123 AC, Westerlands
The wind howled louder still. The waves rose behind them. And Rhaenys was left clutching her dagger, uncertain whether she'd been taken prisoner or had simply wandered into madness.
Rhaenys and her husband had been thrown unceremoniously into the hull of the Greyjoy ship hours ago. She had ended up surrendering her dagger after a pleading look from her husband, something that she regretted, if only out of frustration with the sorcerer and his wife. They were with them, prisoners as well, but seemingly unconcerned with what likely awaited them should they land.
She hadn't deigned to say anything to them, as this was obviously their fault. No Ironborn would have dared come anywhere near Dragonstone or the Driftmark. They were well-protected, and the risk of dragons easily burning away an entire fleet made any attempts very unattractive.
Yet, here she was, once a claimant to the Iron Throne, Lady of one of the strongest houses in the Seven Kingdoms, a prisoner of savage pirates who still practised slavery in everything but name.
She was angry, and her husband shared that anger as well. They were powerless; what little weapons they had were gone, and the sorcerer and his wife seemed completely unconcerned, the latter having even procured her book, somehow, and was reading it as if the fate that awaited her, likely as a salt wife, would not be an attractive one.
Rhaenys' best idea was to stall, tugging on her bond to Meleys to summon her dragon towards her. She had done so the moment she had been captured. Meleys was the fastest dragon alive and could likely make the trip in slightly less than a day at full speed, even if crossing the continent at full speed would be tiring.
She was glad for this small trick, which her father had taught her, on how to strengthen her bond with her dragon, how to make Meleys an extension of her will. It was exactly for this purpose, and even decades after his death, he was still protecting her.
Rhaenys could feel the bond strength over time, as Meleys neared. She only needed to stall the Ironborn until then, and then with Meleys, she could pressure them into releasing her. Then she would feed the sorcerer and his wife to her dragon.
As if he were hearing her thoughts, the sorcerer chuckled, "You need to relax. You'll age yourself into the Stranger's arms if you fret so much."
"This is your fault, sorcerer. You knew that this would happen."
"I suppose I do have a hand in your condition, but I didn't know what it would end up like. Even then, I could have gotten us out, but come on, how often do you get such an invitation?"
Her husband furrowed his eyebrow. "Invitation?"
"Oh, you think that it was a coincidence that a ship just happened to be where the tides took us? Look back slightly, so far, the Ironborn have barely spoken a single word, or even harmed them. Why do you think that?"
That statement sparked a thought in Rhaenys' mind. This wasn't like the Ironborn. They pillaged villages, often enslaving their residents, and killing most of the rest. Two fairly attractive women, one of them with clear Valyrian features, shouldn't have remained unbothered by the crew of this ship. Given what she had heard of the encounters with the loathsome people, her husband and the sorcerer should have been killed, and Rhaenys and Daphne taken as salt-wives. Of course, the moment Meleys arrived, she would have burned most of the islands, but they didn't know of her. They hadn't even asked for her name or Corlys'.
Corlys seemed to come to the same realisation: "What is this, then?"
"I think that someone wanted to meet with me, someone who somehow had enough influence to force a crew of glorified reavers and slavers not to harm us in any way. Given the sails, I think the conclusion is quite clear."
Greyjoy.
If she were honest, Rhaenys rarely preoccupied herself with the affairs of the Iron Islands, but even she had heard of House Greyjoy's troubles when its lord perished a few months prior, leaving only two young boys, children, by all accounts, as the legacy of the house, Dalton and Veron Greyjoy.
Other than that, whispers started to spread of Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, the new Lord of Pyke and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands.
Most of it was nonsense, of course, like the fact that he was a boy of ten, who looked as if he were a man grown, who had gained a Valyrian Steel sword while fighting in the Stepstones. Daemon's refusal to reign over the island had allowed a few pirate lords to ravage through it. The situation wasn't severe enough for Corlys to petition Viserys for a new war, and given that the last one had almost beggared their house, he likely wouldn't try to do it himself once more.
Still, it was likely the way the Ironborn wished to scare anyone from taking advantage of their weakened position. If she had to guess, it was a steward or some regent who was responsible for their capture. Still, the Ironborn's discipline showed that there was some order in the Iron Islands, and Rhaenys couldn't decide if this was good news or not.
