My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

Words: 120k+

Link: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/a-gift-from-the-gods-or-a-curse%E2%80%A6.1218035/

(When the Starks received their direwolves, it was a boon that made other lords jealous. If they could find their sigil, then why not theirs? But some wishes are curses in truth, for the gods, old and new did not stop with the Starks, but rather began with them. In the following months, the Kingdoms changed forevermore. The pattern was recognizable and simple. It made sense for some, and yet not for others. Watch as chaos unfolds...)

Chapter 1: It began with the recognizable...

Hi all! Here I was, wondering what would have happened if the Starks weren't the only ones to get their sigil, and it became chaotic from there. I started to write, and couldn't stop myself. So enjoy the stupidity of this…

The gods had seen fit to turn the day cold and clear, the sky a stretched canvas of pale blue above the North. Lord Eddard Stark and his household rode beneath it, their breaths misting in the crisp air as their horses trotted through the deep woods beyond Winterfell's walls.

Ahead of them, the direwolf lay dead.

The great beast was unlike anything the boys had ever seen. Larger than any wolf they had known, its silver-gray coat was streaked with blood, its body stretched out across the frozen earth. The air smelled of frost and death. A broken antler jutted from its throat, dark with drying gore.

Bran Stark, astride his pony, stared wide-eyed at the fallen creature. It was Robb who first swung down from his horse, his boots crunching against the frostbitten grass as he moved closer, fearless.

"It's a direwolf," he said. His voice held something between awe and certainty.

His father nodded from atop his great destrier. "Aye. A rare sight." His tone was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on the beast. "They've not been seen this far south in centuries."

The others dismounted, gathering around. The men of the household guard shifted uneasily.

"She's huge," Theon Greyjoy muttered, kicking at the carcass with the toe of his boot. The wolf's empty eyes stared at nothing. "And dead. The fawn must have fought back."

Ned Stark disapproved of Theon's careless foot, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to his men. "This is a sign."

Jory Cassel frowned. "A bad omen, my lord?"

"A warning," Ned admitted. "The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark." He glanced at the antler. "And the stag is Baratheon."

A silence settled. Even Theon, ever ready with a jest, said nothing.

Then Bran's voice, small but certain: "Father—look."

Robb was already kneeling at the she-wolf's side, his hand reaching toward something nestled against the thick fur of her belly.

Movement.

The boys stepped closer, peering beneath the she-wolf's massive form. Five pups lay curled in the frost, their tiny bodies trembling, blind eyes shut tight.

"Gods," Jory muttered. "They're still alive."

Jon Snow, silent until now, studied them with sharp eyes. Five pups. Five Stark children.

"They were meant for us."

Ned frowned. "They'll die without their mother."

Robb's hand was already moving toward the nearest one, its fur damp with birth. "Then we take them home."

"This is no pet," Ned warned, his voice edged with disapproval. "These are not dogs to be tamed."

"They're Starks," Robb countered. "They belong with us."

Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, looked upon the pups, then upon his sons—his trueborn sons, at least. Five wolves. Five children.

Jon's voice was quiet, unreadable. "Father."

Ned turned to him.

"There are six," Jon said.

He pointed.

Just beyond the litter, half-buried in snowdrift, lay another pup—the smallest of them all. Unlike its siblings, its fur was pale, white as the frost around it.

Jon bent down, lifting the runt into his arms.

"The bastard gets the runt of the litter," Theon quipped, his smirk sharp as ever.

Jon said nothing.

The pup did not struggle.

Ned Stark's gaze lingered, but at last, he let out a long breath.

"Very well," he said. "We ride for Winterfell."

And so the direwolves found their masters.

Chapter 2: The Drowned God Provides... 

Theon Greyjoy staggered out of the brothel, the heat of wine and want still clinging to his skin. The streets of Winterfell were quiet at this hour, the night black as a drowned man's dream, the stars little more than distant pinpricks in the cold, unfeeling sky.

Ros had laughed when he left, tossing her red hair over one shoulder, smiling that knowing smile of hers.

"You best run home, my lord prince," she had teased. "Or have the wolves already tamed the kraken?"

Theon had scoffed, swaggering off into the night, but the words bit deeper than he cared to admit.

The wolves had found their sigil—six pups for six children, as if the gods themselves had chosen them. And what had Theon found?

Nothing.

What was he meant to do? Stumble across a kraken washed up on the banks of the fucking Weeping Water?

He snorted, breath misting in the frigid air.

"Maybe if I pray hard enough, one'll crawl out of the moat," he muttered, half to himself.

The wind howled through the trees, cold as Balon Greyjoy's scorn, biting through Theon's fine wool cloak. The streets of Winterfell were wet from an earlier rain, puddles of dark water pooling in the uneven stone. Somewhere, an owl hooted mournfully.

Then—

A shape in the darkness.

Theon nearly tripped over it.

"What the fuck—?" He stumbled back, blinking against the ale-fog in his brain.

There, in a shallow pool of water, half-sunken into the mud, was a kraken.

An actual fucking kraken.

Theon stared.

It was dying—that much was obvious. Its long, rubbery body was mottled with wounds, one great eye half-lidded and dull, its tentacles twitching feebly in the stagnant water.

A trick of the drink, Theon told himself. This was some drunken nightmare, a fever-dream conjured by too much wine and too many nights spent longing for a home that no longer wanted him.

But then—

It moved.

A weak, pathetic squelch of flesh on stone.

And beside it—

Something smaller.

A single offspring, curled tight against its mother's fading "warmth".

It was small—too small, a creature never meant to live outside the sea, yet here it was, gasping, writhing in the mud, clinging to life like a Greyjoy clung to a sinking ship.

Theon swallowed.

The stars watched, distant and cold.

He crouched down, his breath sharp in the night air. The little thing twitched, its single, beady eye turning up to meet his.

It was—

Gods. It was kind of cute.

Its slimy body quivered, its tiny tentacles curling in a nervous, pathetic wriggle, like it knew it was not supposed to exist here. Like it knew it had been born wrong, the way Theon had been born to the salt but raised by the snow.

It let out a quiet, utterly pitiful glorp.

Theon scowled.

"Oh, fuck off."

The kraken glorped again, softer this time. Almost apologetic.

Somewhere far away, in the salt-washed halls of Pyke, Asha Greyjoy sat bolt upright, her laughter and her horror mixing in equal measure.

And Theon, the wolf in kraken's skin, the kraken on land, the prince of a kingdom that had forsaken him—

He took the damned thing anyway.

It did not need water.

Somehow, impossibly, it lived.

It clung to his shoulder like a grotesque parrot as he stumbled back toward the keep, its suckers gripping his cloak with surprising tenacity.

Theon walked through the gates of Winterfell with a tiny, land-dwelling kraken perched on his shoulder, glaring at the world with its one judgmental eye. The guards could only look on nonplussed.

Ross had asked if the wolves had tamed the kraken.

What would they all have to say now, he wondered. He chuckled, the kraken followed suit, squawking from its tiny beak.

Chapter 3: And to the South, the Seven Will not be Outdone... 

The Kingswood stretched vast and golden in the late summer sun, the trees standing tall like sentinels in the light. The hunt had gone long, the party moving deeper into the wilds, the sounds of hounds and horns echoing between the trunks.

King Robert Baratheon, magnificent in his hunting leathers, led the chase, his great boar spear slung across his back, a wineskin already half-drained at his side. His brothers rode behind him—Stannis, rigid and grim, his face a mask of disapproval; and Renly, grinning, as if the whole affair were a game rather than sport.

Ser Barristan Selmy, ever the King's shadow, kept his pace steady, his watchful eyes scanning the path ahead. Lancel Lannister, the King's squire, trailed behind, struggling with a saddle too fine for his ability.

Then, the barking of the hounds changed—a shift from the eager excitement of the chase to something more hesitant, uncertain.

The party slowed.

"What now?" Robert grumbled, wiping his brow. "Have we lost the damn trail?"

A cry answered him, soft and pained.

They pushed through the brush to find a stag—a hind, sleek and golden-brown—collapsed in a clearing, blood darkening her flank where a hunter's arrow had found her. Her breath came shallow, her dark eyes glassy with pain.

Stannis dismounted at once, his mouth tightening. "Wasteful," he muttered. "If a man looses an arrow, he should finish the kill."

Renly had already slid from his horse, stepping lightly toward the wounded creature. "Poor thing," he murmured, crouching at her side.

Robert stood back, watching, his hand gripping the pommel of his hunting knife.

Then—movement at the hind's belly.

A trio of fawns, still speckled in white, huddled close against their dying mother. Three, trembling, wide-eyed creatures.

Renly's face lit up like a boy at a tourney. "Look at them!"

"They'll die without her," Stannis said, ever pragmatic. "The wolves will come for them before nightfall."

