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123 AC, Qohor
"Oh, R'hllor." He heard a voice echo all around him. It seemed utterly terrible, but the small part of what was once Moqorro could practically hear the disappointment that filled it. Thunder rumbled once more, and he felt something behind him. He turned and saw these same ominous green eyes looking back at him.
Moqorro looked at the being before him. To an observer, the man looked like a man, one who wore a silverly cloak that shone as reflecting moonlight and fluttered despite the lack of wind. However, he would say something very different, for his Lord's light guiding his sight, he saw the truth in its shadows. After all, what were shadows but reflections of light, and they could reveal many truths that none could see.
When he looked at the man's shadow, it was vast indeed, like an endless void of nothingness that spread towards eternity itself, where time moved differently with every breath he took, and every flutter of his cloak. The creature before him might resemble a man, but it was certainly not that.
Moqorro had not known what to expect from the creature that even his lord seemingly fled from. Perhaps it was a bloodthirsty monster that was as large as the world itself, drenched in blood. And yet, this was worse, for it was a creature of nightmares under the illusion of a common man.
He stared at the false man before him, and everything inside him, every instinct he had, told him that he was an enemy, something to be feared, and someone to be careful of. Yet the creature did not attack. It did not press its advantage, and his inner flame was recoiling by the sheer dismissal, the arrogance of such an existence.
For he was Moqorro, Champion of R'hllor, Chosen of the Lord of Light. He felt these titles settle within him, for they were true; his god's flames flowed in his veins, and he could feel his will urge him to serve him, offering him battle, in the place where his Lord as his strongest.
He would not fail his Lord, not as he had Benerro, that he vowed. And so, he followed his god's will, and summoned his flames to him, feeling them to be greater and hotter than they ever were before, and released a jet of almost white flames whose sheer intensity surprised even him, for he was sure that had they been in the city, Qohor would have likely turned into nought but cinders.
After some time, he stopped his flames and waited for the ash around him to settle. He looked in front of himself, trying to see if the creature was gone, only to realise that the false man remained unscathed, completely and utterly untouched by Moqorro's flames in any way. He could almost feel the disappointment that radiated from the creature, but also that of his Lord, for it was obviously not an effective attack, not in any way.
Moqorro felt his blood boil. It literally boiled, as if molten stone had been coursing through his veins, so much so that he could feel steam slowly evaporate around him. He recognised it as proof of the Lord of Light's unhappiness with his failure, as he punished him, and he felt his god's will more sharply than he ever had before, and a part of his mind felt overwhelmed by it.
He knew what was needed, as he felt his body almost felt as if it were made of flames, and the Red Priests leapt towards his enemy. As he released another burst of flames, he conjured another thin trail that discreetly entered the pit behind him, onto the heatless, impossible white flames.
The moment he felt his flames connect, he suppressed the urge to stop his attack and just fall on the ground, screaming in pain. He did not know why he was, only that he felt that something inside of him wished for him to stop. What he wished him to stop was something that he did not know.
Alas, he did not have the opportunity to realise it, as his flames were split apart by his opponent, and he saw a spear of darkened ice ready to attack him. Without even meaning to, Moqorro raised his hand, the one whose flames were connected to the ones in the hidden depths, and to his surprise, he looked as if he were holding a staff, only that it was one made of crackling flames that were surprisingly solid. It was a familiar feeling, for it reminded him of his old staff, which he had lost in the fire of Volantis.
It looked similar as well, with a dragon's head atop it, only instead of the Wildfire inside, there were the familiar writhing white flames of the creature from the pit. He let out a bloodthirsty grin and instinctively released the impossible fire within it.
This time, his flames faintly resembled the ones stored in the pit and utterly vaporised the incoming ice spears. His enemy must have noticed the danger that they brought, for a hold of pure darkness appeared in front of him, one that warped the world around it and swallowed the flames as a whirlpool would swallow the sea.
However, while Moqorro, himself, felt disappointed in his attack, he could feel the Lord of Light's will, and he jumped forward, moving at speeds that he hadn't thought possible, with the world blurring around him, and swung the staff at the strange sphere of darkness.
When the white flames within the staff touched it, light started to suffuse it, spreading like cracks, before it shattered like glass. As it was right, for he wielded a fragment of the Light itself, a remnant of creation itself, a spark of order impossibly borne of chaos, that allowed the world to be, and not be swallowed by an endless night.
