My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

I wanted to round it out in 16 chps as preview in inital plan 2 more was left here

15: Yup, Magic is Back Alright 

I found the name fitting for this section, which I have been writing today in response to all of these amazing comments! If anyone else wants a house featured, just comment below! And as for the story itself, I will continue it if people care enough, though to what end who even knows! What did the Dondarrions even get lol!

The Citadel was in ruins.

Not from fire, nor war, nor plague, nor even some great magical catastrophe, but from something far worse.

The gods had seen fit to bestow their blessings here.

And the gods, it seemed, had a very sick sense of humor.

It had started innocently enough—a few confused novices stumbling across a litter of kittens in the library, their tiny mewling echoing against the ancient stone. A minor oddity, nothing more.

Then a wounded falcon crashed through a window, bleeding onto the scrolls.

Then a pod of seals waddled into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, honking so loudly that Archmaester Vaellyn threatened to throw himself into the Honeywine.

Then, somewhere in the depths of the vaults, a novice—poor, unsuspecting soul—had pulled back a moth-eaten tapestry to reveal a full-grown aurochs standing there, staring back at him in perfect silence.

After that, all reason collapsed.

An elephant—an actual, gods-damned elephant—had barreled through the courtyard, smashing through bookcases and sending startled novices scrambling over one another, screaming.

The halls quaked as a pair of great white bulls charged through the entrance, their breath fogging in the cold morning air, horns gleaming in the candlelight.

A gang of monkeys had taken over the alchemy wing, one of them happily chewing on a rare Valyrian scroll while an acolyte wept into his hands.

A dozen honeybees the size of sparrows had built a hive atop the Conclave's meeting table, and now the Archmaesters could only converse in panicked whispers, lest the swarm descend upon them in righteous fury.

And in the Sept of the Citadel, a massive tortoise—old and leathery and so terribly wise—sat in front of the altar, as if waiting to be prayed to.

But the worst—the absolute worst—was that no one knew where the animals were even coming from.

Some beasts lurched through the gates, battered and breathless, as though they had just walked a thousand miles to get here.

Others simply appeared, as if mocking causality.

One acolyte opened a book on Westerosi heraldry and found a sleeping dormouse curled in the spine.

Another pulled a tome from a shelf, only to have a viper tumble out, hissing indignantly. The acolyte, named Alleras, actually bonded with the thing.

In the cellars, Archmaester Benedict opened an old, rusted chest, and there, atop a pile of yellowed scrolls, was a duck, quacking in absolute terror.

And in the Hall of the Seneschal, a nervous maester cleared his throat, lifted the lid of an old cauldron, and found a very small, very confused pony staring up at him.

"This—this wasn't here yesterday," the maester whispered, voice trembling.

The pony neighed in agreement.

Every time someone turned a corner, another braying, honking, bellowing creature was waiting for them.

Novices ran through the halls with ferrets clinging to their robes, squirrels bouncing off their heads, and a group of five initiates had been locked in the Ravenry for hours, too terrified to step outside as a massive elk stood in the hallway, glaring at the door like a particularly determined tax collector.

The great Archmaesters—men of reason, men of science, men who had spent their lives sneering at divine intervention—were now holed up in their chambers, too afraid to step outside lest they be bestowed with an animal of their own.

Archmaester Ebrose, who had spent his entire career denying the existence of the supernatural, had barricaded himself in the infirmary after an ostrich started following him through the halls, gazing at him with what could only be described as divine judgment.

Archmaester Ryam, a historian of great renown, had been seen sprinting full tilt down the western corridor, screaming "NOT THE HIPPO! NOT THE HIPPO!" as the great beast trundled after him.

The novices had stopped wearing shoes because every pair left unattended mysteriously filled with small animals overnight.

And in the midst of all this, Maester Theodore, eyes hollow, voice dead, slumped against a column, cradling a hedgehog in his hands.

"I never even wanted to be a maester," he muttered. "I wanted to be a baker."

The hedgehog squeaked sympathetically.

The worst part was not even the creatures.

The worst part was that things that were not animals had appeared as well.

