The world swam back into focus not as a gentle return, but as a violent lurch. The rhythmic, thunderous pounding of hooves on hard-packed earth was the first thing to register, a primal beat that vibrated through Sauron's entire body. Wind, cold and sharp, whipped tears from the corners of his eyes, blurring the world into a smear of dark shapes and star-strewn sky. He was slumped forward in the saddle, his hands tangled uselessly in the horse's mane, the stolen armor he wore feeling like a leaden coffin. A powerful grip on his upper arm was the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground at a bone-shattering speed.
"Wha... what happened?" he slurred, his voice a dry rasp.
The grip tightened, steadying him. "You got made," Isul's voice was a low, urgent growl, barely audible over the storm of their escape. "And then you got lucky. Now stop flailing about before you unseat us both."
Sauron's addled mind struggled to process the word. He twisted his head, the movement sending a spike of pain through his skull. Isul was not on a separate horse. He was behind him, one arm wrapped securely around Sauron's waist while his other hand expertly guided the reins of their single, desperate mount. They had doubled up. The last foggy memory was of the Lannister soldier's face, his mouth opening to shout, to raise the alarm. After that, nothing.
"He caught me." Sauron stammered, the horror of it crashing down on him with renewed force.
"Aye, he did," Isul grunted, urging the horse faster. The animal, a powerful destrier bred for war, responded with a surge of speed that ate up the road beneath them. "And he paid for it. You were about to become a pincushion for Lannister arrows. I didn't have time for pleasantries."
The unspoken finality in Isul's tone hung in the air. Sauron didn't need to ask what had happened, though he was experiencing a splitting headache. like his head was about to split open. but even then he noticed something different in isul's expression like there was something that he wasn't telling him. Sauron had been a heartbeat away from death, and Isul had simply... erased the threat?
They rode in silence for what felt like an eternity. The initial panic gave way to a grim, bone-deep weariness. Sauron's body ached from the fall, from the awkward position in the saddle, and from the sheer, soul-crushing weight of the last twenty-four hours. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the severed head of his father, lying on the floor of their home. He saw the lifeless body of the Lannister guard, his eyes wide in surprise. The images were a relentless carousel of horror, and he was strapped to it, unable to dismount.
They finally slowed the horse to a trot as the first, pale hint of grey began to bleed into the eastern sky. The forest that had been their prison now became their sanctuary as Isul guided them off the Kingsroad and onto a narrow, overgrown trail. The dense canopy of leaves swallowed them, plunging them back into shadow. They rode on for another hour, pushing the horse until its flanks were heaving and lathered with sweat, before Isul finally reined it to a halt in a small, secluded clearing.
"Get down," Isul ordered, his voice devoid of its earlier urgency, replaced by a flat, weary tone.
Sauron practically fell from the saddle, his legs buckling as his feet hit the ground. He stumbled and caught himself against the rough bark of an ancient oak, his stomach churning. He retched, bringing up nothing but bile, his body convulsing with the force of it. Isul said nothing, simply moving to tend to the horse, his movements methodical and calm. He removed the heavy saddle, gave the animal a handful of water from his skin, and rubbed it down with handfuls of dry moss.
By the time Isul was done, Sauron had slid down to sit at the base of the tree, his back against the rough bark. He pulled his knees to his chest, the stolen Lannister armor feeling impossibly heavy and ridiculous. He was a boy playing dress-up in a dead man's clothes, a costume that had nearly gotten him killed.
Isul approached and dropped a waterskin beside him. "Drink. Then get that armor off. It's useless to us now."
Sauron fumbled with the straps, his fingers clumsy and numb. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, to rage at the world, at Isul, at the cruel fate that had torn his life asunder. But all that came out was a choked sob. He buried his face in his hands, the dam of his composure finally breaking under the immense pressure. The tears were hot and shameful, a sign of the weakness he so desperately wanted to hide.
He felt a presence beside him and braced for a cutting remark, another dose of Isul's harsh pragmatism. But none came. He just sat there, a silent, unmoving sentinel. Sauron cried until he was empty, until the sobs subsided into ragged hitches and the only sound was the distant call of a waking bird.
Finally, he looked up, wiping his face with the back of a grimy hand. "Why?" he whispered, the question so small it was almost swallowed by the morning quiet. "Why are we running. I did nothing wrong. why did my family have to die?"