Moqorro shook his head at these strange thoughts and instead decided to follow the attack on his enemy instead. He ran forward at blinding speeds, swiping his weapon once more towards the almost immobile opponent, as he was moving at speeds that only the divine were capable of.
To the Red Priest's surprise, the false man tilted his head to avoid his blow barely, and he created a scythe, an impossible one whose blade seemed to shift forms with every second, that he used to parry.
The Lord of Light's flames met the blade, and the impact alone created an explosion of bright light that sent them both flying back. Moqorro landed on the ground and grunted as he rolled, though the impact pained him far less than it would have normally, a sign of R'hllor's blessing, no doubt.
He felt his Lord urging him to stand, and he did as he was bidden, relying on his staff to stand up. Moqorro looked up, ready for an attack on an opponent, only to see that the false man was holding his scythe with surprise on his face for the first time. The Red Priest felt himself focusing on it, and despite the distance, he perceived a small crack in the impossible weapon's blade.
The new Champion of R'hllor felt his body swell in pride, for his flames were mighty indeed. The Maiden of Light was born of Chaos, bringing an impossible order from the void that birthed life to the very gods when she and the Lion of Night collided. He remembered when he was nought but a kindling, marvelling at its beauty. It had been what had guided him to becoming one of the mightiest entities in the world, and it would aid him in defeating the interloper that had challenged him so. If only this vessel were not so lacking…
Once more, Moqorro's head hurt, though he felt as though something immense pressed against the inside of his skull, not from without, but from within. The thought had not been his. It had carried too much weight, too much meaning.
Alas, he did not have the opportunity to remunerate on this, for he saw the false man brush his hand across the fracture, the blade starting to mend and releasing small drops of light, that acted as if it were a liquid. A smile appeared on the creature's face, "How interesting. I didn't know that something of the Light existed in this realm. An order that could command chaos, what a beautiful contradiction, and yet here it is. First the Black Goat, and now this. Sure, fighting the thing wasn't all that hard; I got used to fighting Outsiders since I came to this place, far more than I thought I would. But tricking Qohor into worshipping it, and using that Faith to chain it, now, that is clever, very clever. I wonder what other surprises you have…"
Something inside Moqorro recoiled at that. It truly was a shame that his monster had failed so miserably. Then again, he had fully expected it to perish, but mostly hoping that the casualties between his battle with the Anathema would create enough of an imbalance that his enemy would retreat, giving him enough time to retaliate for the grave blow that he had suffered. His pet had failed quite miserably indeed.
Nevertheless, if it were a surprise that the monster wished, then it would be what it would receive. With his free hand, Moqorro moved to the pit and grabbed the thin glowing string that hovered above the pit that held the Light's flame.
He grabbed it and winced as his very soul began to resist the strain. Paths revealed themselves before him, infinite and absolute. He suppressed a grin as he ran forward, summoning a storm of crimson flames towards his enemy, flames that were immediately redirected. He ran forward, using his flames to empower himself even further. He jumped into the air, knowing to dodge the Anathema's attack, and then redirected his strange mirror-like rainbow fractals with the fragment of the Maiden of Light's flames, which used its nature to nullify them.
Knowing that the creature's next move would be a slice of darkness, he carefully created a shield of light that protected it, and he slammed his staff into the ground, making the impossibly large clearing around them tremble and shake, with fire appearing from each fissure.
His enemy extinguished the flames and waved his hand in a way that forced the cracked stone to float instead of falling away, which allowed him to finally move forward, shaping the fragment of the First Light that he wielded in his staff into a spear.
He asked the Light to move him as quickly as possible, and the world obeyed, for this was his domain. Moqorro moved forward, his staff raised, anticipating finally skewering the Anathema, the irritant that took so much from him, and he was so close to its heart, only for the creature to cease to exist completely just as he almost landed a mortal wound.
It was… impossible. This was not what he had foreseen, what the Light had revealed to him. It was to be absolute, for it had allowed him to defy Fate itself, with its ability to see through Chaos.
Moqorro did not have the time to ponder on such things, for suddenly, dozens of the large floating rocks, fragments of his initial strikes, suddenly moved towards him. He created a shield of light to protect himself, though it shattered under the pressure of the attacks, and it sent him flying back.
