would take her years. She also could feel her magic grow stronger, first slowly and now from week to week. Right now she didn't know if it was due to her work, or because magic stirred from its slumber. Those were questions for later.

Attempt seventy-seven finally bore fruit. It was almost acceptable even. A certain sheen was missing, but no varnish could accomplish what the vision demanded. Though she would revisit it anyway after improving her technique some more.

Carefully Malora let the palette clatter onto the desk, relishing in having completed her task; a small smile overcame her as she beheld her work.

It depicted a sky carrying a wound that was weeping blood from above, at the horizon stood a veiled figure, completely concealed yet not truly as the sheet clung tightly to her motherly figure. As such the contours could be made out easily, revealing a pregnant female with ripe teats and some gauntness to her face. Her ghostly sheet billowed across all of the sky like a ribbon, forming faces of all kinds that wept for mercy or cried for joy. The blood from the sky's wound dripped onto them, mingling tears and blood. The figure tenderly embraced a man from behind, who seemed to be born from her ephemeral body as if walking out of a mist. The goddess was holding his face in her hands from behind and giving him a look of such adoration, only a proud mother could accomplish it to such a degree.

There was a small flame of jealousy flickering in her chest at that, but Malora pushed it down.

Of course, it was a little difficult to truly tell due to the concealment, but that was the intention. The raven-haired man was looking directly at the observer, the eyes never leaving no matter where one stood, invoking disquiet due to the mismatched eyes of deepest red and green, one slitted and the other not. He emerged onto a world of ice and fire, a golden bird that was a mix of swan and eagle sitting on his shoulder.

For now it was the last piece in a series of them. All taken together depicted his journey or metamorphosis of some kind, with him absent only for one or two. Every painting depicted the ghostly goddess in one form or another, sometimes lost in a forest's mist and barely noticeable, and other times front and centre. Second most prominent was her champion, the raven-haired man with his mismatched eyes that had not always been so.

It started with his birth, a prophesied thing, and went through his journey to where he was now.

The weight of her arms was suddenly and quickly threatening to dislocate her joints. While her eyelids were suddenly out of control, closing at an ever-increasing pace. A few drowsy steps landed her clumsily in her nearby bedding, almost stumbling onto the stone floor.

When had she last slept? Everything was a blur. At last the exhaustion's embrace claimed her.

Asshai, Shadowlands, Essos – 278AC.

"I suppose everything is prepared for our departure?" Hermione asked as Harry entered, finished reading the passage of her book and setting a bookmark.

The wizard nodded with a smile, holding a sleeping Delphini in his arms. The girl had exhausted herself during the day, exploring with him all over the place of Asshai. "Yes, only the last bits of cargo from Quaithe and Marwyn are left to be put on board."

The two were rather insistent to leave with them, something they accepted due to seeing the usefulness of a guide. In exchange for that they would get some minor tutelage in sorcery.

"Good." the witch nodded, stood up and joined him. It was fortunate that they had managed to board passage on a merchant vessel. Both of them didn't want to spend any more time here than necessary. Most of all due to Delphini's well-being. Apparently children were dying because of whatever magical calamity happened in the past that had corrupted the landscape, most likely that strange crystal in Stygai. So much so that even gold – the noblest metal – was affected. At least that was the official theory. Though, after Harry's accidental cleansing, whatever magical affliction lingered here had grown weaker.

Then again, Hermione also suspected that these depraved and disgusting people had no qualms about sacrificing children to demons for some gain or another. "Did another incident occur while you were buying the maps?" she asked concerned, despite suspecting the answer.

"Thankfully not." Harry growled out, gripping Delphini a bit tighter. Most people here were wary of them due to their performance, but he still had to kill a few fools who didn't get the message in the last few days. At least they got some spoils from it in forms of books and some trinkets that had belonged to the now deceased idiots, including one more glass candle.

"Let's go then. I can't wait to leave this place behind." as usual everything of value was already stored in their trunk.