The forges, abandoned in terror, had forged new swords on their own, each blade glowing faintly, as if forged by ghostly hands.

In the oldest archives, a sealed, forgotten chamber had been found—and inside it? A perfect, pristine replica of the Citadel itself, but tiny enough to fit in a man's palm.

An acolyte had set down his quill, turned to grab more parchment, and when he turned back? The quill was gone. In its place was a small, golden key.

No one knew what it unlocked.

No one wanted to find out.

By the end of the third day, all pretense of academia was gone.

The maesters—the learned men of Westeros, the pillars of knowledge and wisdom—were running for their lives, climbing onto tables, shouting prayers to gods they did not believe in as yet another divine horror stumbled forth from some shadowed alcove.

Somewhere, outside the ruined gates of the Citadel, the smallfolk of Oldtown stood in quiet horror, watching as a zebra galloped across the rooftops, as a flock of golden hawks wheeled through the sky, as a bison knocked over an entire statue of some long-dead archmaester.

Somewhere within the madness, a single peacock screamed.

The gods had spoken.

And they would not take it back.

I understand perfectly that some animals would not be likely on a sigil in Westeros, but for every hedge knight and their offspring, there is a chance. There are countless thousands of sigils, and I choose to believe it gets weird when a newly ascended knight decides to be different than the rest. Might work on Tyrell while I am at it, but I might leave that for tomorrow lol! Hope everyone enjoyed this wild posting!

Chapter 16: To Cross a River... 

The sun hung low over the Twins, casting long, rippling reflections upon the waters of the Green Fork. A lone merchant, his wagon creaking beneath the weight of fine Dornish fabrics, Myrish lace, and a collection of trinkets too fragile for the likes of Northmen, approached the legendary crossing, looking for passage south.

He had heard rumors—whispers in taverns, mutterings in market squares—about the great blessing that had come upon House Frey.

Bridges.

Hundreds of them.

He had assumed it was an exaggeration.

It was not.

The merchant pulled on his horse's reins, bringing his wagon to a halt, his mouth falling open in sheer, unbridled horror.

The banks of the river were choked with bridges. They sprawled out in every direction, some barely more than a few planks haphazardly lashed together, others sturdy enough to suggest divine intervention. Some stood tall, arched gracefully over the river, while others sagged ominously, held together by nothing more than wishful thinking and the sheer arrogance of their claimants.

And upon every single bridge stood a Frey.

A Frey, or several Freys, or a Frey wrestling another Frey for toll-collecting supremacy.

The merchant blinked, trying to make sense of the scene before him.

A horde of Freys—young and old, fat and thin, noble-born and bastard alike—screaming over one another, all of them wielding ledgers and toll books like weapons of war, each declaring their bridge to be the only path across. Frey guardsmen were frantically riding up and down the banks of the river on frantic chargers, desperately trying to maintain some sense of control over the expanded crossing.

"…Oh, fuck me," the merchant whispered.

A Frey spotted him.

Then another.

Then—

Like a pack of starving wolves scenting blood in the wind, the Freys turned.

"TRAVELER!" came the first cry.

"A CUSTOMER!" howled another.

And suddenly—the merchant was doomed.

Within seconds, a wall of Freys came surging toward him, a hundred voices clamoring over one another, each declaring their bridge the safest, the most affordable, the only sane choice for a man of fine wares.

A squat, ferret-faced Frey nearly climbed onto his cart, waving an official-looking scrap of parchment in his face.

"Right this way, good ser! The Proud Crossing of Ser Rhaegar Frey is the safest passage! A mere two coppers for foot, five for horse, and a single silver for your lovely wagon!"

"Bah!" spat a sour-faced, bald-headed Frey, shoving Rhaegar aside. "Don't listen to this piss-drinker! The Lordly Bridge of Ser Meryn Frey is twice as sturdy and costs half as much!"

"LIES!"

"You're the piss-drinker, Meryn!"

"You stole that name from me, you thieving bastard!"

The merchant scooted back in his seat, but the Freys descended upon him like vultures, each of them undercutting the last, each offer more desperate, more absurd than the last.