He could feel blood drip down his nose and mouth from the impact. He had been injured by that… thing, that abomination that pretended to be a man. It had hidden from the Light's gaze somehow, something that even gods could not manage, something that even the Old Ones, the first Dragons, mighty they might be, could not boast being able to do.
This had not been the first time that his sight had been occluded so. He had wondered why his schemes in dealing with the sorcerer had failed him so. He had not been the one responsible for the scheme involving that paradoxical Greenseer, but he had felt his touch on the mortal's soul. He had trusted that the outcome had been what was expected, but it failed as well, as had his scheme regarding the last Wyrmlings. His faithful's deaths were similarly unforeseen, and thus, he knew that his enemy could bypass his sight, but to see it occur before him was terrifying. He needed to understand how that occurred very quickly, or this battle would end with his loss, and he could not allow that, not with the consequences that this would entail.
The Anathema stood where it was, uncaring of the impossible feat it had achieved, though he noticed that its green eyes were glowing ablaze, for it seemed that it had not come out satisfied by their exchange either, "So that is what you do… You use a fragment of the Light to empower your divination, to bypass even the chaos, to defy Fate itself."
Suddenly, his enemy moved forward, with a speed that had been absent since their battle began. He swung his scythe, and Moqorro foresaw the exchange ahead instinctively, dodging the swing, and ready to retaliate, only for his attack to move past the Anathema, who appeared behind him, and bound him in ice chains, slamming him down to the ground.
The Abomination in man's flesh turned towards him, "I wondered why you attacked me, despite me not really interfering in your affairs… I wondered why you would have wanted to stop me from stopping the threat beyond the Wall, and this is why, isn't it? You wanted everything to stay the same, on the brink of collapse, as you're getting stronger using your little trick."
He growled at the insult, at the ignorance of it all. He would admit that he wished to expand his domain, but it was not out of lust for power, but necessity, a temporary suffering for the sake of security. His resolve returning, he released his flames and shattered his bindings, ready to attack once more, only for the Anathema to disappear once more and appear behind him, stabbing him in the back with his scythe.
The wound… hurt. It was a feeling of pain that was strangely unfamiliar. He did not wish it to occur. He feels the strange blade seeping its strength inside this mortal shell, and it is unlike anything he has experienced before. The false man wielding it continued, "Because that's what you do, isn't it? You hide yourself away while you scheme to destroy your enemy. You hide behind monsters, just as you had in Qohor, like a cowardly god. Look at what you have done to your Champion. Look at what you have done to his soul."
Despite knowing that he should not follow his enemy's words, he looked at the soul inhabiting this body and froze, for he could not see it. All he saw was the flame, the one gifted to him by the Lord of Light… No, the one that he had gifted his last servant.
The realisation struck him harder than the scythe. The mortal soul that should have been there, a fragile but precious thing, had been burned away, consumed so utterly that barely more than an echo remained, only the flame, a spark of the Lord's own essence, filling every hollow that once housed the man called Moqorro. Mortals were not meant to hold that much power, and this was further proof of such a fact.
He did not know why that realisation changed things, and yet they did. He felt his body grow, flames enveloping him, which did not hurt them. This creature… this thing, dared to judge him! And here, of all places? He was as close to his own domain as one could be in the material world.
As if the world around him followed his thoughts, he started to grow in stature, with the flames growing, enveloping him. He sighed in contentment at the feeling, as if the mortal shell had finally stopped resisting what it was always meant to become. His form swelled further, bone and flesh dissolving into pure flame.
The pit behind him responded in kind, widening and deepening, as if it were the maw of a giant creature, swallowing everything in sight.
Yet he was not afraid. After all, this was his domain. This had always been his domain.
He laughed as the pit surged upward and swallowed the Anathema whole, making him endlessly fall in an endless expanse of flames, for that was all that existed around it. He saw the Abomination's eyes widen as he saw them, thousands upon thousands, perhaps millions, of souls, moving in unison within them. They crawled from the flames, shaped by fire, made of fire, for they were his faithful, and their sacrifices that empowered him so. They were part of him, of his realm, of his endless flames, and leapt to follow his will and strip his enemy of his flesh, to torment him for daring to attack them so.