Isul stared into the middle distance, his yellow eyes seeming to glow faintly in the dim light. "Because they were with you, lad. Because they stood between the Faceless Men and their target. To them, your family mattered not. They were obstacles. Shelter. Complications. And they don't leave complications alive."
"The Faceless Men," Sauron repeated the name, tasting the ash and fear on his tongue. "You keep saying that. Who are they? What do they want with me?"
Isul was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the rising sun. " They were my brothers and sisters, once."
He shifted, turning to face Sauron fully. The morning light caught the severe lines of his face, the web of wrinkles around his eyes, the stark white of his hair tied back in its severe tail. He looked ancient, a relic from a forgotten age.
"Long time ago, there was a Brotherhood. We served no king, no god," Isul Paused "our duty was to the world to the people, protecting the freedom of mankind. we had many names across history. 'Sȳndor egros' 'Se lyka ones ' but recently they called us....Assassins. We were the balance against those who would seek to control, to dominate." He held up his hand, and in the growing light, Sauron could see the faint, faded outline of the same emblem that was on his own blade and the cloth he was found in. "This was our mark. our promise."
"Then came the schism," Isul continued, his voice dropping, heavy with the memory. "A new Mentor rose, one who saw our creed not as a shield, but as a cage. He became seduced by the faith of the Many-Faced God, the god of death in the House of Black and White in Braavos. He believed that all men served death in the end, so why not serve him directly? Why protect the fleeting chaos of life when you could deliver the final, perfect peace of death?"
Isul's jaw tightened. "He betrayed us. He turned our own arts, our own secrets, against us. and burned the rest. He and his followers, saw us not as brothers, but as heretics. They butchered the Brotherhood in its sleep. and hunted the rest across essoes, westeroes, everywhere burning the sanctuaries one by one. They believe they are cleansing the world, delivering the 'gift' of death. But they are just blood thirsty tyrants, enforcing their own will."
Sauron listened, mesmerized, the horror of his own small tragedy expanding to encompass a vast, secret war that had been raging for years. "And me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "What do I have to do with any of this?"
"Because of your blood," Isul said, his gaze boring into Sauron. "You are not just the son of an Assassin. You are a natural-born." isul walked up to sauron and grabbed sauron's hand facing the back of saurons palm towards his face. showing the very faint symbol that had begun to appear on saurons hand. " A child born to the Brotherhood who carries the legacy in their very veins. eventually you will inherit all the secrets all the skills of your ancestors. but unless you can control your gifts, you'll just go mad and kill yourself. or worse."
He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "They fear you, boy. Not for what you are now, but for what you might one day Become. As long as you live, the Brotherhood is not truly dead. You are a seed from which the old ways could grow again. and so too will your children and your childrens children. And they will burn down the entire world to make sure that seed never sprouts." isul lets go of saurons hand. " there is no one left"
The weight of it was suffocating. He wasn't just Sauron Snow, the bastard stable boy. He was a legacy, a walking target, the last ember of a dying fire. His whole life, his feelings of not belonging, of being different, it all suddenly had a terrible, stark explanation.
Sauron stared at the ground, the weight of his new identity pressing down on him. He wasn't a nobody, he had an inheritance. a last ember, but it felt hollow without a face to put to the legacy. He looked up, his eyes searching Isul's. "Did you know them?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "My parents. Did you know my real father and mother?"
Isul's gaze, which had been fixed on the horizon, shifted to the boy. For the first time, the hard, pragmatic mask seemed to crack, revealing a flicker of something ancient and sorrowful. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.
"No," he finally said
He paused, his eyes growing distant, as if seeing a memory played out on the bark of the trees surrounding them. "Your mother, however... I knew of her in a different way. not by name but by reputation. She was like you, Sauron. A natural-born. The last one we knew of before you."
The revelation struck Sauron with the force of a physical blow. "Like me?"
"Aye," Isul confirmed, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "She was a legend among our ranks, some even took to calling her Mēre mijegon zūgagon. (one without fear.) she was a living testament to the old blood. Her skills were like that of a master right from the start, a gift she carried as naturally as breathing. The Brotherhood believed she was the last of her kind. The bloodline had grown thin, and for generations, no other natural-born had been found and brought into our order. She carried our memory."
He looked down at his hand, as if seeing the mark there for the first time in years. "Until the night of the betrayal, we all believed she was the end of the line. When the sanctuary fell... we- i assumed the line had been extinguished forever. I heard rumors of a child, that she was carrying a babe, but they were just that—rumors on the wind. I never gave them credence. As far as I knew, and as far as any us that are left knew, you were gone with her."
