High Tide, Driftmark
"Is that so?" Laenor raised an eyebrow and released his control over the wine, which had hovered threateningly near the captive's neck. The wine flew through the air and poured itself gracefully into the cups on the desk—cups that were right before of his mother, who was now standing from her seat in shock.
"Divine?" It was his mother who spoke, eyeing both Laenor and the female servant with suspicion and curiosity.
Laenor turned a pointed gaze toward the faceless men before him. He did not know how they had learned of his divine origin, but he would rather keep it hidden from his family for a while—until he chose to reveal it on his own terms. Judging by the glances she gave both him and his mother, she likely understood his intention.
"The ones who are blessed by the divine, as much as your son is, are also called divine," she replied in the same monotonous tone she'd used since her true nature had been unveiled. It was a voice devoid of emotion, hollowed out from within, and Laenor had to shake the discomfort from his mind.
"Now, my turn to ask questions," he said coldly, pinning her with a stare that burned with quiet fury. "Why are you here?" Despite her apparent lack of hostile intent, he did not appreciate how she had entered his domain uninvited and unknown to him and his family. It was a sign of weakness on his part—something he could not afford to repeat or tolerate.
"I came only to observe the changes you have wrought, as is our duty. Contrary to what you and much of the world believe, we are not bunch of assassins who deal in death. We are watchers. Until our god gives us a task, we are only to observe. The death-giving order of assassins is merely a veil—crafted over centuries—to mask our true purpose. The Many-Faced God has tasked me to assess your growth… and report it. That is my purpose here."
Her words were calm, measured, without deception. Laenor felt no falsehood in her voice.
"Just that? Nothing more?" he pressed, eyebrow raised, arms crossed tightly.
"There is one more thing—a message from our lord: 'You were not the first of your kind, and you will not be the last.' That is all."
Laenor was stunned. His thoughts spiraled, running a thousand leagues a moment. The message was simple, but its implications were massive. His mother may have looked utterly baffled, but to him, the meaning was as clear as sunlight on the sea.
He was not the first demigod… or whatever he had become. But what did it mean that he would not be the last? Were the gods of this world still consorting with mortals to create such beings? If so, why had none of these divine-born children made names for themselves? Their existence during the Age of Heroes was believable, but after that? Laenor was doubtful. If any had been born post-Age of Heroes, they had remained hidden or been lost to history. But the possibilities of them existing after the Age of Heroes are appearing less and less as he thinks about it.
But to confirm that those Heroes were indeed sons of a god and a human, more texts of that era were needed. And Laenor is soon making his way to one place where he might find some clues or even a small hint. He had already planned to spend some time in Winterfell's library anyway, will not make much difference to spend more.. Perhaps even those in the Night's Watch strongholds, Laenor remembers Castle Black having a library. Maybe even Oldtown, if he ever visits that place.
"You said your god has forbidden you from bringing death to me or my family," Laenor said, tone sharpening. "So I can assume no man will be able to persuade you otherwise?"
"Aye. You and yours shall not receive the gift from us," she affirmed.
"What if other gods ask it of you?" Laenor asked, tilting his head slightly. "Do you serve them as well?"
"Nye. That is hearsay." For the first time, there was a crack in her emotionless mask—her tone grew sharp with anger. "We answer to only one. We follow his will alone."
"So if the Many-Faced God commands it, then you will come for my family, yes?" Laenor asked slowly. It was a foolish question in some ways—asking a zealot whether she would follow her god's command—but he needed to hear the silence that followed. And that silence was all the answer he needed.
"Very well," he said after a moment. "I won't kill you today. You have one day to leave Driftmark. And from this moment forward, if any of your order members comes here uninvited, I will not offer them the same courtesy you've been given. They will be gifted death—swift and final—and their body will be shipped to the Lands beyond the Wall. Now get out."
The woman said nothing. She looked at him with unreadable eyes, then turned and left quietly, like a shadow slipping through the night. The anger that Laenor saw in her eyes when she left, was enough for him to assume that she understood why he said to ship their body to Lands beyond the wall.
Laenor exhaled heavily and leaned against the edge of the desk, mind swimming with questions. Could Bandon the First have been a demigod? Was the Grey King something more than a legend? Were the ancient heroes sons of gods, hidden behind myth and exaggeration? And more pressing still: did the Storm God of Storm's End believe he was Laenor's divine sire?
He was still tangled in thought when he caught his mother's eyes boring into him. Her jaw worked slowly as if chewing over words—or fury. Laenor cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. His mother looked livid. And here he was, alone in a room with an angry dragon—and no guards, no servants, and certainly no one to absorb the coming storm in his place.
"It seems you have some questions, mother?" he asked, attempting to break the tension with a nervous chuckle.
"Do I?" she said icily. "I thought you would never notice."
Laenor took a deep breath. Seven hells. He really should have prioritized learning the teleportation spell above everything else. It might've saved him from the scolding of a lifetime.
Three Hours Later
Laenor dropped into his bed like a tired farmer who had been working from dawn till dusk. His mother could be brutal with her words when she wished to be—and she often reminded him of that talent of her whenever he withheld information from her or the family. Groaning, Laenor rubbed his temple. Life had been good for the past two years. But that peaceful chapter, he supposed, had come to an end.
He turned his head to glance out the window, where the sky stretched vast and clear, painted in a soft blue. As his thoughts settled and his heart calmed, Laenor rose to his feet. It was time for him to head to the yard. Despite his natural gift for combat—so refined now that no one among his peers or even the best of this world could hope to best him—Laenor still trained three times a week for an hour or two. Not for himself, but for the betterment of House Velaryon and their household guard. To lead, one must first be willing to sweat beside his men.
He was halfway through changing his clothes when his eyes caught sight of a folded parchment resting neatly on the table beside his bed. Laenor was certain he hadn't placed it there himself. Curiosity stirred, and he stepped over to pick it up. A small sigil had been inked onto the front—two doors, one black and one white, and between them stood a solitary man, as if guarding the threshold. The detailing was remarkable, almost unnaturally precise.
Perhaps, Laenor mused, it was past time he truly began experimenting with wards and protective enchantments. Because he does not like these surprise of Faceless man that he seem to give one after another.
Shaking the thought away, he unfolded the letter. The words inside read:
To the Son of the Sea,
I couldn't give you the full contents of our lord's message in the presence of your mother. That is why I left this note here. I hope you do not mind.
"I know not whose son you truly are, for you possess abilities beyond the scope of what should be possible even for one god. I wonder if you are the child of an outer entity, who has somehow crossed the veil and taken root in this world.
Because of that uncertainty, I shall reserve judgment—for now.
But know this: if your existence ever threatens the veil or the balance of this world, I will be forced to act. I hope it never comes to that.
Do not take these words as hostility, only as duty.
—Death."
If you're interested in reading up to fifteen chapters ahead of this one, you can find them on my Patreon:
Patreon.com/Daeranyx_Drakonar
Your support on Patreon helps me continue writing, but rest assured, I won't be locking chapters behind a paywall. They will be available for free over time. If you enjoy the story and would like to support my work, your contribution would be greatly appreciated!