Despite not truly having a face, he grinned. He spoke, his voice echoing from everywhere at once, from the flames, from the souls, from the endless space and time, "I will savour this."
He would do it, after all, his enemy could hide from his sight all he wished; it would not matter, for he was powerless in this place.
Just as he prepared to follow through on his threat, the Anathema opened his mouth and began to sing. It was a hauntingly beautiful sound, one that made him freeze in his tracks, despite not truly understanding what its name was. That was until he felt it. A crack in the world around him, as it shrank with every moment.
He felt his flames dimming. No, it was being drained. He jumped his entire power towards the creature, slamming his gigantic fists on him, hoping to crush him, only to meet some sort of resistance. He felt panic start to bloom.
The resistance around the Anathema strengthened, and his titanic fist struck again and again, and each blow sent shockwaves of dimming light through his own vast body.
He could feel the pit contracting with every moment, his flames thinning, and the souls around him flickering away, and he screamed out, "No!"
But the sphere kept collapsing, dragging the boundaries of his realm inward, and the pit began to seal itself, until even he, the Lord of Light's chosen incarnation, was forced downward, diminished, feeling horrifically mortal once more.
He clawed at the falling edges of his own domain, screaming as the last embers of divine power slipped through his grasp, and suddenly, the world snapped back.
He opened his eyes, gasping, feeling weaker than he ever thought possible, feeling weaker than he ever imagined, smaller than he ever conceived, and bound.
He looked up and saw the Anathema, who was holding a large red gem, which glowed with power, his power.
Realisation finally set in, as he tried to put his intent into the limited mortal words, "You fool! Do you not know what you have done? You have doomed us all! Doomed them all in your blind arrogance."
The loss that he felt was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was more than just a loss of power, for it was also an acknowledgement of defeat, of failure, of what he dedicated his existence to, his very purpose.
He would easily admit that he was not a benevolent god, but he was a necessary one. Ever since the moment that he understood what the Light was, he swore that he would protect the existence that she had birthed in the Maiden of Light's last breath, the existence that had almost fallen with the realms collapsed. He had taken the role as its protector, and he would do so with power, by becoming his only god, for only one God could have the strength to avert the inevitability.
Despite his rage, he slumped, "The world is dying. It has been dying since the realms collided and the Great Other perished. The Old Ones, the First Dragons, staved it off the best they could, but Chaos will reclaim this land eventually. The Light was the way… The only way… to stop it. And then you came. You, with no understanding of the truth of the world, with absolute confidence in your self-righteousness, acting as a saviour to these dolls that you play with."
He had spread himself, empowered himself, readying to protect his legacy. The Great Forts in the East, the Deep Ones in the endless sea in the West, the Cold Ones in the North, though they were no more, and the South… The chaotic south, the ones who had fallen first with the Old Ones, the First Dragons, were bound by the Outsiders' meddling. He had worked endlessly, readying himself for the coming attack, though it seemed that he would not live to see it.
He shook his head in disappointment, "I hope that you know that you have brought them nought but ruin because of your hubris. All shall know the moment that the Light becomes unclaimed, and they will come for it."
After all, the moment a god perished, a message was sent to the cosmos of their domain, for it becomes ripe to consume or be born anew from the chaos. R'hllor's death would send a signal, and every being, divine, demonic, and Outsider, would try to claim it. War would come, a devastating one.
He then started to laugh as he looked at the pale face of his enemy, having realised his misstep. The creature would have likely wished to justify itself. Well, he would not allow it, not now, not ever, "You're not talking now, are you? Where are your prideful words? Where is your confidence? Hah?"
The Anathema did not answer, though R'hllor did not care. Despite his reduced state, he remained the Lord of Light, and so, he raised his hand, a glowing dagger appearing in it, and he stabbed it deep into his gut. He felt the searing pain, mortal pain, and felt blood flow from his mouth, "Will you flee, Abomination? Will you let your dolls burn and die? Will you escape the realm you doomed with your hubris? Or will you die fighting in your mistake? I suppose it is time for you to find out."
The Lord of Light could feel his strength leave him, as he perished as a mortal, of all things. The Anathema, in its pretentious arrogance, ran to hold him. At least, that was what he had thought, at first.