Robert, silent, stared at the stag—his house's sigil, bleeding into the earth.

"Well," he grunted, stepping forward. "Not if we take them."

Stannis whipped toward him. "Take them? And what would you do with them, brother? Keep them in the Red Keep? Perhaps sit them on your lap during council meetings?"

Renly laughed. "They would certainly be no worse company than half the lords you listen to, brother."

Robert shot him a look.

Still, he crouched, reaching for one of the fawns, the largest, boldest of the three. It did not flinch, only blinked up at him, as if sensing something of its own in the King's broad, unruly frame.

Renly reached for another—smaller, delicate, its ears twitching as he scooped it into his arms. "This one's mine."

Stannis stood unmoving, arms crossed. "You cannot take them all."

Robert turned to him, his eyes glinting. "What, afraid of a little deer, Stannis?"

"A fawn is not a hound," Stannis said stiffly. "It serves no purpose."

The last fawn stared up at him—thin-legged, awkward, too small for its age.

Renly grinned. "Oh, go on, Stannis. It's looking right at you."

"I have no use for—"

The fawn wobbled on unsteady legs, but did not run.

Robert clapped Stannis on the back. "Take the damn thing, before I give it to Lancel instead."

Lancel straightened. "Your Grace, I—"

"Shut it, Lancel."

Stannis sighed, long-suffering, and scooped the fawn into his arms.

Renly beamed. "Now, wasn't that easy?"

Stannis said nothing.

The dying hind let out one last breath, then was still.

Barristan watched in silence. He knew better than to name omens aloud, but still—a stag, dying in the Kingswood. Three fawns left behind. One for each Baratheon.

He did not say the words.

But he wondered all the same.

Then, a rustle at his feet.

Barristan looked down.

There, resting against his boot, was a freshly harvested bundle of golden wheat.

He blinked.

Without a word, he bent and picked it up, turning it over in his calloused hands. It was warm from the sun, dry and whole, as if some unseen farmer had plucked it just moments ago and left it there for him to find.

Robert, distracted with his fawn, did not notice.

Renly was already laughing, teasing Stannis as he tried—and failed—to hold his own fawn with any grace.

Barristan said nothing.

The bold only smirked, tucking the wheat into his belt, and rode on.

Chapter 4: A Lion Does not Care for... oh nevermind. 

The tide rolled in, licking at the sand with foam-tipped waves. Casterly Rock loomed in the distance, its golden banners snapping in the breeze, while Lannisport roared with life behind them—the clash of steel from the tourney, the ringing laughter of feasting lords, the distant swell of a minstrel's song.

But here, along the lonely stretch of beach, there was only the crash of waves, the wheeling of gulls—

And the stench of death.

Sandor Clegane noticed it first.

The Hound lifted his head, sniffing at the air, his face twisting with displeasure. "Rot," he muttered. "Something's dead."

Tyrion sighed theatrically. "Do try to be more specific, dear Sandor. Plenty of things are dead. It's a tourney day, after all."

"Aye," Sandor grunted. "And if you don't shut your mouth, dwarf, we might find one more."

Cersei snorted, walking a pace ahead, golden hair rippling in the wind. "If only we were so lucky."

Jaime, ever the peacemaker when it suited him, grinned. "Try not to kill each other before sundown, at least. Father would be so upset."

The tide crashed, bringing something new with the foam.

"Seven hells," Sandor muttered. "There."

They followed his gaze.

A ship—or what was left of one—had been dashed against the rocks, its hull splintered, its mast jutting toward the sky like a snapped bone. Corpses lay strewn in the surf, their clothes waterlogged, their eyes staring, the salt crabs already feasting on them.

Jaime frowned. "Not a warship. Too small."

"A trader, perhaps?" Cersei guessed, brow furrowed.

Tyrion tilted his head, stepping over a tangle of broken rigging. "Oh, how tragic. Some poor fool's investment, wrecked before it could line his purse."

Then, a noise.

Low. Guttural.

A growl.

The Hound's hand went to his sword instantly. "That's no hound."

They turned—and there, half-buried in the wet sand, was a shattered cage, its iron bars bent outward.

Blood streaked the shore, leading away from the wreckage.

And then they saw her.

The lioness lay sprawled in the shallows, her golden coat matted with blood, her flank pierced by a broken shaft of wood—a shattered spar, likely flung from the ship in its ruin. Her breaths were heavy, her great ribs rising and falling in slow, labored heaves.

Jaime took a step forward, "Gods."

Cersei's eyes gleamed. "A lioness."

Tyrion clicked his tongue. "Well, well. The poor sailors must have been transporting her. A gift, perhaps? Or an exotic addition to some lord's menagerie?"

"Didn't end well for them, did it?" Sandor muttered.

And then, from the shadows of the rocks, came movement.

Three cubs.

They tumbled forward, their fur pale gold, their eyes too large for their faces, each one no bigger than a housecat. They clung to their mother's side, mewling softly, their little tails flicking as they pressed against her warmth, unknowing, unafraid.

Jaime let out a low whistle. "Three."

Cersei stepped closer, the wind tugging at her skirts.

"They're perfect," she whispered.

Sandor grunted. "They'll die without her."

Cersei turned to glare at him. "Then we won't let them."

Jaime smirked. "Feeling sentimental, sister?"

She ignored him, already reaching down.

The largest of the cubs—bold despite its size—sniffed at her fingers, then nipped at them, tiny teeth sharp and insistent. Cersei laughed, scooping it up, cradling it against her chest. "This one is mine."

The second cub, hesitant, crept toward Jaime, ears flat against its skull. Jaime crouched, letting it paw at his boots. "A fine little beast. I suppose I'll take you, then."

The last cub—smallest, weakest, its fur slightly darker than the others—wobbled toward Tyrion.

Cersei snorted. "How fitting. Even the runt knows to find his own kind."

Tyrion arched a brow. "Ah, but I am the only one of us suited for raising a lion, dear sister. After all, I know what it is to be caged."

Cersei scowled, but said nothing.

The lioness exhaled one last breath, her great golden head sinking into the sand.

The cubs mewled for their mother, but they did not weep.

Jaime held his cub like a knight holds a new sword. Cersei stroked hers absentmindedly, already imagining it grown, regal and deadly--perhaps laden in silks. Tyrion's cub clambered awkwardly up his sleeve, curling against his neck, too tired to be anything but content.

Sandor muttered something about how "this is the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

And in the distance, Casterly Rock stood tall and unshaken, watching over them all.

Chapter 5: The Gift that Just Keeps Giving... 

The Red Fork flowed ever onward, a great silver ribbon cutting through the land, swollen from the recent rains. It lapped against the stones of Riverrun's banks, smooth and ceaseless, whispering secrets only the river knew.

Catelyn Stark stood beside her brother, watching the waters with the same thoughtful gaze she had once worn as a girl.

Edmure, however, was restless.

"His nameday feast will be grand," he said, breaking the silence. "The finest Riverrun has seen in years."

Catelyn said nothing.

They both knew the truth—Hoster Tully's namedays were counted, not celebrated. The last had seen him too weak to leave his solar, too frail to do more than sip watered wine as his bannermen feigned cheerfulness and spoke too loudly in the hall below.

But Edmure was determined to pretend.

She sighed. "You were always his favorite, you know."

Edmure smiled at that, but the expression faltered when his eyes drifted back to the river. "I should have been a better son," he admitted, voice thick with something unspoken.

Catelyn placed a hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort. The words were harder to find.

The river would take their father, soon enough.

A soft splash broke the quiet.

Edmure turned first, then gasped so loudly Catelyn nearly flinched.

She followed his gaze—

And froze.

There, caught in a shallower bend of the river, where the water foamed white against the stones, was a trout the size of a hound.

Its silver scales shimmered wetly in the midday sun, its great body heaving with effort, its tail flicking weakly as it struggled against the inevitable pull of the current.

Dying.

But not alone.

Two smaller fish—not quite fingerlings, but far from grown—clung close to its flanks, swimming in the eddies of their mother's last movements.

Edmure let out something between a laugh and a strangled cry.

"It's a sign," he breathed.

Catelyn's mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

She did not trust herself to speak.

Edmure was already moving, boots splashing into the shallows, hands reaching—

"What are you doing?" she hissed, but it was too late—he had already scooped one of the small fish into his hands, cradling it like a prize, his face alight with unholy joy.

"Gods, look at it!" He turned to her, beaming. "Our sigil, Cat! It's—"

"A trout, Edmure!"

"Yes!"

"I—" Catelyn closed her eyes, inhaled sharply. "And what do you mean to do with it?"

"Keep it, of course! It's mine!"

Catelyn opened her eyes again, just in time to see him tilt his hands, letting the fish slip back into the river before catching it again.