At least, it meant that they would be safe for a while.
The sorcerer spoke up loudly, "Don't worry, we won't let anything happen to you."
"I don't believe you're in a position to offer help, sorcerer," her husband answered.
"The difference between what appears to be and what is can be akin to the sun and moon," the man replied in a solemn tone.
His wife snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes, "Harry, saying vague things only makes you look like an idiot, not some mysterious stranger." She then turned towards them, "Don't worry, if he's joking around, then you're fine. It's when he's quiet that you have to be worried, but don't worry, we really will protect you. The fact that he made the decision to let you be involved means that he will feel responsible for your safety."
Before they could respond, the sorcerer rolled his eyes and threw something at them. Rhaenys grabbed it through instinct alone and froze as she saw the bread in her hand. "It's warm."
The man simply grinned and took out a book, somehow, and started reading. She shared a look with Corlys, and they bit into the bread. She hadn't realised just how hungry she was until that first bite. The bread was delicious and also oddly finished. By the end, she felt like she could barely finish it.
It wasn't long until she heard the oddly silent crew finally start to yell, showing that the ship was docking. The Ironborn who had captured them went down to the hull and pointed their blades at them.
Corlys looked like he wished to protest, but had wisely chosen not to. They could appeal to whoever was the Greyjoy boy's regent to at least send a message to Dragonstone or Driftmark, which would be more than enough time for Meleys to arrive.
Rhaenys followed her husband, while the Potters both seemed bothered by the interruption more than anything. Even after hours in their company, she couldn't claim that she understood them. The man was extremely childish, which she could understand why Rhaena liked him so, and did not cut the image of a powerful sorcerer she had made in her mind.
The woman looked completely uninterested in the entire affair, even her own kidnapping, as if it was nothing more than some bothersome thing that would end soon. But that mystery did not matter now; she was more preoccupied with how she would handle their captor.
They were led out of the hull and into the light, blinking slightly as their eyes adjusted. The wind had picked up, colder than it had been in the Reach, and carried with it the heavy scent of salt and iron.
She had never seen Pyke before, not in person, few nobles ever did unless absolutely required, but the sight of it matched the old painted drawings she had been shown as a girl; great towers of jagged stone rising out of the sea, connected by rope bridges that swayed with the wind, built into the cliffs like broken fingers clawing at the sky. Yes, it was easy to recognise the seat of House Greyjoy.
And yet, all of this was overshadowed by the striking silence that met them the moment they left the ship.
It took her a few seconds to fully realise it; No one spoke.
The Ironborn, notorious for their rowdy voices and crude jokes, were not speaking. Not to each other. Not to them. The ship's crew didn't so much as grunt when they were ordered off. The men on the docks stopped what they were doing the moment they climbed up. Conversations died. Hammers stopped. The only sounds were the crashing of waves and the cry of gulls.
One of the guards gestured silently with his blade, and they were ushered forward without so much as a grunt. No taunts. No jeers. Nothing.
It was wrong.
Rhaenys exchanged a look with Corlys, who was frowning as he walked. She could tell he didn't like it either. This wasn't how the Ironborn were supposed to behave. This wasn't how any dock workers were supposed to behave.
Even the Potters noticed.
The sorcerer was no longer smiling. Instead, he was giving everything around him a very focused look. She remembered his wife's earlier words, that they should worry when he's quiet, when he is not smiling, that they should be worried. That was, if anything, a sign that she was right to be unsettled, that there truly was something wrong.
He did not speak, but he looked to his wife, and the two shared a glance, like a silent conversation passed without words. Daphne nodded once, slowly, and fell into step beside him.
They were taken across a stone bridge that looked a few years away from collapsing, then through a narrow archway and up a set of worn, crumbling steps. Still no words. Still no chains.
That was what struck her most.
She and her husband were unarmed, taken by force, and yet not a single shackle had been placed on them. The way they were treated we somehow a mixture between being prisoners and being honoured guests. The absurdity of that statement almost made her snort.
Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival near the large door that would take them to the Great Hall of Pyke. The doors groaned as they were pulled open, and they stepped through them. It was still as silent as it used to be, but she found herself stifling a gasp of shock as she saw who was sitting on the infamous Seastone Chair, what used to be the throne of the Kingdom of the Iron Isles.
Rhaenys felt like she lacked the words to describe the sight.
The boy who sat on the throne was wrong. That was the only word that came to mind. Wrong. He had the build of a youth just entering his teens, stretched out awkwardly, as if he'd grown too quickly and his body had not yet decided what to make of it. His frame was thin, almost fragile-looking. There was still the softness of childhood in his cheeks, but the skin was too pale, too sickly. His eyes were too large, the whites almost swallowed whole by pupils so wide they looked black from a distance.
He spoke in a raspy voice, "Harry Potter, I bid you welcome to Pyke."
The sorcerer in question didn't look bothered by the boy's look, "Oh, I'm happy to be here. After all, it's not every day that someone gets into so much trouble just to have a chat."
The smile was back on his face, and Rhaenys, despite herself, couldn't help but relax.
Lord Harry continued, "Your island is pretty nice too, a bit too quiet for my taste, if I'm honest. Don't get me wrong, I love a quiet place to read, to write, to work, but there's something nice about hearing the world work in the background, you see, sort of like a heartbeat of the people. I mean, look around you. This hall is massive. I can almost hear my own echo, yet you sit here alone."
That was when Rhaenys realised that there were no guards anywhere in the hall, that they were completely alone with the Greyjoy, a clear danger, given that the boy did not look armed as well, and yet he did not seem threatened.
"I sit upon the Seastone Chair, like my ancestors before me. I have no need for others."
"Well, that's neat and all. I have to admit that I was always planning to come here, although I wouldn't have anytime soon. There are more interesting places to be, you see. Old Valyria, the Wall, even Sothoryos, and you're a bit too far away for me to just stumble near this place. I was curious when I heard of your culture. I never thought that people who glorify something like the 'iron price' could survive for so long, and yet they did. I wondered how that happened."
The boy on the throne released a sickly chuckle, "Greenlanders rarely understand our ways, sorcerer. They do not understand the sweetness of taking what is yours after killing its previous owner. There is strength in it, strength that is required to call these islands home."
The sorcerer walked forward, "Isn't that interesting? Now, that's very nice and all, but you still haven't told me who I'm talking to. I'm a traveller and don't know the names of every noble, I'm afraid."
The boy stood up and spoke loudly, "Then allow me to educate you. I am Dalton Greyjoy, Lord of the Pyke, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, and currently the man who sits upon the Seastone Chair."
"Impossible," her husband muttered, and she couldn't help but echo the same feeling. She knew, from the moment that she saw who sat upon that sickly chair, that this was likely Dalton Greyjoy. It made sense, given the tales spoken of him, but she still could not believe that this was a boy of ten, not a man grown.
The thing pretending to be a boy turned and looked at Corlys for the first time, "A dragon and a sea snake, so far away from home. How did you come here, I wonder?"
The sorcerer raised his hand, and Rhaenys blinked as she noticed that he'd gotten much closer to the boy's chair, "I'm afraid that this is my fault. You see, we were taking a little trip when you offered your little invitation. But let's not talk of stowaways, huh? I'm more interested in this chair. I have to say, you've had some cowboys in here. Don't actual cowboys, though stranger things have happened.. Oh, I've heard of this, one of the greatest mysteries in the known world, the so-called oily black stone."
"What are you doing?" the boy rasped loudly, looking unnerved for the first time.
"Oh, nothing, just solving a little mystery. Now, I've often heard it described as oily and greasy. It certainly lives up to the legend. But it's not oil or grease, is it? It's discharge, a bit of impurities that gather when too much energy is channelled through it, or perhaps, too foreign. Ah, yes, it's definitely the latter. Oh, this is genius. I have to admit that it's been a while since I've been surprised by something magical in nature. A material that can exist in two planes at once, a hole, or perhaps it would be better to call it a tunnel, between two realms, not enough to let anything through, but enough to let something… And that's enough, isn't it?"
The boy had stood up and somehow taken out a blade that was hidden near the throne. "Stop this!"