He was proven to be wrong as the world flashed, and he found himself stabbing himself once more, only for time to rewrite itself moments later. He glared at the Anathema, who looked drained by the act, "This changes nothing. You may have delayed the inevitable, but your magic will end, and I will perish. War will start anew, and the blood of every creature in this world will be on your hands."
As the creature walked away with its prize, he yelled out, "YOU DOOMED US ALL, ANATHEMA. YOU HEAR ME? THIS CHANGES NOTHING, FOR YOU ARE THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS!!!"
And so, he continued to laugh madly, even when the Abomination was gone, for even when he had lost, he knew that his enemy did as well. For he shall cling to hope, attempt to deny the inevitable, try to rectify the consequences of his hubris, but he shall fail and face his truth. He would be faced with a choice: to flee or burn and die, just like the rest, and that choice would break him.
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The Nature of Fate and Its Evolution in History
By Archmaester Marwyn of Highgarden
Fate as an existence, as a truth, remains the subject of many debates in every branch of the Citadels, just as it had for centuries. The topic is debated, not truly a populated field of study, even for the most learned in the Higher Mysteries.
Men seek out the Higher Mysteries with the hopes of serving as Court Sorcerers in a Castle, where the great spread of magical conflict in the previous centuries had made the position quite sought after. Esoteric fields that are not useful directly for a Lord are often dismissed, and the nature of Fate and destiny is among them.
After all, should Fate be absolute, then there would be no reason for its existence, and should it not be so, then it would be useless. After all, there are a few diviners in history that are said to peer into the future, chief amongst them the Royal Family's famed dreamers, though their existence was never confirmed after House Targaryen's ancestor Daenys the Dreamer. There are other ways to divine the future, ones discovered and practised by Woods witches for thousands of years, though they are rather imprecise, subject to interpretation, and could even be false.
I do not consider these to be Fate, but assumptions, theories regarding the paths of the future. For Fate was destined, was bound in stone, prophesied. One might claim that prophecies are nought but an imprecise form of divination, not manifestations of Fate, as many have proven themselves to be false in the past. However, this Archmaester tracked down the false prophecies and found a certain trend, for they were uttered before 123 AC, an infamous year amongst historians and magic users alike.
It is known that scryers could never peer in this year, for it is a time of great change, brought about with the return of magic and the Second Doom of Valyria, but in all of my research in every Citadel in the Seven Kingdoms, not a single prophecy that was uttered past that date had failed.
There is no proof of causation or a relationship between these two facts. But one can't help but wonder if the lack of magic in the world, as theorised before 123 AC, had weakened Fate in some way, or perhaps that some other event had changed it. Similar events could be seen every day, for many rituals that were quite well-known before this date, had devastating side effects, especially when involving the dark art of necromancy.
I write this in the privacy of my thoughts, for I fear the ridicule of my peers. I have been mocked for many of my theories in the past, especially after the royal family's orders to stop my second expedition in Qohor. I can only hope that another soul, a greater soul, would use it to solve this mystery, which had consumed decades of my life and perhaps even my sanity.
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AN: That was, and I'm not exaggerating here, the hardest chapter I've had to write, ever. I had like three other versions with different interactions, one of them being a battle of wits, but this felt better. I'm still not sure about how it came out at all.
The idea is that R'hllor had a plan, an ambitious plan that required him to be the main god in the world and spread his religion elsewhere, a plan involving the Outsiders. He had a fragment of Light (which, when it combined with the Night, started things) that let him divine chaotic things like the Outsiders, which, unfortunately, Harry massively messed with his antics in the story, hence why he tried to kill him but failed (will be explained later on why that happened). Anyway, Harry screwed up by choosing R'hllor as the third God for his ritual with Daphne, and now, he'll have to deal with the consequences.
I wanted this to be a bit of a wake-up call for the Potters, since they have been pretty much doing whatever they want since they came to Planetos. At least, that's what I hoped to show in this chapter. I'm not quite sure that I pulled it off, especially with Moqorro slowly transitioning to R'hllor as his soul gets overwhelmed with his connection to a god. I'm planning on clearing up a lot of things later, which I wasn't able to fit into the chapter. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
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If you want to support me, check out my patréon at https://www.patréon.com/athassprkr
I tend to upload drafts of early chapters on there to get people's opinions on them, so you can read up to 20 chapters ahead as a bonus.
Thank you guys for your support in these hard times.