A proud, beaming fool.

She rubbed her temple.

And then, the second fish—her fish, apparently—flopped weakly near the shallows, its glistening body catching the light, its round, unblinking eyes staring directly at her.

Catelyn stared back.

It gave a pathetic flick of its tail.

She sighed.

Gods be good.

There was no keeping a trout.

The wolves had found pups, the lions had found cubs, but her brother had just pulled a fish from the river and declared it a sign of the gods.

She looked at Edmure again—dripping, grinning, absurdly delighted.

The river whispered at her feet, cold and ceaseless.

Finally, she gave the only answer she could.

"…I suppose we'll need a tank."

Chapter 6: Gifts Large Enough to Hold Disappointment 

The winds howled through the craggy peaks of the Northern mountains, a chill that bit through fur-lined cloaks and settled into old stone and older bones. The lands of House Wull were hard and unyielding, much like the men who called it home.

And yet, even here, amidst the harsh winters and jagged cliffs, the signs had come.

The world had changed.

The houses were finding their sigils, and by now, even the lowliest hedge knight in the Westerlands whispered of the divine providence of sigils made flesh.

House Wull had waited.

Perhaps too long.

Now, at last, Hugo Wull—a man as broad as a boulder and twice as unmovable—had taken his three children beyond the walls of their keep, as if to teach them a lesson. They had descended into the valley below, boots crunching through the snow-speckled dirt, anticipation heavy in the air.

His children were not hopeful.

"We could have stayed home," muttered Beron, the eldest, a lad of fourteen, already built like an ox. "We already know what's coming."

"There's no knowing," said Donnel, barely twelve, but already wary as a man grown. "What if it's—?"

"A miracle?" Beron snorted.

The youngest, Alanna, trudged behind them, eight years old and silent.

The others had dogs, birds, stags.

She had dreamed, briefly, of something grand.

Perhaps a bear cub.

Perhaps a noble elk, or any animal fierce enough to match the Mormont girls' own.

But she knew.

She had always known.

The Wulls had no bears on their banners. She had triple checked.

Only buckets.

And as they rounded the bend, reaching a small frozen brook, the sight before them confirmed their fate.

There, on the thin crust of ice, sat a large, battered bucket—its wooden slats warped with age, its metal bands rusted and bent. A hole gaped in its side, as if it had been punished by the elements, long abandoned to the wilds.

And huddled around it—

Three smaller buckets, perfectly placed, as if some unseen force had arranged them with spiteful intent.

A long silence.

Beron exhaled, heavy and slow.

Donnel scratched the back of his head.

Alanna simply stared, her gloved hands clenching at her sides.

"…I hate this," she whispered.

Hugo Wull let out a gruff sigh, rubbing his temples.

Beron kicked at a rock.

"Could have been a bear," Donnel muttered.

Beron nodded.

Alanna bent down, grabbing the smallest of the buckets. She held it up, stared at it, and let out a long, defeated breath.

"…Do we take them home?" Alanna asked miserably, her small hands gripping the rim of her bucket like it might yet escape this fate.

Hugo Wull looked at his children, at their young, grim faces, at the three wretched little buckets.

Then he looked at the large one—their so-called progenitor—squat and splintered, its wooden slats warped by wind and time, its metal bands rusted and useless. It was a thing that had outlived its purpose, left to rot in the cold, only for fate—cruel, unyielding fate—to summon it back for this final act.

A great, terrible weight settled upon him.

The wind picked up, whistling through the valley, dragging loose snow across the ice. Their cloaks flapped behind them, but none of them moved. The buckets sat in eerie stillness.

Beron looked at his own with undisguised contempt. Donnel's eyes were glassy with the kind of suffering only a boy too old for dreams and too young for drink could know.

Alanna's lip trembled.

No bear.

No elk.

No noble creature of the wild.

Just this.

From the depths of Hugo Wull's great chest came a long, slow sigh. A sound of resignation, of despair, of a man who had seen battle, blood, and famine but had never known true hardship until this moment.

"…Aye," he rumbled at last, voice hollow.

With a grim sense of duty, he slung the larger bucket over his shoulder, as if bearing the weight of the gods' own mockery.

His three children, like prisoners condemned, reached down, each lifting their own miserable burden.

And so, House Wull trudged back to their keep in abject, unrelenting silence, their buckets clanking softly in the cold mountain air—

A funeral march for dignity lost.

Chapter 7: Some Gifts Take Their Toll... 

The chaos at the Twins was beyond reckoning.

Word of the sigils-made-flesh had spread throughout Westeros, from the craggy peaks of the Vale to the sunlit spires of Dorne. Lords and ladies had marveled at the wonders gifted to them—direwolves for the Starks, lions for the Lannisters, hinds for the Baratheons. Even the lowliest of houses had not been forgotten, though some gifts were crueler than others.

For House Frey, the anticipation was unbearable.

No house was larger, no house fuller with offspring, no house more entangled in its own lineage, and so, when the signs began to appear, the stampede began.

It was not a march, not a procession—it was a massive, chaotic exodus, an unstoppable tide of sons and grandsons, daughters and bastards, all spilling forth from the Twins like floodwaters breaking through a dam.

The Freys rushed down from the keep's towers, they poured out of halls and barracks, jostling, shoving, trampling, a great writhing mass of kin and ambition, each determined to be the first to witness what the gods had deemed fit to bestow upon them.

What they found defied all reason.

For stretching along both banks of the Green Fork, lining the river as far as the eye could see—

Bridges.

Tens, no, dozens of them.

Small, haphazard things, barely more than planks lashed together, some little more than floating bits of timber, a few tilted and half-sunken, others sturdy enough to bear weight, yet each unmistakably distinct.

The gaggle of Freys stood in stunned silence.

The river gurgled mockingly at their feet.

And then—

A single voice, from somewhere in the throng:

"What in the actual fuck."

Stevron Frey, the eldest and long-suffering son of Lord Walder, looked upon the nightmare unfolding before him in mute horror, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, as if his mind had simply failed to process the sheer absurdity of what lay before him.

His father, the ancient, withered Lord of the Crossing, sat slumped atop his palanquin, his spotted hands gripping the armrests, his rheumy eyes blinking rapidly as he took in the madness sprawling before him.

He licked his lips, working his mouth, and at last, in a voice withered by age but no less filled with disdain, Lord Walder Frey croaked:

"…The hell am I looking at?"

No one had an answer.

The silence that followed was brief—an eerie, unnatural pause, as though the very gods themselves had taken a moment to enjoy the horrible poetry of what they had wrought.

And then—

Chaos.

A great, writhing stampede of Freys upon Freys, surging forward like a plague of locusts, all jostling, shoving, trampling, shrieking, as they hurled themselves toward the banks, scrabbling like starving men over a pile of spilled grain, each desperate to claim a bridge before another did.

"I saw that one first!"

"That's mine, you piss-drinking son of a whore!"

"Get off, get off, GET OFF!"

The shrieks of the desperate mingled with the splash of bodies hitting water as several minor Freys were hurled into the river, their cries cut off by gurgling and thrashing.

A particularly bold bastard nearly drowned his cousin in the shallows, only for three others to drag him back and beat him senseless.

One particularly small, wretched Frey, barely more than a boy, had claimed a bridge little more than a floating log—his victory lasted precisely three seconds before an older, burlier cousin booted him into the river and declared the log his own.

And still, they fought on.

Stevron Frey buried his face in his hands.

Lord Walder, watching his descendants brawl like wild dogs over scraps, wheezed a phlegmy chuckle.

"That one's mine," he rasped, pointing vaguely at one of the sturdier bridges.

A dozen Freys immediately rushed to claim it in his name, only to immediately begin fighting over who would "hold" it for him.

At the center of it all, Edwyn Frey, the cold-eyed heir to Stevron's legacy, stood atop a rickety but well-placed bridge, arms crossed, his sharp features set in a look of utter disdain as he surveyed the maelstrom of Frey-on-Frey carnage unfolding below.

His cousin, Black Walder, loomed beside him, a smirk curling his lips as he watched a dozen uncles and nephews descend into a vicious fistfight over a particularly sturdy crossing.

A shout rang out—someone had tried to claim two bridges, and three of his cousins had promptly flung him into the river for his greed.

Edwyn sighed, rubbing his temples.

"You'd think the gods might've sent us something useful," he muttered.

"Aye," Black Walder agreed, chuckling as yet another hapless Frey was hauled from the water, only to be punched square in the jaw and sent sprawling again. "But watching the bastards maim each other ain't bad either."

A plank snapped somewhere in the distance, followed by a yelp and a splash.

Stevron, meanwhile, had found his voice at last.

"Father," he rasped, his tone fraught with desperation, "what in the name of all the gods are we supposed to do with this?"