"Oh, come on. You had to have used a lot of energy to make sure I come here, enough that you probably won't be able to do anything for decades. The least you can do is have a proper talk with me."
And so, the sorcerer palmed the stone, and she felt a blast of wind that almost made her step back. Yet, Harry Potter stood, with that same smile on his face, looking at the boy whose eyes had become completely black, "Well, hello there."
The boy's raspy voice seemed layered with something more on it, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just a conversation," the sorcerer said cheerfully, "but I like to look people in the eye when I speak to them. It's more polite, you see. Now tell me, what are you and why have you brought me here?"
123 AC, Pyke, Iron Islands
Corlys Velaryon had seen much in his life. He had seen the beautiful shimmer of the Jade Sea at sunrise, the pale spires of Leng carved from ivory and myth, the floating markets of Yi Ti where spices and silk danced in the wind. He had seen the horrors of Asshai, the streets choked in shadow even at midday, where there were no children, no birds, not even the sounds of the waves.
But nothing, in all his years of pride and adventures, prepared him for the sight before him.
The Greyjoy boy, if one could even call him that anymore, was misshapen, a mockery of life, an obvious sign of sorcery. Yet, the sorcerer was unafraid, facing him with the same childishness he faced everything else. He spoke to the boy, and something spoke back, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
The Greyjoy boy's eyes looked completely black, and he spoke with a foreign voice layered on top of his own. Possession, if he had to guess. He knew that it was possible, but he had never seen it himself.
The sorcerer didn't seem bothered by any of it. "Oh, nothing much. Just a conversation. But I like to look people in the eye when I speak to them. It's more polite, you see. Now tell me, what are you and why have you brought me here?"
Corlys' mind flashed back to Potter proclaiming that the sudden storm that had brought them here was an invitation of some sort. He hadn't quite understood what that meant at the time, but now he knew.
He also remembered Lady Daphne saying that their presence would be somewhat dangerous. He had to agree with her now.
Of course, that didn't mean much now, but the sorcerer had asked a question, and that thing answered, "I AM HE WHO DWELLS BENEATH THE WAVES. I AM MEMORY AND TIDE. I AM THE THOUGHT OF DROWNING THAT NEVER ENDS."
If anything, the sorcerer seemed satisfied with the response, "Now, that's a very long name. Then again, languages can be so restrictive, can't they? I suppose shortening it all to the Drowned God does make sense. I suppose it would have been too much to expect a name, like Steve or Jeff… Anyway, it's very nice to meet you, or I think it is. After all, you expended a lot of energy to bring me here. Even with your authority, there's only so much that little window you call a throne could hold."
"YOU WERE IN MY WATERS."
"Yes, I was. That did give you an advantage, a lord of the seas near his worshippers. Although I can't help but wonder how you were able to arrange everything so quickly. A form of divination, perhaps…"
The god in the body of Dalton Greyjoy did not answer, but that didn't seem to deter the sorcerer, who clapped suddenly, "I see it now. You didn't know, did you? I went to the Westerlands on a whim, and like you said, I was in your water. I could feel the warp in space-time, channelled through the sea, that brought me exactly towards a ship, and not just any ship, but one filled with your worshippers, enough to bring us here. They were all a silent bunch. But that also means something else, something important… You're expending a lot of power to secure your influence over your worshippers. What you did to this poor boy must have taken weeks at the very least, and I'm being generous here, likely before I even came here."
"YOUR ARRIVAL WAS FORETOLD, INTERLOPER."
The sorcerer hummed, "Was it now? How curious… Fate can be a bitch, but I know prophecy, and this is not one. There's something missing, something I'm not seeing… Anyway, let's change the subject instead. Tell me about the boy, what are you doing with him?"
"HE IS MY PROPHET, MY CHAMPION."
"Yes, I understand that, but why him? He was just a boy, ten if I have to guess. You're ravaging his soul. No, that's not it. You're tying his soul to your little throne, using the properties of souls, the fact that they exist in many realms at once, to channel this. Why? No, that's not important. What's important is why now? You could have prepared better, worked on his father before he died, kept him safe and strong, as your champion. Instead, you're using a lot of energy just to make sure that his body doesn't combust, enough energy that even this stone would not hold for too long. Too much energy for it to be through your throne."