"My bridge is FREE!" someone screamed.

"That's NOT FAIR!"

"It's wider than his!"

"IT COLLAPSED THIS MORNING, EDMUND!"

A third Frey shoved the others aside, grinning far too eagerly. "Only three coppers, and you'll get a free Frey escort across!"

The merchant swallowed hard. "I… I don't want that."

"Well, you're getting it."

The bridges were not equal.

Some, he realized in horrified silence, were barely bridges at all.

One was just a single plank, wobbling precariously over the current, a shifty-eyed Frey standing on the other side, nodding encouragingly.

Another was… moving.

The merchant stared.

"…That's just a raft."

"A sturdy one!" came the indignant reply.

"I CAN CARRY YOU ACROSS ON MY BACK," screamed a particularly muscular Frey, already wading into the river and gesturing widely.

"I—I don't—"

"HE'S LYING," howled another Frey. "I HAVE A BOAT!"

"That's a bathtub, Oswell!"

"IT FLOATS, DOESN'T IT?"

Edwyn Frey clenched his jaw so tightly it might snap. He had spent his life cultivating an air of cold detachment, but this—this was beyond reckoning.

...

At a distance, Black Walder wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, slapping his knee as another bridge gave way, spilling Freys and unfortunate travelers alike into the river.

"I mean, just look at them," Black Walder choked out. "It's like a thousand rats fighting over the same piece of cheese—but the cheese is rotting, and some of them are drowning, and gods help me, I can't stop laughing."

Edwyn did not laugh.

Because he had seen the consequences.

This was not just a single day of lunacy. This was their future.

By now, the bridges had taken on personal significance to every Frey who had claimed one. Lines had been drawn—entire factions were forming among the family, the Freys dividing themselves not by blood, but by which bridge they owned.

The Freyborn had split into feuding factions.

The Great Bridge—a particularly well-constructed one, with solid stone foundations and a sturdy timber span—had been claimed by Ryman's descendants, who now sneered at the wooden rickety bridges surrounding them.

The Plank-Lords, a sorry band of Freys who had secured nothing but wobbling wooden crossings, had formed an alliance, demanding "equal tolls for equal bridges."

The Half-Sunk Fellowship, a group of particularly desperate Freys, had resorted to sabotaging sturdier bridges, hoping to level the playing field.

Meanwhile, the Drowned Bastards—composed of Freys who had been repeatedly shoved into the river by their kin—were on their fourth revolt of the week.

It was a disaster.

Frey against Frey.

Cousin against cousin.

The Twins had always been a den of familial scheming, but now? Now it was a civil war waged entirely in bridge tariffs.

And worst of all? No one could cross the river.

...

The poor merchant—sweating, eyes darting between the bickering Freys like a man watching his own funeral procession—cleared his throat.

"…Sirs?" he tried.

A dozen Freys snapped toward him, eyes gleaming with predatory business acumen.

"I— I simply—" He swallowed. "I only need to cross. Just the once."

A smirking Frey stepped forward, hands steepled as they shoved through the rest. "A mere copper to cross, my friend—"

"Mine is one copper cheaper!" another interjected.

"That is an insult!"

"I'll do it for free!"

"YOU SAID THAT LAST TIME, THEN ROBBED THEM ON THE OTHER SIDE."

A fight broke out—an entire brawl—while the merchant shrunk into his seat, trying to will himself invisible.

He was not a learned man, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He was never leaving this place alive.

...

From his litter, Lord Walder wheezed out a laugh, watching his descendants degrade themselves into feral toll-collecting lunatics.

"Charge him all the tolls," he croaked, delighted.

"Father," Stevron rasped, visibly pained, "that's… not how tolls work."

Walder Frey licked his cracked lips, his eyes glassy with age and amusement.

"Then charge him twice."

Edwyn closed his eyes in pure despair.

Black Walder leaned back against the rail of his own bridge, hands behind his head. "I hope we do this forever."

And so, House Frey—gifted beyond all reason with the greatest boon in its history—tore itself apart, one toll at a time.