Chapter Text
In the lands of ice and fire, the gods abided amongst themselves without strife; the old and the new. For they did not fight over dominion as the mortals did. When the Andals came with their faith of the Seven, the Old gods simply made room just as they did when the Drowned one came thousands of years before that.
For what purpose would there be to argue over the rocks and trees? Over seas and lands and sky? Magic was magic. And magic was everywhere. Worship of it mattered not.
It was the same with the gods. Mankind may wage wars in their name, may burn down all they deem holy of one god to glorify another, but the gods truly cared little for such petty squabbles. Magic existed well before men, and magic and the gods alike would exist far after the last man breathed his last breath.
So the gods did not wane. Nor did they wither.
They waited. They watched. And sometimes, if they saw fit, they meddled.
For, while the gods did not care for the small gripes of men, there did come times when a mortal had a soul of such consequence that the fates themselves etched their name amongst the stars. They were the tyrants, the warlords. The peacebringers, the liberators. The changers. Their existence brought about great shifts about the world, whether it be a great calamity or a great peace, or both.
And if a day came when such a soul hung in the balance? Well…the gods took interest. If only to watch.
On the day of his trial of Seven, Ser Duncan the Tall did in fact succumb to his wounds on that dirty field. He fought well for a young man newly into his knighthood. But though truer in heart than many a man he may have been, he was still — unfortunately — mortal and untested. Thus, despite his penchant for being as stubborn as a mule — though the man would argue otherwise if you said so to his face, the stubborn fool — Ser Duncan had quietly tipped over onto the muddy ground of the tourney arena that day, body weary, and breathed his last.
And while the surrounding crowd shifted and stirred at the sight of his unmoving form, Prince Aegon chief among them, his young face aghast and pale, they were all quite unaware of the higher powers currently within their midst.
‘What a shame,’ said the Father, the Warrior, and the Smith. They, together, inspected the man's slain form, looking beyond the torn mortal flesh.
For although Ser Duncan's body lay battered and beaten, his soul was clear as the morning dew and just as sweet. It was but a wisp of a thing, rising slowly from parted, bloodied lips, its song mournful but understanding of its body's demise.
‘What a pity,’ said the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone, lifting their hands to gather and cradle it in their palms.
A low hum in agreement could be heard from the Old gods beside them. They, too, had come to spectate the mortal going-ons out of passing interest, and they silently regarded the soul as it was gently guided away from its mortal shell.
It was a bright little thing. Even in death. Strong and gentle, like the sunrise.
The Old gods would have taken it for themselves if they could have — taken it to settle in the calming shade of the forests where it could have grown its roots and sprouted into an elm it so favored or perhaps be poured out like a warm spring rain that rippled into a vast calm lake. They truly would have if it weren’t for the man passing during a trial of Seven. The soul was now tied to the New gods forevermore, its blood spilt in their name.
The soul rang clear once more upon feeling the Mother's gentle touch, its song brighter as any bell. The Mother smiled. The Maiden giggled. The crone cackled. This was certainly a rare find to be sure.
What a shame.
What a pity.
‘What a waste.’
They all turned at the Stranger's words. The death god stood apart, the last of the Seven, its tall figure thin and skeletal. It looked down upon the soul with calm regard.
The Old ones nodded in agreement. The Stranger rarely spoke in comparison to its other faces. But whenever it did, whatever it said, it would always ring true.
And indeed, the Old gods pondered, turning back to look upon the soul.
What a waste.
The next moment, the soul's song suddenly turned dissonant; forlorn.
At the change, the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone raised the glowing wisp to their faces and asked with voices in accord — three in one, one in three, ‘What is it, dearest? Why do you cry so?’
The Stranger spoke once more, this time in the soul's stead. ‘He is not the only mortal I have come to guide.’
At that, the Seven and the Old ones looked around to see what must have changed and — ah. Indeed. Three more souls were ready for the afterlife. Two knights lay near the gods’ feet, Ser Beesbury and Ser Hardying, slain by their fellow man like many were wont to do.
The two souls released their bodies willingly and were gathered up into the warm embraces of the Father, the Warrior, and the Smith, ready to be passed over to the Stranger, who took them gently with practiced ease. They were honourable in their lives and in their deaths, and they traveled onward freely without lingering.
And the third…
The third still stood — he was also of stubborn make, it seemed — though his end was nearing fast. Baelor Targaryen. Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and current Hand of the King. Both of his feet were already at death's door even as his body kept moving, the blow to the head slow to take, but sure as any poison.
Ser Duncan's soul rang once again within the shelter of the Seven, its song trembling with sorrow.
And to the gods’ great interest, the crown prince's soul answered back in kind, reaching out even while the prince's heart still beat. It too was clear, far lower in tone than Ser Duncan's, like that of a mighty dragon's rumble. They intertwined in the air to form a harmony, a dyad of earth and sky that reverberated a tune indescribable to the mortal ear. The gods both Old and New couldn't help but smile at the sound.
The Stranger remained silent. However —
‘How pretty,’ whispered the Maiden and the Mother.
‘How true,’ considered the Crone and the Smith
‘How worthy,’ declared the Father and the Warrior.
Moving as one — seven in one, one in seven — the New gods pondered and looked upon the fates, the futures unwritten, not yet set. They saw kingdoms prosper and be torn asunder, born and remade, burned and rebuilt to even greater heights. The soul of one would matter little in the grand scheme of things. There was many a name written amongst the stars after all, as plentiful as the stars themselves. And again, even then, the gods still cared little for such things. Nor did they care much for the details.
‘What a shame,’ they said in tandem.
‘What a pity.’
‘What a waste.’
Turning, they regarded their fellow gods, the Old ones who contained multitudes.
‘What say you?’ they asked.
The Old ones gazed upon the soul in the other’s grasp, cradled now like a new born babe to a mother’s breast. ‘Matters little, does it not?’ they observed, ‘You have already decided.’
The Seven did not object. Instead, they avowed, ‘So have you,’ quiet as a whisper.
The Old gods paused, but did not disagree. They simply contemplated; then after a moment, nodded. ‘We are of one mind, then.’ Ancient hands reached out.
The Father, the Warrior, and the Smith clasped them back. Old and New came together at that moment, the air around them thinning. The sky darkened above. In the center, the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone bowed their heads towards the soul.
‘And what say you?’ they asked.
The soul in their arms did not so much speak as it did sing. Its voice rang clearer than ever before, rising like the wind rustling through leaves of the forest, like a gentle breeze across wide fields of sweet grass. It made its wish known plainly, its innermost thoughts laid bare.
The gods smiled.
‘We are agreed.’
The Stranger departed, its services no longer needed for the time being.
And soon after in the arena, a quiet miracle occurred. Magic shifted and — where moments before the man had lain prone and breathless — Ser Duncan the Tall gasped awake to the sound of Prince Aegon’s desperate pleas and to the sight of a trial yet unfinished, his eyes alight with new life and glowing a color as blue and pure as the sky.