For the first time, Corlys saw the entity inhabiting the Greyjoy boy hesitate slightly. The Drowned God, if the sorcerer were to be believed. He was never a godly man, choosing to believe in the might of planning, ingenuity, and daring, instead of praying to statues that would not do much. It was not prayer that had won him the Stepstones. It was planning, courage, and daring.
And yet, he felt smaller in front of the entity that the sorcerer spoke with too casually for his tastes, but he could not deny what he was seeing, what he was feeling. The Drowned God was real. Did that mean that the Seven were as well? Were the Old Gods? Were the Gods of Old Valyria?
Still, it was a wonder to see a man speak so casually to a god who was seemingly refusing to answer. And yet Potter continued, "Do you want to know what I think? I think that if you could have used the boy's father, then you would have. It was the smartest thing to do, and you don't strike me as an idiot. So, that means that you couldn't, could you? Which means that something was stopping you, a restriction, perhaps. I'm right, aren't I? And something loosened your restrictions, something that changed things."
The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, until the boy's mouth opened once more, and that ancient voice poured out, low and resonant.
"YOU TURN THE WHEEL WITHOUT KNOWING ITS SPOKES."
The sorcerer's smile faltered, just a fraction. "Now that," he said softly, "is a curious thing to say. It's my arrival… You knew that I would be here, and not through some prophecy. My arrival shouldn't have changed anything, unless… I see it now. Time is a very curious concept, isn't it? And for it to be used as a prison, well, I'm interested in speaking to whoever made them. When we came here, we made a disturbance on time. It's only natural, after all, but for someone bound in chains of time, it must have felt like breathing again. The closer to my arrival it was, the looser your chains became. Which also means that you're losing the little freedom you have. Which means that you're on a clock, the final few moments of freedom, a couple of years at most, if I had to guess, and all you've done so far is possess a child, start to directly influence your own worshippers, and try to summon me here. Why?"
"YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE."
The sorcerer didn't seem intimidated and instead rolled his eyes, "You're the one who invited me here. You can't exactly complain about me being here. You still keep changing the subject. Why have you brought me here?"
The thing speaking through the boy repeated itself, "YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE."
"You already said that… Oh!" Potter replied, "You brought me here because I don't belong. I see now. That makes sense."
The previously neutral expression on the Greyjoy boy's face turned into a sickening, bloodthirsty smile before he started to morph into something. Corlys would not find the words to describe it, other than it was akin to watching the sea itself try to wear a man's skin.
Dalton's limbs bent at impossible angles, not breaking but realigning, his flesh flowing like water strained through a net of bone. His smile widened beyond the limits of a face, teeth stretching into rows, not sharp like that of a predator, but blunt like stones meant to grind and drown. A pressure filled the room, heavy and wet, like being dragged beneath the surface by invisible hands.
The god's voice no longer came from the boy's throat; it came from the space behind it, beneath it, within it. "YOU WALK BETWEEN SHORES. YOU BREACH THE VEIL. YOU ARE UNFORESEEN EVEN TO THE OLD ONES WHEN THEY CRAFTED MY CHAINS."
Corlys stumbled back a step, breath caught in his throat. He pulled Rhaenys behind him, hoping to protect her somehow. They scrambled back and did their best to open the throne room, only to find it locked.
And yet, the sorcerer seemed completely unbothered and asked him, "Ah, so you want to use me to break your chains. I can't say I don't see why you'd want that, but there's something more to it... I can almost feel it. You haven't attacked me yet. It's not out of human decency, given what you're doing to the child you possess. You're desperate... I can see that, at the very least. It's more than just chained again, huh... The Old Ones. What could possibly be old to a god?"
The monstrosity that the boy became did not answer the sorcerer's question. Instead, it spoke: "YOU WILL AID ME, STRANGER."
"I don't think so," Potter replied, "And believe me, so far, you haven't been very convincing on why I should."
Pressure filled the room, and Corlys struggled to breathe. He felt like he was underwater, drowning very deeply in the sea. The Sea Snake looked at the sorcerer for help and froze as he noticed something that he had learned to dread slightly. He wasn't smiling, not anymore.