Lord Walder Frey, the ancient, wretched patriarch, squinted at the countless makeshift bridges, at the dozens of squabbling heirs, at the fistfights, the drownings, the shattered planks drifting lazily downriver.

His watery eyes narrowed, flicking over his useless descendants—the writhing, seething horde of fools and failures that he had sired across eight wives and uncounted whores.

And then, slowly, he turned his head toward Stevron.

A long, rattling breath left his lips.

And in a voice that was equal parts scorn and triumph, he croaked—

"…Charge a toll, you lackwit."

Stevron gaped.

A Frey guard choked back a laugh.

And Black Walder doubled over, cackling like a madman, as House Frey, blessed beyond reason with more bridges than any family could ever need, promptly descended into a civil war over who would profit from them first.

Chapter 8: Gifts from on High... 

For weeks, the House of Hightower had watched in silent dread as Westeros succumbed to divine absurdity.

They had heard the tales.

The direwolves of House Stark, prowling through Winterfell like omens made flesh, the boons that began this mess. The lion cubs of the Lannisters, golden-furred and regal, stalking the halls of Casterly Rock, joining with a fast-growing stag in King's Landing. They heard of the civil war at the Twins, the bards already singing the ballad of burnt bridges.

Even the Martells, skeptical as ever, had not been spared. In the sunlit sands of Dorne, they had found a surprise cache of spears and shields, half-buried, bleached by time—a gift so infuriatingly practical that it only deepened their mistrust of the entire affair.

And so, the fear took root in Oldtown.

For what could their sigil-made-flesh possibly be?

A wounded Hightower, crumbling at its foundation, surrounded by five smaller towers? The very notion was terrifying.

Would five monstrous towers erupt from the earth, reshaping Oldtown itself? Would the Beacon of the Hightower suddenly split into six, scattering across the city like some unnatural growths of stone? Would they wake one morning to find a massive, crumbling tower beached upon the Whispering Sound, wheezing and coughing like some dying leviathan?

Lord Leyton Hightower and his children—Baelor, Malora, Garth, Alerie, and Leyla—wanted no part in it.

Let the other houses embrace their madness, but the Hightowers were of the oldest blood in the Reach, descended from seafarers and scholars, mystics and kings.

If the gods wished to bring an omen to them, then the Hightowers would not go seeking it.

And so, in the uppermost chamber of the Hightower, where the Beacon burned ever-bright, the six of them sat in deep discussion, debating how best to avoid whatever abomination the gods had in store.

"The solution is simple," Malora, the Mad Maid, declared, her voice as unshakable as prophecy. "We stay inside. We do not step beyond these walls until the gods tire of their jest."

"That is absurd," Baelor countered, arms crossed, his expression carved from the same stone as the tower they stood in. "We cannot just shut ourselves in like frightened children."

"I fail to see why not," Alerie replied coolly. "We rule Oldtown—the greatest city in Westeros. We have no need to go wandering the fields like stupid Starks looking for a litter of wolves."

Baelor scowled, but Garth only frowned, his mind working through possibilities like a maester unraveling an ancient riddle. "But if the gods wish us to find it," he said slowly, carefully, "then perhaps it will come to us regardless."

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Leyton Hightower, seated at the head of the chamber, did not move. The candlelight flickered over his features, throwing strange, twisting shadows across his face, making it impossible to tell where the man ended and the darkness began.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"…We wait."

And so they did.

But they did not have to wait long.

The great ironwood doors to the solar burst open, slamming against the walls with such force that the candle flames trembled wildly, shadows dancing like wraiths across the stone.

A man stood in the doorway, wreathed in darkness.

He did not enter so much as lurch forward, his limbs trembling, his steps uncertain, as though he were being pulled by something unseen.

A lighthouse keeper.

His robes were damp with salt, his boots slick with seawater, his face blank with an expression just shy of recognition, as if he had seen something beyond mortal comprehension and had returned only in body.

He took one step.

Then another.

And then, just as the Hightowers began to rise from their seats—

He collapsed.

The sound of his body hitting the marble floor echoed through the chamber like the tolling of a bell. His arms went slack. And from his trembling fingers, something fell.

Five small objects, tumbling across the cold stone.

Miniature towers.

Five perfect, diminutive replicas of the Hightower.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

They merely stared—first at the fallen lighthouse keeper, then at the five tiny towers scattered across the marble.

The silence stretched, deep and unbearable—

And then Malora, the Mad Maid herself, laughed.

A bright, delighted laugh, ringing through the chamber like the peal of a bell. As if she had just won a grand prize.

Garth followed suit, snorting as he crouched to pick up his tower, turning it over in his hands with bemused curiosity.

Baelor shook his head, exhaling deeply, as if the weight of their dreaded fate had suddenly lifted. A relic of their own home, in miniature. A kinder fate than most.

One by one, they each reached for their tower, their fingers tracing the delicate carvings, the intricate windows, the tiny ramparts. Each tower was unique, marked in its own subtle way, a reflection of its new keeper.

Leyton, still seated, merely gazed at his children, his lips quirking with quiet amusement.

"It would seem," he murmured, "that our doom is not so dire."

Leyla held hers up against the candlelight, watching the glow illuminate the fine details, her smile small but genuine.

"…It's beautiful," she admitted.

And just like that—

The tension dissolved.

A miracle, yes, but a pleasant one.

An eerie coincidence, perhaps—but one they could accept with grace.

They chose not to look at the dead lighthouse keeper, his form still and silent on the marble floor.

Surely, the man had never been real to begin with.

Chapter 9: Gifts from the Deep... 

For weeks, the Manderlys had done everything in their power to avoid the shore.

And for weeks, the sea waited.

It was common knowledge now—every house in the realm had received their sigil-made-flesh, some more fortunate than others.

The Starks had their direwolves. And every other Lord found theirs, without fail.

From the Umbers only a raven's letter, sent to every Lord and Lady in the North. "HAHAHAHAHA" it read, making Lord Wyman shutter.

Their Lordly neighbors the Boltons had found theirs—a single flayed man, waiting in the snow outside the Dreadfort, as if he had always been there.

The North muttered in hushed tones about that particular gift.

Had the gods placed him there?

Had he simply been waiting all along?

Or—and this seemed the more likely—had Ramsay merely dragged one of his "projects" outside, looked upon the divine absurdity sweeping the realm, and declared, "Aye, that'll do."

But the Manderlys?

The Manderlys had no such luxury.

For their sigil was no beast of fur or claw, nor a simple weapon or symbol.

Their sigil was a merman.

A thing of drunken sailor's tales.

A creature no one had ever seen.

A being that, by all logic, should not exist.

And so they had dreaded.

Would they find a merman washed upon the shore, coughing up seawater, its slick, green-tinged hands grasping desperately at the sand as it heaved up one final, guttural cry of "GLUUUUB" before perishing?

Would a great, impossible figure rise from the depths of the Bite, dripping with kelp and barnacles, singing in a voice that was not meant for mortal ears, its song an echoing, otherworldly wail that would haunt their dreams forever?

Would they—gods forbid—find a clutch of merchildren, gasping for air upon the sand, their tiny hands reaching for their new caretakers, their scales glistening in the moonlight, their blank, unblinking eyes staring deep into the souls of all who dared look upon them?

Would they have to raise them?

Would they have to TEACH THEM?

Would they—by some horrific cosmic joke—be forced to arrange marriages for them someday?

Would there be betrothal pacts with the fish folk?!

For weeks, the Manderlys had locked their doors, shuttered their windows, and prayed the sea would forget them.

For weeks, they had stayed as far inland as humanly possible, jumping at every stray fish that flopped onto a market stall, recoiling at the sound of dripping water, eyeing every bard suspiciously, lest they break into a shanty that summoned some wretched, gurgling god from the abyss.

But the sea never forgets.

And one way or another, the gods would have their joke.

It was too much.

And so, they had done what any rational men would do—They avoided the sea.

For weeks, none of them so much as glanced toward the coast. No trips to the shore. No outings to the docks. No casual walks along the cliffs to take in the salt air.

The fishing ships left without fanfare, their crews boarding in grim silence, casting wary glances toward the waves. The dockworkers whispered of curses and omens, of strange tides and unseen eyes watching from the deep.

The Manderlys sealed themselves inland, behind thick stone walls and sturdy doors, ignoring the distant roar of the tide like one ignores the knocking of a ghost in the walls.

But even Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, had his limits.

The wait was unbearable.

The dread of not knowing had grown worse than the fear of the truth itself.

And so, with great reluctance, Lord Wyman decided it was time.

"If this thing is meant to happen," he grumbled, his voice thick as a rolling tide, "then let us be done with it."

His son, Ser Wylis, walked stiffly at his side, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt, as if steel could defend against whatever madness awaited them.

His daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, clutched one another's hands, whispering between themselves.

The wind was cold. The sand was wet beneath their boots. The tide lapped at the shore, black and endless, stretching out toward the horizon.

The air was still. Then—

A cry.

A voice, carried on the wind, calling for help.

The blood in their veins turned to ice.

None of them moved.

The voice came again. Weaker. Wet. Drowning.

A mother's cry.

Lord Wyman swallowed hard, then took a slow, dread-heavy step forward. His family followed.

The sea rushed against the shore, its tide swelling and receding, dragging something toward them. And then—

They saw her.

She lay half-buried in the sand, her body slick with seawater, her hair dark as the abyss beyond. A woman, and yet—not.

Her lower half was longer than any human's should be, covered in gleaming scales that shimmered in the dying light. And in her arms—

Two babes, swaddled in a seaweed cloth.

Two tiny, fragile things, nestled against her chest, their lower halves hidden, their small fingers grasping weakly at the air.

The Manderlys stood frozen.

Wynafryd and Wylla clasped each other's hands tighter, their breaths shallow, their eyes wide with horror and awe.

Ser Wylis, however, was less taken by the moment. Instead, he stepped forward, steel in his spine, voice firm with disbelief.

"Who sent you?" he demanded. "For what purpose?"

The woman—the merwoman—lifted her head.

She was dying, that much was clear. Her breaths were shallow, her skin pale. The tide lapped at her, as if calling her home, but still she clung to the shore.

And as she gazed upon the son of House Manderly, she did not answer.

She only smiled. A knowing, solemn smile.

Then, with a final exhale, she lay her head back, her eyes slipping shut—And she was still.

The Manderlys stood in stunned silence.

A wave rolled in, brushing over her lifeless form, but the babes did not stir.

They were human enough.

And yet…

Wynafryd bent down, hesitant, her fingers trembling as she reached for one of the babes.

The child stirred.

A soft gurgle.

A hand reaching up.

She inhaled sharply, then lifted the babe into her arms.

Beside her, Wylla followed suit, picking up her own.

Lord Wyman let out a long, unsteady breath. "They are girls," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Perhaps that was some mercy. But still, the question remained.

Would they need water to live?

They were human babes, yes. But their lower halves…

Could they survive outside the sea?

Would they walk? Would they crawl? Would they always long for the water?

Would the sea one day call them home?

None could say.

And so, with great hesitation, House Manderly took their sigil into their arms, and trudged back inland, cursing their ancestors.

Chapter 10: A Gift Marred in Treachery 

The Brackens rode out proudly, their banners snapping in the wind, the golden stallion of their house galloping boldly across fields of red.

They rode with purpose, their hearts full of expectation, their chests swelled with certainty.

The gods had favored all the great houses of Westeros, and the Brackens had watched with growing anticipation as sigil after sigil had manifested in the flesh.

The Starks started this with their Direwolves, and the riverlords had followed suit—even the thrice-damned Freys had received something, though the bridges that now littered the banks of the Green Fork were more insult than miracle.

Some houses, like Piper, were better left unspoken.

But House Bracken?

House Bracken, first and foremost among the lords of the Riverlands—in their own telling, at least—would not be forgotten.

And so, they rode.

Through hills of green and gold, through sun-dappled groves and the quiet rustling of river reeds.

The Brackens knew what they would find.

They had seen the signs.

They had heard the whispers.

And so, it was no surprise when they found the dying horse, its chestnut-red coat gleaming even as its life fled.

But it was not the sight of death that turned their stomachs.

No, it was the manner of it.

For the horse had not been felled by age, nor by sickness, nor even by the honest strike of a hunter's arrow.

It had been brought low by ravens.

A murder of them.

Their black feathers were strewn about the bloodied grass, their sharp beaks had torn into soft flesh, their wicked talons had ripped and stripped, leaving the proud beast half-flayed, its ribs gleaming like pale slats of driftwood beneath the afternoon sun.

And even now, the ravens lingered.

They hopped among the ruin, gloating, mocking, their dark eyes glinting with some awful knowing.

The Brackens stared.

And then—

Lord Jonos Bracken spat into the dirt, his jaw clenched tight, his hands white-knuckled around his reins.

The air was thick with fury, the silence choked with meaning.

Finally, he spoke.

"A black deed," he growled. His voice was low, bitter, and full of a hatred that ran deep as the roots of the Trident itself.

His fingers twitched at the hilt of his sword.

His men shifted in their saddles.

His daughters, lined up behind him, exchanged uneasy glances.

Jonos turned his head, spitting once more into the grass for good measure, the flecks of moisture landing amidst the black feathers that tainted the ground.

He breathed deep, nostrils flaring, then exhaled a word thick with loathing.

"A Blackwood deed."

Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed, sharp and taunting.

Jonos's grip on his reins tightened.

There was no question in his mind—this was their doing.

It was always them.

The Brackens had ridden out to claim their blessing, to take what was rightfully theirs, and yet the Blackwoods—those carrion-feeders, those root-clutching cravens, those foul, gods-cursed scavengers—had sent their wretched birds to sully it.

Jonos Bracken's rage was a thing to behold, burning hot enough to melt the armor from his back. His teeth ground together, the muscles in his jaw tightening until they ached. He would see Raventree Hall put to the torch for this. He would see their godswood felled, their wretched tree hacked to splinters and turned to kindling.

As the Lord burned red with indignity, his retainers began shooing the birds away with malice.

And yet—

The gods had not forsaken them completely.

For beside the fallen mother, nestled among the tall, trampled grass, were five foals—

Five young, unbroken mares, untouched by the violence that had claimed their dam.

One for each of his daughters.

Barbara.

Jayne.

Catelyn.

Bess.

Alysanne.

Each girl stepped forward in turn, their hands trembling, their eyes wide with reverence and unease alike, to take their mounts.

The foals were beautiful creatures, all of them—strong-legged and sleek, with manes like silk and eyes dark as the Trident at midnight. They whickered softly, their breath rising in gentle clouds against the cool evening air. Even in the wake of this slaughter, they trusted.

Alyssane ran a hand down the neck of hers, whispering something soothing. Jayne bit her lip, blinking quickly, as though unsure whether to weep for the mother or marvel at the gift left behind.

But the stink of ravens still clung to the air.

And the omen could not be ignored.

Jonos gritted his teeth.

Let them have their tricks. Let them send their birds.

The Brackens still had their horses.

For now.

But gods were fickle beings.

And omens are not so easily defied.

It came in the night.

A shadowed figure slipping through the mist-cloaked stables. The soft hush of hooves stolen into the dark. A faint creak of leather, a whisper of movement—

By dawn, it was done.

The stables had been raided.

Horses gone. Stalls left gaping and empty, the scent of cold air and absence where warmth had once lingered. Bridles torn from their pegs, hay scattered as if in some great struggle, hoofprints vanishing into the morning mist.

And among the stolen were three of the divine foals.

Jonos Bracken howled with fury, shaking the foundations of the keep.

The Blackwoods had struck first.

They had stolen what was theirs, had spat upon the will of the gods, had mocked the holy gift bestowed upon House Bracken.

Jonos swore vengeance.

For too long had they suffered insult after insult.

For too long had the Blackwoods challenged them.

This was no mere feud.

This was war.

And so, the Brackens sharpened their swords, armored their knights, and swore by every god, old and new—

The Blackwoods would pay.

Their ravens, for surely the accursed Blackwoods had received some, would not be long for this world.

Chapter 11: A Thousand "Boons", and One

Bloodraven sat motionless upon his ancient throne, his one red eye unblinking, fixed upon the flames that flickered before him. The eerie whispers of animals he commanded filled the cavern, a ceaseless murmur of secrets carried on the wind. The gnarled roots of the ancient weirwood wrapped around his withered frame, binding him in place as much as the fate he had long since accepted.

And curled upon his shoulder—black as shadow, red-eyed as flame—was a dragon.

A small dragon, yes, but a dragon nonetheless.

He had not asked for it. He had not desired it. But the children had brought it to him, cradled in their moss-covered hands, whispering of destiny, of signs, of the will of the gods. He scratched the dragon's chin as he pondered. Did Aemon get one? Did the Targaryens get two across the narrow sea?

He had spent a lifetime steeped in sorcery. He had peered into the waters of the past, glimpsed visions of futures yet to be written, unraveled the threads of time itself.

And yet, never—never—had he seen anything like this.

At first, it had been odd, but manageable.

Lord Celtigar, finding the shores of Claw Isle teeming with crabs, more than he had ever seen before? Strange, yes, but plausible.

Houses waking to find shields bearing their own sigils, weapons appearing as if forged in the night? A coincidence, perhaps.

But then—

The Mormonts.

Each and every one of them.

With bear cubs.