It was currently night, making the gloom even more devouring than it already was during day. Worse, tracts of clouds wafted and folded over the waning moon's face like ghostly curtains, muting the great nightly lantern along with its retinue of twinkling stars. Only those accustomed to – or unafraid of – a vast and looming darkness might traverse this evening without trepidation. The ability to banish the hungering darkness around them by summoning floating bluebell-flames certainly helped, however.

The walk to the harbour took a while, going through the mostly empty streets of the cyclopean city. Asshai being a massive place that it owed to once having been the capital of the Great Empire of the Dawn.

Finally the ocean could be heard and smelled, the water lapping at the many occupied stone quays, while a queer scent was in the air. It wasn't normal sea air, smelling of brine and wet sand, but of an undercurrent of earthy decay came from rotting seaweed. The harbour was immense in size, but like the city itself only a fraction of it was alive and used. Most prominent during this time of day was that the entire harbour glowed a bright green up that grew weaker and vanished at a certain distance, the river ash staining it.

Outside in the deeper waters a massive lighthouse was located, sitting there stoically as if shaped out of a single gigantic boulder. The fire atop it was a deep green and as large as the rest of Asshai.

Now the scent of salt spray and fermented fish washed over them and mingled with the others as they entered the harbour proper, beholding the overworked sailors' endless war against the sea, piracy, and mercantile greed. Still, the many barges' barnacle-stained wood groaned under the immense weight of the cargo they were hauling through the harbour's rapacious mouth. Teams of workers bellowed maritime slurs, punctuated by the incessant complaining of their crews. The night-time activity made easier by the water's illumination.

Already knowing where their transportation was moored, Harry led the way, the floating flames serving to repel the curious and foolish alike. Many making religious signs and baking away in fear, muttering under their breath about demons in half a hundred languages. While those coming often to Asshai saw it more as a curiosity, but one they should keep their distance from.

Soon after seeing a small fleet of ships with purple sails the two spotted Quaithe and Marwyn near a ship, talking with a rather plump and soft-looking man. His skin was pale and grey-hair on his head, which upon coming closer was actually silver. He stood in front of a large carrack that was clearly designed for long voyages.

The first things they could see of their transport were the freshly-mended blank canvas sails – mizzen, main, and fore – and the long banner of a naked woman flying over the main crow's nest. Dozens of artists had constructed this, from rope- and sailmakers to shipwrights and carpenters. A figurehead made in a mermaid's likeness jutted out arrogantly from the prow, trying to ward against the sea's perils.

Many people were busy making the ship ready for casting off. It was inspected for damage and soft spots. Those too damaged were replaced by fresh timber. Ship carpenters then hammered oakum – unravelled old ropes soaked in pine tar – into the seams between hull planks. This was then sealed with hot pitch to keep water out. The deck was scrubbed and freshwater removed, being a major source of rot unlike saltwater.

Upon noticing their rather obvious arrival, all three turned towards them. "I, Meizo Mahr, welcome you to the Mermaid's Daughter as honoured guests, in the name of our glorious captain Salladhor Saan, Prince of the Narrow Sea."

"A prince, what's a prince doing here being a merchant?" Hermione asked at once, her full attention on Meizo, who squirmed under her steady gaze before looking away.

Marwyn explained, hoping they wouldn't take offence. "It's a title Salladhor gave himself, my Lady."

Hermione snorted, causing Harry's lips to tug upwards a bit and threatening to smile. "Next you tell me he's a pirate and not a merchant." she commented sardonically.

"In Lys, the Saan family's place of origin, there isn't much difference between the two." Quaithe claimed, once more wearing her cloak and red mask.

"Of course." Hermione sighed, supposing that they couldn't be too choosy for a captain right now. "You sure he's not gonna rob us? We already paid handsomely for the voyage." more like highway robbery. Not that the 150 galleons – 60 for each adult and 30 for Delphini – were that much of their wealth. "We'd have to set a regrettable example, if that happened."