Then he exhaled slowly, and the pressure shifted, as if the tide had turned. The creature inside the Greyjoy boy paused, just for a moment, as if it had been taken by surprise. "I tried to talk to you. I tried to understand you. I tried to reason with you. And yet, here you are, attacking my charges, attacking my wife. I want you to remember that I was willing to talk. I also want you to know that you really should have picked a different person if you thought that this little act would intimidate me. What happens next will be on your head, godling."
The god growled in anger and leapt at the sorcerer with a speed that Corlys hadn't thought possible, a black blade appearing in his hand, Valyrian Steel, Corlys recognised, only for Potter to dodge out of the way, and raise the stone from the ground, which sent the god flying.
He followed with a spike of steel, but the god possessing the child somehow turned into water, making them pass through it. The Greyjoy boy's left arm elongated into a blade of water, which the sorcerer froze and broke.
The God released a growl, and the hand healed itself somehow.
The boy leapt to attack him once more, only for the sorcerer to raise his hand, and a scythe to appear. He ducked, dodging the attack, and sliced the boy's chest, easily enough.
Corlys expected the god to heal itself once more, but instead, it stopped, looking at his chest with a mixture of confusion and fear. Blood tainted his hand, completely crimson, and the wound did not seem to heal.
The god did not say anything. Instead, he released a very loud screech that shook the very fortress they were in. Corlys ran at the door once more, using some of the broken ice, which he hoped would help him.
He kept pushing and again and again, hitting it with the ice, as Pyke's Great Hall seemed to be collapsing, making sure to protect his wife when he could. Finally, he grinned as the door opened, only for desperation to set in as what seemed to be a wall of water seemingly stopping it.
The sorcerer's voice spoke up behind them, "It looks like this will get a bit messy. I'll try to break his control, and when I do, I want you to run to the other side quickly."
Despite the fact that Potter was fighting the god, who had now grown to the size of a dragon, his skin completely darkened, almost black, even, he nodded. This trip had shown him that he knew very little of magic and gods, and he would listen to the man who obviously did.
Seconds later, the sorcerer released chains of ice that encircled the god, and it started to freeze. For a second, Corlys saw the wall of water flicker, and he took his wife's hand and ran away. He jumped on the odd stone bridge, which looked like it was moments away from collapsing due to the island shaking, and Rhaenys followed.
He didn't know how long they ran away from the fortress, only that his legs were burning from exertion by the time the rumbling sounds of explosions and thunder were nothing but noises in the distance. He slumped slightly as he felt they were out of danger and was too tired to run anymore. Rhaenys looked the same, and he asked her, as he gasped in exertion, "Where is Meleys?"
"Close, but exhausted."
"We may not have time," Corlys muttered.
"No," she agreed, "we don't."
As if the world itself wanted to prove them right, the fortress of Pyke started to collapse completely, showing a gigantic, grotesque thing breaking through it, and leaping towards the sea, throwing what seemed to be a white ball, which ended up being the sorcerer creating some sort of magical shield. Corlys couldn't see what happened next, as the hill he was standing on started to collapse.
Instead of staring at the battle, he grabbed Rhaenys and ran towards the shore, hoping to take one of the ships and stay away from the island until Meleys inevitably found them. He didn't like flying on dragonback, but he would gladly do so at this moment.
They arrived there, minutes later, gasping for breath, and Corlys looked around and found most of it to be deserted. The sky was rumbling, the clouds were gathering, like the start of a storm. He tried to remove a small sailboat that he could steer on his own, perhaps with some help from Rhaenys.
Corlys blinked hard and reached blindly for Rhaenys, found her hand trembling in his own. His ears were still ringing from the thunderclap, and his vision danced with white lines, but he saw the thing that had Dalton Greyjoy, rising from the depths of the sea. It now towered over the fortress like a god given flesh, limbs writhing like tendrils.
He cursed as he realised that their way out was now gone, but that turned quickly to dread as a gigantic wave appeared in front of him, quickly coming to shore. Corlys hugged his wife and braced himself for it.
