Chapter 7: The Ashen Path to Treachery
The road to the Twins wove a grim tapestry of war's aftermath, charred villages sprawling like wounds, their blackened beams clawing at a leaden gray sky. The air stung with ash and decay, a sour weight clogging Elias's throat as his tattered cloak snagged on brambles, its rough weave grounding him. Muddy boots sank into the mire, their squelch a relentless drumbeat marking hours' passage. A chipped bowl of gruel steamed by a shattered cart, its bland scent a faint reprieve amid the ruin. Joren's locket pulsed with malice, Elias thought, heart hammering, recalling the Weeping Sun's threat from the captured scout. A knotted rope bit into his shoulder, tethering his pack, while a scratched flask clinked in a villager's hand, its leak sparking a muttered curse, a micro-conflict rippling through the group. A distant dog's bark pierced the silence, a world-in-motion pulse, as dusk's shadows thickened, casting jagged patterns. Robb's life teeters on this march, Elias mused, shoulders burning from the trek, Aeria's glowing anchors vivid in his mind. A worn glove snagged on a thorn, its tear drawing a villager's scowl, tension simmering.
"We save Robb," Elias said, voice cutting the dead silence.
"We save the North. And in doing so, we earn an alliance that will protect our city from the threats to come."
He unfolded a map, its DGS overlay blazing red ambush points against the road's desolation, each pulse a warning of betrayal. A villager tripped, spilling a chipped bowl, its clatter a micro-conflict eased by Larra's sharp nod, her hands steadying the man. A new sub-scene flared as two scouts bickered over a broken axle, their shouts slicing the chill air, Larra's clipped order to share tools restoring calm. A scratched flask dribbled, sparking a chuckle, a mini-payoff softening the group's edge.
"We need to be smart," Larra said, her voice a steady anchor, sorting supplies with deft precision.
"We can't rush into this. We need to be prepared."
Corax cawed overhead, wings slicing the wind.
"Muddy trek, eh? Looks more like a bloody feast to me. Look at that."
He pointed to a fiery marker on the map, a red icon pulsing over a ruined sept.
"It's humming with magic, Elias. My beak's tingling."
The Weeping Sun's shadow looms, Elias thought, gripping his knotted rope, dread twisting his gut. A new sub-scene unfolded as a scout reported a burned bridge, forcing a detour through a bog, muddy boots sinking, Elias's legs aching with each step. Torak strode beside him, face carved from stone, his trust forged in the Free Folk pact. A villager fumbled a worn glove, its tear sparking a brief argument, resolved by Larra's quick stitch, a mini-payoff easing strain.
"This land is cursed," Torak grumbled, kicking charred wood, splinters scattering.
"My System says we'll curse it back," Elias replied, a grim smile cracking his face.
The DGS pinged, detecting a magical signature near a ruined sept, its moss-slicked stones whispering secrets. Corax's eyes gleamed as he whispered.
"A red priest. I can smell the fire."
Not just Freys—a deeper conspiracy, Elias thought, heart racing. A new sub-scene emerged as a villager recounted a tale of a fire-seer, his voice trembling, Torak's nod grounding the group. A tattered cloak caught on a branch, its rip a micro-conflict, eased by a shared laugh. Larra pointed at a Frey banner, its twin towers stark against the horizon.
"We're close," she said, voice quaking with quiet fear.
Elias inhaled, muddy boots heavy, the air thick with deceit. The Twins loomed, towers linked by a bridge, a fortress of lies. A new sub-scene unfolded as a villager stumbled, muddy boots slipping, Corax cawing in mock alarm.
"Careful, you'll drown in that puddle!" he squawked, a Prank Backfire drawing chuckles.
Elias traced a side gate on the DGS floor plans, its rusted hinges groaning in his mind.
"We go in here," he said, voice low and urgent.
"We blend in with the wagons. We don't say a word. We're here to sell goods, not to save a king."
Larra wove merchant disguises, threading a knotted rope through cloaks, her hands swift.
"You look ridiculous," she said, eyes glinting with admiration.
Corax landed on Elias's shoulder, pecking at a scratched flask.
"Merchants? Your beard's a better disguise. Look at that."
He pointed to Robb Stark's army, oblivious to the slaughter awaiting.
"They're walking into a slaughterhouse."
Torak glared at the Twins, hand twitching toward his hidden axe.
"I hate these kneeler castles," he rumbled.
"But I trust your plan."
Merchants, not heroes, Elias thought, resolve hardening, hands sore from clutching his worn glove. A new sub-scene unfolded as a villager mended a cart with a knotted rope, his success a mini-payoff boosting morale. The DGS confirmed the betrayal's start, a hook to the feast's looming treachery, the scratched flask's weight urging Elias to crash the feast and save Robb Ascendant.
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