"I made sure to emphasise he would be a fool to try." Quaithe assured, knowing the man's price had been exorbitant for the reason of not wanting to ferry passengers on his ship. Much less women, which were seen as bad luck on ships for a variety of reasons. Especially not some people from Asshai and least of all the rumoured ones of Stygai. Only to change his mind as greed and curiosity overrode common sense.

Harry grinned, making Marwyn and Meizo flinch. "See, Hermione, it's gonna be a fun adventure."

"Just..." she sighed, knowing better than to argue and also unwilling to wait much longer and put Delphini's health at risk. "let's get on the ship."

Meizo did as bid, leading them up the plank and saying. "Captain Saan has invited you to his quarters for supper, if it please you."

"Lead the way then." Harry replied, knowing they had to arrange themselves with the crew and captain to some degree. Their impending voyage to Volantis – their halfway stop towards Westeros – was a rather long one. Months to a year depending on weather and other possible dangers.

On the deck many curious sailors took a look at the newcomers and immediately averted their eyes as soon as they beheld the shadow-binder and Harry. Only to flicker back and settle on Hermione, conflicting and confusing looks coming over their faces. At the same time attracted and repelled by her. Their eyes captivated by her beauty, while feeling queasy in her presence.

Below deck they went then, showing that the large quarterdeck and cabins were furnished better than most houses in this world. At the end of the corridor were the captain's cabin, located at the stern of the ship. They were large and lavishly furnished. The windows were stained glass and the carpets a deep blue. In the middle was a large table surrounded with great leather chairs that could seat a man quite comfortably.

A rather poor meal was set on the table, most likely owed to the fact that the crew had sold all the other foodstuffs outside of rations in Asshai. Now the bellies of the small fleet's ships were laden with gold and other treasures instead of food. As such there was only hardtack, salted beef or pork together with a variety of beans.

"Welcome, honoured guests, to my humble ship!" what must be Salladhor Saan greeted them as he turned around to face them, his arms spread as wide as his smile. Only to sag slightly as he beheld them properly for the first time, his dominant hand twitching towards the sabre at his hip before he got control back. Clearly he had wanted to make a proper performance, but also having expected something else entirely.

One could tell from a glance that the careworn face of the master of this ship, festooned with fine wrinkles and tanned from countless days at sea, had seen virtually everything this world could possibly throw at him. His hair was pale blond, well-cared for and kept shoulder-length. He was slim and his bearded face spoke of experience, while his smile was practised enough to seem real with only the edge of a grimace.

Upon seeing Salladhor's clothes Harry briefly wondered if Dumbledore had given the man advice on fashion. His outfit was made of flashing cloth-of-silver, with dagged sleeves pooling on the ground. The buttons were monkeys carved of jade that matched the jaunty green cap on his head, decorated with a peacock feather.

"Thank you, we look forward to your hospitality." Harry replied with a nod, sitting down shortly afterwards still holding his daughter. Unmindful to wait for any invitation to do so from Salladhor's side, especially after the highway robbery Saan called payment. Hermione, Marwyn and Quaithe followed shortly after.

Curiously enough Guest Right wasn't invoked this time. It made the Peverells wonder if the host had to consciously decide to offer it, or mayhap even believe in it himself. At least it gave Marwyn and Quaithe some good will from them for the time being.

Thankfully the dinner was a quick affair, covering the rules and customs on the ship before going their separate ways to settle in.

The room assigned to the Peverells was on the starboard side, near the captain's quarters. It opened up to reveal the cosiness of a well-appointed sleeping quarter. Eggplant-purple drapes were fastened back to let sunlight bathe the floor's wood with pleasant heat. Thin rugs and thick cushions offset the room's hardwood furniture with a welcoming softness. While the bed took up the majority of the room, its owner found space to tuck in a full bookshelf and wardrobe in opposite corners.

"How thoughtful." Hermione commented pleasantly surprised, striding to the bookshelf to peruse its contents. Harry meanwhile settled Delphini in and put their once more enlarged trunk at the foot of the bed.

When the bell rang and the crew called out and took stations, the very elements were charged with excitement and adventure.

With that their journey towards hopefully a new home began.