Not one. Not two. Each. And. Every. Mormont.

Their island had become a den, filled with frolicking, growling, fish-stealing cubs, climbing into beds, knocking over furniture, following their owners with adoring yet increasingly powerful paws. Maege Mormont had simply accepted it, as if she had always expected it to happen.

The Manderlys.

Claimed by creatures out of sailors' lies.

Bloodraven shuddered to think of it. He had seen it through the eyes of a gull, the Manderlys on the shore, staring down at the impossible—a dying merwoman, two babes in her arms, their tiny tails still glistening with seafoam. The girls had taken them without hesitation, and Bloodraven had to look away, unwilling to watch the moment they realized what they had done.

And then—

The Conningtons.

Actual griffins.

Bloodraven's grip upon the weirwood tightened.

The Tarlys, handed human children, cradled in the arms of a dying huntress, their futures now bound to a fate no blade could sever. Infuriatingly, things had gotten so out of hand that even sour Lord Tarly accepted the gift without hesitation. Human children, Tarly? Were they destined to be great hunters, somehow?

The Braxes, now astride unicorns as if they had been plucked from the pages of old tales, as if horned steeds had always belonged in their stables.

The Cargylls.

Oh, the Cargylls.

Blessed with a golden goose, one that laid a single, pure gold egg each day. The lord had nearly lost his mind—half in rapture, half in despair—cursed with a treasure that could not be ignored, could not be spent without suspicion, could not be hoarded without consequence. People would come for his golden goose.

And then there was Caswell.

Caswell, who had tried to run.

Caswell, who had tried to cheat the gods.

Caswell, who had sought to break the pattern.

The fools had changed their sigil. They had burned the old banners, stitched new crests upon their surcoats, sworn that a tower upon green was their mark now, not the horse and rider of old.

And yet—

The day of reckoning came.

And there it stood.

Waiting. At the gates of Bitterbridge.

A centaur.

A beast half-man, half-horse.

Bloodraven pressed his lips into a thin line, his knuckles pale against the weirwood's roots, his one red eye fixed upon the nightmare he could scarcely comprehend.

The centaur had not just appeared. No, that would have been too simple. Too merciful.

It had arrived at the gates of Bitterbridge like a long-expected guest, trotting through the portcullis as if it had been born there, as if it had not materialized from the very ether of madness itself.

And the worst of it?

It spoke.

Not with the bewildered innocence of a creature out of legend, nor with the reverent confusion of one gifted a divine purpose. No.

It spoke with entitlement.

It spoke with confidence.

It spoke with dripping sarcasm.

The moment the guards had dared to bar its entry, it had snorted in disbelief, fixing them with a look of pure, unfiltered exasperation.

"Oh, seven bloody hells, don't start with this. Who's on duty today? Gyles? It's Gyles, isn't it? Gods, you're always like this."

And then, before their very eyes, it had lifted one hoof, tapped it impatiently against the dirt, and sighed.

"Come now. Let me in, before I go and report this to Lord Caswell. He won't be pleased, you know."

The men had hesitated.

One had lowered his spear, his grip faltering, eyes darting toward his companion for guidance.

"I—do we let it in?"

"It's a bloody centaur!"

"Yes, I can see that, but—but it knows Gyles!"

And that was just the beginning.

The Caswells had tried—tried—to maintain some semblance of normalcy, some thread of control over the impossible situation unfolding in their halls.

But the centaur had other ideas.

It made itself at home.

It waltzed into the great hall, flicking its tail dismissively, its hooves clopping against the flagstones, before throwing itself down at the high table as if it had always been welcome there.

It had demanded wine before introductions.

It had inquired about its usual room, despite not existing prior to that morning.

When Lord Caswell, red-faced and stammering, had tried to question it—tried to force some logic onto this waking absurdity—the centaur had merely leaned back, grabbed a handful of bread from the nearest plate, and given him a long, disappointed look.

"Gods, man. Must we go through this every time? It's exhausting."

Every time.

As if it had always been there.

As if this were merely routine, some tiresome obligation it had to endure.

As if House Caswell had not been cursed with the single most baffling, impossible, and downright insufferable sigil-made-flesh that had ever graced the halls of Westeros.

And worst of all—

It refused to leave.

No attempt to dismiss it worked. No order held weight. It simply ignored commands outright, instead offering barbed comments and casual insults, mocking the furniture, the keep, the state of the stables, and most of all—House Caswell itself.

"Well, at least the wine hasn't changed. Though, really, Caswell, when are you going to do something about the carpets? They're appalling."

Lord Caswell had nearly burst a blood vessel.

It knew the layout of the keep. It knew his bannermen by name. It remembered things. Things that should not be possible for it to remember.

As if it had always been there.

As if it had been waiting for them.

As if the moment House Caswell had denied their sigil, denied their fate, denied the very will of the gods, the universe had merely smirked and said:

"Oh, is that so?"

Bloodraven buried his fingers into the weirwood's roots, a slow breath hissing between his teeth.

This was not natural.

This was not prophecy.

This was not fate.

This was mockery.

And it was not stopping.

Bloodraven sat motionless, his withered frame entwined with the roots of the weirwood, his red eye burning like a dying ember. His thousand eyes watched all, but none could offer him an answer. None could explain the madness unfolding across Westeros.

And what had become of House Toland…

He could scarcely comprehend it.

They had been granted a dragon, of sorts. A thing of legend, a sigil-born truth. But its fate had been decided the moment it had drawn its first breath.

For its head had clamped upon its own tail, locked forever in a desperate, hopeless loop.

Bloodraven had watched, through the eyes of unseen things, as it had writhed upon the sands of Dorne. A beast meant for the sky, reduced to a miserable, starving coil, strangling itself with its own existence.

It had lived only long enough to suffer.

And the Tolands had wept.

They had wailed and raged, cursing the gods, their ancestors, the very banner beneath which they had fought for generations.

But their fury did nothing. Their grief meant nothing.

Their dragon, their omen, their doom, had been fated from the start.

And yet…

Others had not been cursed.

Others had been blessed beyond measure.

House Vance had awoken to miniature dragons, no larger than falcons, their wings of flame no more fearsome than candlelight. And yet, they had perched proudly atop the banners of their house, curling about the sigil as if they had been there since the Age of Heroes itself.

And Bloodraven had seen it. He had seen all of it.

The fire in their veins, the power in their tiny, delicate frames. He had watched them take to the skies, a dance of crimson and gold, a mockery of all that had been lost. Would they grow?

It was spreading.

It was everywhere.

The land itself had awakened, reshaped by forces no maester, no sorcerer, no god could claim to understand.

This was not a mere trick of the gods.

It was not prophecy.

It was a reckoning.

The world had changed, and none could turn it back.

And yet, of all the horrors, all the impossibilities, all the absurdities wrought upon the Seven Kingdoms…

What had happened to House Piper was best left unspoken.

Bloodraven grimaced, his gnarled fingers tightening against the weirwood's roots, as if trying to push the thought from his mind.

Even he would not look upon that nightmare again.

The realm was doomed.

Chapter 12: A Royal Progress, or Menagerie? 

The trumpets sounded from the outer walls, their call echoing through the valley like a war horn blown by the gods themselves.

The great gates of Winterfell groaned open, stone grinding against stone, as the royal procession entered the courtyard.

Ned Stark stood waiting, his face a careful mask, his household assembled in their finest. Catelyn beside him, Sansa and Arya watchful, Bran and Rickon standing tall, and Robb tense with expectation.

And then—

Then, the madness began.

At first, it was normal.

The golden banners of House Baratheon fluttered above the column of men, their crowned stag proud and bold upon the fabric. The crimson of House Lannister gleamed bright as fire in the afternoon sun. The clink of steel and stomp of hooves filled the air, the Royal Guard gleaming in their gold, their helms fashioned like the snarling faces of lions.

King Robert rode at the head, just as he had promised in his letter. Broad as a bull, bearded and bellowing, his laughter rattled the very stones of the keep before his horse had even halted.

And beside him—

A stag.

Not some skittish creature kept at bay by ropes and spears, but a beast of legend, tall as any warhorse, its antlers a crown in their own right, its coat sleek and rich with the wild strength of the Kingswood.

It did not leap nor bolt at the noise of the crowd.

It moved in step with the king, as though it had been born to do so.

It was not leashed.

It did not need to be.

It obeyed him as a sworn sword would, its dark eyes watchful, its every motion a mirror to Robert's own, as though it were more than beast—

As though it were an extension of the man himself.

The sight of it alone was enough to send whispers through the assembled Northerners.

But it was only the beginning.

Robert had come.

And the royal menagerie had come with him.

Jaime Lannister rode in on a white charger, golden armor gleaming, the very picture of a storybook knight. His hair shone in the afternoon light, a walking, breathing myth.

