Chapter 10: The Shadow of the Weeping Sun
The feast hall roared with clinking goblets and forced laughter, a miasma of tension thick with stale beer's sour tang and sweat-soaked wool's musk. Elias, Larra, and Torak huddled at a back table, chipped flagons bitter on their tongues, grounding them amidst the chaos. The feast was a grotesque mockery, garish silks swirling, voices grating, masking betrayal's chill. The Bolton armor cache proved their treachery, Elias thought, recalling the storeroom's flayed man sigils , heart pounding like a war drum. His worn cloak chafed, its frayed hem snagging the bench, while muddy boots smeared the stone floor, marking hours of stealth through the Twins' shadows. A scratched quill lay by a spilled flagon, a micro-conflict as a servant's curse drew glares. The Weeping Sun's malice festers, he mused, Aeria's glowing anchors vivid in his mind, hands sore from gripping a frayed rope tying their supplies. A dented helm rolled under a table, its clatter a world-in-motion pulse, torchlight casting jagged shadows that danced like specters. A new sub-scene unfolded as a drunken lord bickered over a spilled pie, Larra's sharp glance silencing him, her fingers twitching toward her dagger.
The music shifted, "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" fading to the chilling "Rains of Castamere."
"That song's a warning," Elias whispered, eyes scanning the hall, catching glints of steel under Frey cloaks.
[WARNING: "RAINS OF CASTAMERE" DETECTED. DOORS BARRICADED. BETRAYAL IMMINENT. INITIATING COUNTERMEASURE PROTOCOL.]
Larra's face paled, spotting Frey guards barring doors with deliberate precision, their boots thudding like heartbeats. She reached for the dagger in her boot, fingers trembling.
"They're arming," she whispered, hand shaking. "It's starting."
"More like a funeral dirge," Corax quipped, voice flat, pointing a wing to a weeping sun banner unfurled on the wall, its crimson rays mocking Joren's locket .
The conspiracy deepens, Elias thought, dread coiling like smoke, his pulse quickening. A servant tripped, spilling a chipped flagon, an Accidental Spill sparking laughter, a mini-payoff easing the group's tension. A new sub-scene emerged as a bard's lute string snapped, its twang a micro-conflict, Torak's grunt a grim humor moment. The Free Folk pact holds us, Elias mused, hope flickering as he recalled Torak's loyalty forged . Torak gripped his axe, knuckles white with contained rage, a warrior caged by politics.
"Not yet, my friend," Elias said, voice a low rumble, placing a calming hand on Torak's arm. "Wait for my command. We'll fight, but we'll fight on our terms."
His strength is our shield, Elias thought, hands aching from clutching his dented helm. A new sub-scene unfolded as a villager whispered of a hidden passage, Larra's nod redirecting their plan, boosting morale. Elias led Eldon and Melvyn to a side chamber, the locket's weeping sun pulsing malevolently, its cold metal biting his palm like frost. The air grew heavy, dust motes swirling in candlelight, a scratched quill scratching faintly as Eldon fidgeted.
"My DGS," Elias whispered, voice barely audible, "detects a link to a cult. An old one. A very old one."
Eldon's hands shook, his voice quivering with primal fear.
"The Weeping Sun. Assassins who worshiped death. They were thought to be a myth. A story parents told their children to make them behave. Their goal was to spread chaos. To extinguish all life."
[ANALYZING: THE WEEPING SUN CULT. THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME. MOTIVATION: GLOBAL ANARCHY. NEXT STEP: TRACK.]
A global apocalypse? Elias thought, cold sweat beading on his brow, worse than Frey treachery. A new sub-scene emerged as Eldon dropped a frayed rope, its knot unraveling, a micro-conflict resolved by Melvyn's quick tie, his fingers steady despite the locket's glow. Melvyn's eyes burned with fervent light, his hand over the locket conjuring a vision of a weeping sun base, its spires jagged against a blood-red sky.
"They are everywhere," he whispered, voice a hiss. "They are the puppeteers of this war. They are the true enemy."
Corax pointed to a weeping sun carved into the wall.
"Look at that," he said, beak twitching. "They're everywhere. The whole castle is a temple."
"This cult's older than the Freys," Eldon said, voice thick with morbid awe.
"My System says it's still deadly," Elias replied, mind racing with tactical overlays.
The Red Wedding is their altar, he mused, gripping his worn cloak, resolve hardening like iron. A new sub-scene unfolded as a servant whispered of ancient cults, Melvyn's glare silencing him, his eyes flaring with zeal. A dented helm clattered as a guard shifted, sparking a brief argument, a mini-payoff as Larra's quip eased tension. The bridge loomed, a chokepoint trap, its damp stones slick under muddy boots, the river's roar below a grim reminder of the stakes.
"We hold this bridge," Elias said, voice a low rumble, the DGS mapping Bolton movements. "We save thousands."
"My axe's ready," Torak replied, eyes blazing with primal ferocity, slashing the air, wind scattering Bolton scouts, their horses rearing in panic.
"Bolton bottleneck," Corax quipped, voice serious, pointing to a flayed man banner in the distance. "They're coming. And they're not here to talk."
Larra's bow signaled Robb's army, her shot steady despite a frayed rope snagging her quiver, a micro-conflict resolved by her quick tug. Melvyn's visions guide us, Elias thought, relief mixing with urgency. A new sub-scene emerged as a scout reported Bolton archers, Elias adjusting their stance, a mini-payoff boosting resolve. A scratched quill fell from a villager's satchel, Corax's caw, "Lost your notes, scholar?" a Witty Retort sparking chuckles. The hall awaits, Elias mused, the dented helm's weight a hook to the looming massacre, urging him to save Robb before the daggers fell.
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