He would die, on this cursed rock, far away from Driftmark. He wouldn't be buried alongside his children. His wife looked just as resigned as he was, as the water approached. Only for the wave to dissipate into thin air somehow, likely with some sort of magic, given the way the sorcerer stood, with some glowing circle of light with some strange symbols on it, surrounding him.
He looked like an ant in front of a giant, yet he stood there, his cloak swaying in the wind, facing the wrath of a god without any fear on his face. He spoke softly, but Corlys could hear it clearly despite the distance, "I think it's time for our little dance to end."
The God spoke, "THESE ARE MY WATERS. DEFEATING ME IS NOT POSSIBLE. ESCAPE IS NOT POSSIBLE."
Potter answered, but this time, Corlys could almost hear the smile on his face, which, for some absurd reason, reassured him, "You're right about one thing. Fighting you in your domain would be pretty foolish. Sure, I can probably win, but it seems so wasteful. Unfortunately for you, you made a very big mistake, one that will cost you everything. You forgot about my wife."
A pulse of power threw Corlys and Rhaenys from their feet. They looked towards its source. It was the Great Hall in the remnants of the fortress of Pyke. They could see some light appearing from its broken walls, which got fainter and faded with every second.
The Drowned God froze completely before trying to stumble back to the fortress, but he seemed to shrink with every step. "Fighting gods is tricky. They're not exactly physical beings. But you just left the key to your realm, to your existence, in the hands of someone who fought alongside me against gods and demons alike, and believe me, that's a very bad idea. Lucky for her, I do make a very good distraction, don't I?"
The god's body was barely more than its original size by the time he made his way to the sorcerer, yet his voice was still unnatural, if slightly weaker, "THE WHEEL TURNS AGAIN. I WOULD NOT DROWN BENEATH IT. I WOULD NOT LOSE MY CHILDREN TO THE DARK."
The God blurred faster than Corlys could perceive, likely hoping for one last final strike, with the Valyrian Steel sword that he was still grasping. However, Potter had seen it, raised his hand and caught the final, clumsy swing before turning the blade and mercilessly stabbing it clean through its chest.
The god fell down, kneeling, as the wound started to spread. He raised his hand and released a loud screech, which made Corlys' ear hurt. It was a sound unlike any other, unnatural, yet Corlys understood parts of it, somehow. Fear and mourning. Despite himself, the Sea Snake couldn't help but mourn the beast.
Finally, the god fell down, completely, his black eyes disappearing, becoming more human with every second, and the boy he was possessing gasped in shock, with tears falling from his eyes. He stared at the sorcerer hatefully, "You've doomed us all, monster. It was not greed that drove him, but love and fear. And now, the Iron Men stand with no protector."
There was some humanity back in his eyes, which had the most natural expression of all: fear. The fear of death. Corlys knew for certain that this was not the Drowned God, not anymore, but Dalton Greyjoy himself. He spoke up in a neutral voice, "The hour of flame and frost draws night, the Age of Steel and Shadow, the Age of Dying Stars and Bleeding Skies. The world will freeze beneath a sunless sky, and the gods wake anew. War for life, war for death, war of gods, war of man. Lord of Space. Lord of Time. A final Night and a first Dawn."
Corlys didn't understand most of what the boy said, but the sorcerer obviously had, given the serious expression on his face. These were the last words Dalton Greyjoy spoke before he died, with his face frozen with the same expression of hate that he had given the man who had slain him.
The sorcerer's wife, the woman who had seemingly done the deed, had appeared from somewhere and spoke to her husband in hushed tones. It seemingly ended with a nod, with the sorcerer still staring at the corpse of the boy whom he had just slain.
Rhaenys grabbed Corlys' hand as well, comforting him, but did not say anything. After all, what could they say after witnessing the death of a god? He could feel that the world would never be the same again.
AN: I'll be completely honest here, I'm not sure about this one. I don't know how to say it. It feels a bit off, I guess. I wrote it in a bit of a rush, but I'll try to re-read it properly later tonight. I know that I left a few things out and that I didn't explain everything. For one, Corlys and Rhaenys were not there for all of the fight, and there is some context that they will miss, including magical stuff and what Daphne did. I'll try to make up for it in the next chapter. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.