And yet—

It was not him the courtyard stared at.

It was them.

The lions.

Three of them, sleek and golden, padding forward with a confidence that only creatures born to rule could possess.

The first strode just ahead of Jaime's horse, his lion, its great mane flowing in the wind, every step measured, every glance sweeping over the courtyard as though it were surveying its kingdom.

Behind it, the lioness, smaller but no less regal, prowled beside Cersei's litter with a languid grace, her half-lidded golden eyes dripping with disdain, as though bored of all she beheld.

And the third—

The third was smaller, still unsteady on its legs, a cub barely the size of a dog. And yet it walked with unearned arrogance, tail flicking, paws too large for its body, padding beside Tyrion Lannister with a peculiar sense of belonging.

It stumbled once, then twice, but grinned up at Tyrion all the same, as if to say, Look, I'm doing it.

Tyrion gave it a sidelong glance and sighed, smiling despite himself. "Yes, yes, you're very impressive."

The cub beamed.

Then—

A low growl.

The great lion at Jaime's side had noticed something ahead.

The direwolves were here.

A ripple went through the Stark beasts. Grey Wind lowered his head. Summer shifted his weight. Shaggydog bristled like a struck match.

The Lannister lions and the Stark direwolves regarded one another across the courtyard, tense, silent, uncertain. Predators, measuring predators.

Then—

Sandor Clegane rode in.

And behind him—

Behind him came his hound.

It was no ordinary beast.

A brute of a thing, its black coat scarred, one ear half-torn, its muzzle burned--

A mirror of the man himself.

The dog moved with slow, resentful steps, never taking its gaze from Joffrey Baratheon, who strutted ahead as if the world was his to command.

It trailed the boy like a shadow.

Sullen.

Silent.

As though it, too, wished to be anywhere else.

Somewhere in the crowd, Boros Blount's porcupine scuttled by his feet, its quills shivering like a nervous hedge knight.

Jeyne Poole, clutching her perfectly round blue ball, watched the lions and the wolves with wide, terrified eyes.

And off to the side, in its wheeled aquarium, Catelyn's trout stared daggers at Jon Snow through the glass.

The procession had only just begun.

And already—

Winterfell was a zoo.

Joffrey's scowl deepened, his face twisting with royal indignation.

"Where is my stag?" he demanded for the one thousandth time, louder this time, as if volume alone might summon it into existence.

Robert Baratheon only snorted, reaching out to clap Ned on the shoulder with enough force to rattle the bones beneath.

"Gods be good," the king roared, shaking his head. "You should've seen him whinge all the way up the Kingsroad."

Joffrey's hands curled into fists.

"I should have a stag," he insisted, the pitch of his voice climbing dangerously. "I am my father's heir."

Robert wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. "You want one?" he barked. "Go out and bloody well find it yourself!"

The prince's jaw worked in silent fury, his eyes flashing—until a sharp bark split the air.

Heads turned.

The Hound's hound sat at his feet, looking up at Joffrey with what could only be described as mutual disappointment.

The resemblance was uncanny.

Ned kept his composure. Robb did not.

His shoulders shook with the effort of holding back his laughter, while Arya outright grinned, drinking in the sight like the best thing she'd ever seen.

Even Jaime Lannister smirked, his golden lion lounging beside him, his eyes flicking between Sandor and the beast at his feet.

"The resemblance is uncanny," Jaime mused.

Robert grinned. "I half expect it to start cursing like him, too."

Sandor Clegane's glare could have melted steel.

The dog beside him glared just as hard.

And that was it.

The dam burst.

Laughter rippled through Winterfell like wildfire catching dry brush, bright and sudden, a tension snapping like an old bowstring.

A kitchen boy doubled over, howling.

Sansa gasped behind her hands, trying to smother a laugh.

One of Robert's knights actually fell off his horse.

Even Boros Blount's porcupine let out an ill-timed rustle of its quills, pricking its owner and adding to the sheer absurdity of the moment.

Joffrey's face burned red.

"Enough!" he snapped. "Enough, all of you!"

But no one listened.

Not even the Hound's hound, who let out a great, put-upon sigh, lowering itself onto its haunches and glancing around as if accepting its fate as a living joke.

The courtyard was a disaster.

A regal, noble disaster, perhaps, but a disaster nonetheless.

The direwolves—great and shaggy, their coats thick with Northern wildness—had taken immediate offense to the Lannister lions. Not in the way of snarls or bloodshed, no—but with an overwhelming display of superiority, a scheme cooked up to showcase their dominance.

Grey Wind and Summer bounded across the courtyard, dodging between guards and guests alike, snapping playfully at each other's heels, putting on a show. Shaggydog, not to be outdone, skulked behind one of the lions, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Jaime's lion flicked its tail, unimpressed. Cersei's lioness stretched out in the sun, bored. Tyrion's cub, meanwhile, was watching the wolves with genuine interest, one oversized paw reaching up to bat at the air as if contemplating joining in.

"Gods, it's like a tourney for animals," muttered Theon, completely unaware of the disgusted looks being sent his way.

Because while everyone else was either marveling at their sigil-given gifts or trying to control them, Theon Greyjoy was doing something unspeakable.

He was tickling his squid.

It wriggled happily in his hands, its one beady eye looking at him with glee, its rubbery limbs curling and uncurling in delight.

"Stop that," Robb hissed, looking horrified.

"What? He likes it!"

"It's repulsive."

"You're just jealous because yours isn't so slick."

"That is NOT what it is."

Jon Snow, standing nearby, wasn't listening.

Because he had much, much bigger problems.

Catelyn Stark's trout had been wheeled out in its specially prepared aquarium—a grand, water-filled contraption of glass and iron, bobbing slightly on its wooden wheels. And it was watching him.

Watching him with cold, unrelenting malice, as if taking on a shift when Lady Stark herself wasn't looking his way.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. The fish did not blink. It could not blink.

"Jon," Robb said, nudging him. "You're staring at a fish."

"The fish is staring at me."

Robb glanced over at the trout. It was, indeed, staring.

"Huh."

Across the courtyard, Boros Blount let out a soft grunt of pain, reaching up to pluck another porcupine quill from his arm.

His porcupine had taken to casually impaling him whenever it shifted its weight.

He winced, then froze, hand hovering in the air, realizing too late that he'd startled the creature.

The porcupine bristled.

Boros held his breath.

The porcupine relaxed.

"Seven save me," he muttered under his breath, returning to his private porcupine-induced suffering.

Meanwhile, Ser Meryn Trant stood utterly motionless, his thousand-yard stare fixed on the middle distance.

His hanged man was nearby.

Just... hanging there. Visible only to him.

Not moving. Not doing anything. Just a limp, freshly dead body, swaying from a hastily erected gallows that had seemingly been set up on the edge of the courtyard.

No one else could see it, it sat there just taunting him.

Trant blinked. Slowly.

"Why," he murmured, voice hollow, "why is mine the worst?"

Over the chaos, Robert Baratheon let out a great sigh, waving a hand as if trying to gather some semblance of order amidst the barks and growls.

"Right, right, all of you shut it—Ned, where's the crypt? I'd pay my respects before I drink myself to the Stranger's door."

"Down below," Ned answered. "I can—"

A long, exaggerated sigh interrupted him.

Cersei.

Rolling her eyes.

Her lioness rolled its eyes, too, as if to join her mood.

"Oh, must we?" the queen droned, already exasperated. "Do you plan to cry over some old bones, husband?"

Her lioness stretched luxuriously, yawning in faux boredom.

Robert growled low in his throat.

"Aye, I do," he shot back. "Because I had a heart once, and I'll not pretend otherwise."

The hart beside him stamped its hoof in agreement.

The lions sniffed in disinterest.

The direwolves huffed, the wolves of the North recognizing an age-old tension in the air.

Jon, still trading glares with the trout, barely registered any of it.

Theon, still tickling his squid, let out an easy laugh.

"You lot are tense," he said, as if he himself were not adding to it at all.

Well, that is all I have cooked up for now! If this gets enough energy and people want more, I will gladly continue to see how this changes things. Stannis brooding with a moody Stag at his side. Other minor houses, some blessed and some cursed. Does Littlefinger have a titan like that of Bravos sitting over his ramshackle hut in the fingers? Yes lol. Does Varys have a literal spider? Yes he does, actually. Just let me know!

Chapter 13: Casting a Large Shadow 

I just decided to post this one because why not, it was all so fun to write, this time featuring none other than Petyr Baelish!

Petyr Baelish had seen many strange things in his life, had witnessed the rise and fall of lords and ladies, had pulled the strings of Westeros with a flick of his fingers and a whisper in the right ear.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

His horse picked its way along the craggy paths of the Fingers, the sea crashing against the rocks far below. The wind was salt-heavy, carrying with it the faintest echoes of the gulls wheeling overhead.