Isul met Sauron's gaze, his yellow eyes intense and clear. "I did not know you lived, boy. Not until this past week, when my own mark began to glow. It was a sign I had not felt since your mother was alive. A sign that another shared the blood. and that they would soon come of age. That was the only explanation. now... you're the last."
Sauron stared at the ground.
He stood and began to pace the small clearing, his agitated energy a stark contrast to his earlier stillness. "The plan remains. White Harbor. I have a contact there, a ship's captain who owes me a life debt. He can get us out of the north, and get us to dragonstone. There is a old sanctuary there, there you can be trained. Where you can learn what you are. or be safe for the time being."
"Trained?" Sauron looked up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "I've seen what your training does. It gets you killed."
"It gets you killed if you're caught unawares," Isul shot back. "You have the instincts, boy, but you're raw. Uncontrolled. You're only alive,because I was there. unless you master your gifts. You won't survive to see the next winter. without knowing how to use what's been given to you. You have a choice, lad. You can run and hide for the rest of your short, miserable life, always looking over your shoulder, until they finally catch you. Or you can learn to fight back. You can become the hunter, you can become.....an assassin."
He stopped and stood over Sauron, a formidable silhouette against the brightening day. " many have died so you could have this choice. Are you going to let all that sacrifice be for nothing? Or will you honor them? and make sure that their deaths had meaning?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and absolute. There was no other choice. Not really. To run was to die. To stay was to die. The only path forward was the one Isul was offering, a path steeped in blood, but a path nonetheless.
Sauron pushed himself to his feet, the heavy armor clanking. He looked Isul in the eye, the yellow gaze no longer intimidating, but a reflection of the same fire that now burned within him. "What do I have to do?"
A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—crossed Isul's face. "First, we get rid of this armor. Then we find a new horse. Then we ride. And when we are safely on the open sea, I will begin your training. For now, your only lesson is this: trust no one. Be ready for anything. And survive."
The next few days were a grueling blur of travel and deprivation. They abandoned the Lannister armor in a deep ravine, burying it beneath rocks and fallen branches. Isul procured a new horse, a sturdy but less conspicuous gelding, from a farmer in exchange for a few silver coins and a warning that was more threat than advice. They traveled light, moving only during the twilight hours and under the cover of darkness, hiding during the day in thickets, caves, or abandoned crofts. the journey should have not taken more than a day and a half ride. but contasty having to tak alternate terrain and stopping to hide. made it a much longer
One evening, as they made camp in a copse of pine trees, Isul tossed Sauron the hidden blade. "Clean it. Then show me how you retract it." saurons eyes widened. it was the blade that he had found. isul must have swiped it from him while he was unconcious.
Sauron fumbled with the mechanism, his fingers still clumsy. Isul watched him with an expression of profound disappointment. "No. Like this." He took the blade, and held it against his bottom forearm with his other hand. his own fingers and wrist moving with a dancer's grace. The blade slid back into its housing with a soft, decisive click. "It is not just a weapon, boy. It is an extension of your will. It should feel like a part of your arm." the blade was old and a little damaged. laking the straps or vambrace that is usaully apart of the blade. isul reached into his statchel and pulled out sort of metallic base with leather belts attached too it. he took the old blade and took off the bottom broken base and attached the less weathered one. it fit perfectly with a sight *click* isul smirked before tossing the blade back to sauron. "Practice. A hundred times a night. Until you can do it in the dark, in your sleep."
Every night, Sauron did as he was told, sitting by the dying embers of their fire, clicking the blade in and out until his fingers were raw and his mind was numb.
They spoke little, but a strange, grudging bond began to form between them. It was forged in shared hardship and mutual dependency. Sauron saw past Isul's harsh exterior to the weary grief that lay beneath. And Isul, in turn, saw the resilience in Sauron, the spark of the legacy he was carrying. He was no longer just a mission; he was a student. A hope.
They were perhaps a half days hard ride from White Harbor when Isul called a sudden halt. They were on a high ridge, overlooking a wide, fertile valley dotted with small holdfasts and farms. Below them, winding like a silver ribbon through the green, was a river. a water stream that bleeds into the white knife. And crossing that river was a long stone bridge.
And on that bridge, trouble.