Littlefinger had never cared much for home—his little, pathetic drum tower, his backwater claim, the rocky, inhospitable land that had spat him out into the world like a half-formed thing.

And yet, now, he was returning.

"Every house," they had whispered in hushed voices, "Every single one has been granted their sigil in the flesh."

At first, he had scoffed.

"Nonsense," he had chuckled, sipping at his wine in the Red Keep, his mockingbird pin gleaming at his throat. "A grand jest. Superstition."

And then he had seen the truth.

He had watched as great beasts prowled beside their masters, as lords carried their own omens in their arms, as new strongholds had simply appeared where none had stood before.

Littlefinger was a man of carefully calculated chaos, but this?

This was unpredictable.

What did it mean when fate itself had begun moving the pieces of the game? What use was a carefully laid trap if some hedge knight could wake up to a miracle at his doorstep?

The game had changed, and he had been absent for the rules being rewritten.

And so, curiosity had overcome reason, and he had set out for the Fingers.

He had seen the Vale's gifts on his way—blades, shields, banners reforged, new halls seemingly raised overnight.

House Corbray had found a raven (one of many across the kingdoms), proud and cold-eyed. The Redforts had received well... a small, red fort, lodged into the ground like a challenge to time itself. Even young Sweetrobin, weak as he was, had a sickly falcon clinging to his shoulder, its wings trembling, as delicate and doomed as its master.

"Poetic," he had murmured at that.

But none of it compared to what awaited him.

As his horse crested the final hill, his breath caught.

There it was.

His keep.

And standing over it, a looming figure, a monstrous shape of stone and shadow, silhouetted against the pale sky—

A Titan.

The Titan of Braavos.

A to-scale, monstrous replica, as if the gods had seen his silly little drum tower and decided to mock him properly.

It was almost absurd.

There it stood, legs braced, glaring out at the sea, its carved eyes unseeing, its mouth open in an eternal, silent roar.

His keep looked even smaller beneath it, utterly dwarfed by the impossible creation.

Petyr Baelish did not move.

For the first time in his entire life, he had no words.

The wind whispered against the cliffs, as if laughing at him.

A Titan.

His Titan.

Could he man it? With what men? Would it come with provisions, with oil to drop at attackers, should any fingermen dare to challenge him? Would they want it? Would he have challengers to his tiny stretch of land now? How would he even GET UP THERE???

The Mockingbird had been given a goddamned Titan.

His lips curled into a smirk, but his fingers tightened on the reins, betraying abject worry.

"What a charming little omen," he murmured to himself.

And in his chest, something uneasy slithered, because for the first time in years—

He had the distinct sense that the gods were laughing at him.

Chapter 14: A Dragon Must Have... HOW many heads??? 

The courtyard of Illyrio Mopatis' manse was bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of foreign spices and blooming orchids. The fountains trickled merrily, the peacocks strutted lazily, and somewhere, a fat-bellied servant was fanning himself half to sleep.

It was, in all ways, an ordinary day in Pentos.

Until it wasn't.

Daenerys Targaryen, barefoot in the sun-warmed tiles, was the first to see them.

At first, she thought them statues—some new indulgence of Illyrio's, like the jeweled goblets or the silk cushions too fine for comfort. But then one of them moved—a slow, sinuous stretch, its scales catching the light like polished onyx.

Daenerys froze.

Viserys did not.

"DRAGONS!" he shrieked.

The sound of his own voice startled him, so much so that he stumbled back onto his arse, gaping like a fish yanked from the Narrow Sea.

The two dragons—actual, living, breathing dragons—stood lazily in the courtyard, their eyes bright with ancient knowledge, their clawed feet sinking into the soft earth.

One was deep red, its wings edged in rippling vermillion. The other was a shimmering gold, like morning light on Valyrian steel.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then—

Viserys let out a high, wheezing laugh, scrambling to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his own cloak.

"DO YOU SEE?" he roared, grabbing Daenerys by the arms and shaking her, as if she were some dim-witted child who needed sense beaten into her skull. "DO YOU SEE, SWEET SISTER?"

Daenerys did see.

She saw a miracle.

She saw a kingdom reborn.

She saw fire made flesh—the lost glory of House Targaryen, the might of Old Valyria, standing right before them.

Viserys, however, saw something else entirely.

He saw himself on the Iron Throne, now, immediately, crowned not in molten gold, but in flame and terror, the kingdoms bowing before him like wheat beneath a scythe.

"We don't even need an army," he breathed, his voice giddy. "The Seven themselves have delivered us our conquest!"

The dragons blinked.

One of them yawned.

Viserys, drunk on his own delusions, spun on his heel, already marching back toward the villa. "Illyrio! Illyrio, you fat fraud! Summon my banners! Fetch me a ship! Westeros will be ours before the next turn of the moon!"

Daenerys barely heard him.

Her hands were trembling.

Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward—closer to the beasts of legend.

She had always dreamed of dragons, of the creatures from old songs and stories, the pride of her house, the terror of the world.

And now, they were real.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She reached out a hand—

The red dragon sniffed her palm, then sneezed.

Right in her face.

A puff of hot air and ash hit her full force, blinding her for a moment, making her cough and sputter.

Viserys turned at the sound.

He saw Daenerys, standing before the dragons—before his dragons.

His face darkened.

"Don't touch them," he snapped, storming back toward her. "They are mine."

Daenerys wiped soot from her face.

"They came to both of us," she said, but her voice lacked confidence.

Viserys laughed, cruel and bright.

"Do you think dragons care for women's whispers?" He turned back to the villa, already scheming. "Illyrio! Wake up, you fat maggot! We sail at dawn!"

Daenerys, still coughing, turned back to the dragons.

The gold one had settled on the grass, curling its tail around itself.

The red one was licking its own eye.

She… wasn't entirely sure this was the army they had been hoping for.

Still, they were dragons, weren't they?

They would burn cities, wouldn't they?

She stepped closer, heart hammering, filled with a strange mixture of awe and doubt.

The dragon sniffed her again.

Then, with a lazy huff, it rolled onto its back, feet in the air, stretching like a great, satisfied cat.

Daenerys stared.

Was this… normal?

Viserys, meanwhile, was halfway through a victory speech, waving his arms wildly as he ranted to no one in particular about the fall of the Usurper, the return of dragonfire, and how he would personally drown Stannis Baratheon in a privy.

Then, a Pentoshi servant burst into the courtyard, his breath ragged from running.

"Prince Viserys!" the man gasped. "News from across the sea!"

Viserys wheeled on him. "What is it? Has my army come? Has the Usurper fallen from his fat horse and broken his neck?"

"No, my prince, it is—" the servant swallowed. "More dragons."

Viserys frowned.

"Yes, yes, I know, we have two right here—"

"No, my prince."

The servant looked deeply uncomfortable.

"I mean… other houses."

Viserys stilled.

Daenerys blinked. "What do you mean… other houses?"

The servant mopped his sweaty brow.

"In Westeros, my prince," he said. "The miracles—they have happened everywhere. To every house, high and low."

Viserys stared at him.

The dragons snorted.

"Some… lesser houses… have also received dragons," the servant went on, his voice quieter now, as if hoping that by saying it softly, it would hurt less.

Silence.

Viserys' left eye twitched.

"…Which houses?" he asked, dangerously soft.

The servant hesitated. "House Vance."

"WHO IN THE SEVEN HELLS IS HOUSE VANCE?"

"They… they have miniature dragons, my prince."

Viserys' fingers curled into fists. "Miniature—what? You mean hatchlings?"

"No, my prince," the servant stammered. "They are… permanently this way. Small."

"Like a falcon," Daenerys murmured, thoughtful.

Viserys whipped toward her, his face twisted with fury.

"There are no falcon-sized dragons!" he spat.

"There are now," the servant muttered, looking at what seemed to be a list.

"And House Vyrwell has a great Wyvern."

"WHAT! Well, they don't breathe fire so perhaps..." Viserys muttered in dark contemplation.

"House Mandrake has a drake"

"And how is that any different"

"I don't know my prince..."

"What else?" demanded Viserys.

"And House Piper....." the servant added.

Daenerys tilted her head. "What did they receive?"

The servant looked deeply haunted.

"…It is best left unspoken, my lady."

Viserys' face turned red.

"House Piper," he hissed. "House Piper has—has—"

He made an incoherent sound, somewhere between a choke and a scream, before turning on his heel and storming off into the villa, shrieking Illyrio's name like a man who had just discovered his own execution was scheduled for dawn.

Daenerys watched him go, then turned back to the dragons.

The red one was licking its tail.

The gold one was asleep.

She exhaled.

Yes, these were dragons.

But somehow, she did not think they were enough.l