Chapter 8: Edoras and Wormtongue's Shadow
John Stark crossed the threshold of the Golden Hall, the vast chamber engulfing him in a thick haze of woodsmoke, its acrid tang clinging to his throat like a persistent cough. Tapestries hung in faded glory, their threads telling tales of forgotten battles, while the air buzzed with the low, wary hum of the system in his skull, a constant reminder of the secret he guarded. The grandeur of the hall—its towering beams carved with runes, its stone floor worn smooth by centuries—clashed with a poisonous undercurrent that prickled his skin, the murmurs of courtiers and the clink of armor creating a discordant symphony.
He strode beside Éowyn, his patched clothes and weathered sword a stark contrast to the mailed riders and finely dressed nobles lining the walls, their eyes boring into him like physical weights pressing on his shoulders. The scrutiny was palpable, a living thing that made his scars itch, the air thick with the stale scent of mead and the faint musk of unwashed bodies.
Théoden slumped on his throne, a hollow shell of a king, his crown a heavy burden on his pale, sagging brow, his milky eyes lost in a fog of despair. Beside him slithered Gríma Wormtongue, his sickly pallor and oily hair catching the torchlight, his eyes gleaming with a malicious intelligence as they fixed on John, a predator sizing up prey.
John stood tall, refusing to bow, his posture rigid as the stares burned his scars, the subtle efficiency of his movements a hidden gift from the system. He met Théoden's gaze, projecting a gritty resolve that masked the raw resilience pulsing through him.
Théoden's voice rasped, a weak, dusty croak that echoed faintly in the hall.
"Who is this outsider, Éowyn? Another rogue who presumes to share my daughter's ear?"
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +0.5. Don't anger the king, fool. Wormtongue is a high-level threat.]
"My lord, I am John Stark. Just a guy who helped out. Fixed a few things," he said, his voice clipped, anachronistic humor barely a whisper beneath his breath. "This court's creepier than a bad HR meeting."
Wormtongue leaned forward, his sneer twisting his face into a grotesque mask, his lips glistening with spittle.
"Indeed. A lowborn man who fights like a seasoned veteran, yet wears the rags of a common beggar. His story of the Dunlendings is thin, my Lord. He seems a creature of chaos."
John locked eyes with him, a surge of protective loathing overriding his caution, his stomach churning as if tasting bile.
"Worse than wolves—this guy's a walking plague," he thought, his hand brushing the sword hilt, the metal cold against his skin.
Wormtongue's obsession with Éowyn smoldered beneath his sickly skin, a constant burn as he watched John speak near the hall's shadowed corner. Her soft smile—a rare, devastating bloom—lit her face, her eyes crinkling with warmth.
John's face glowed with strange enthusiasm, his voice low and earnest.
"You're cooler than any superhero flick, Éowyn. Seriously, I'd watch a full trilogy of you on a battlefield."
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +1. She's warming up, Romeo. Wormtongue at [Threat Level: Obsessive].]
Wormtongue's jealousy erupted, a cold, corrosive flood twisting his gut, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. Months of eroding her spirit with duty and despair unraveled by this vagrant's brazen words, his resilience an enigma without magic.
"A ghost, a whisper—a threat to my King and my prize," he thought, his oily eyes scanning the hall for a minion to wield.
He hatched a plot, his mind settling on a challenge—the wargs from the west would expose John's luck.
Wormtongue glided toward John and Éowyn, his movement fluid as spilled oil, his voice smooth and slick.
"You spoke of the Dunlending attack, Stark. A spear thrust, I hear. Vicious. Yet you stand here, hale and whole, a day later. You have the look of a man who cheats death. Tell me, how does a man with no armor survive so much?"
John's HUD flared, red warnings blurring his vision, a frantic pulse in his mind. He hunched, running a hand over his unmarred chest, masking the glow with a nervous twitch, his fingers trembling.
"It's, uh, adrenaline. Mostly luck. My mother always said I was hard to kill," he deflected, forcing a strained smile, his voice cracking slightly.
[SYSTEM: Resolve: +0.5. Don't crack, Stark. This guy's creep vibes maxed out.]
He rambled, weaving tales of villagers' bravery and Éowyn's quick thinking, each word a careful step on a tightrope, his heart pounding.
Wormtongue's lips peeled back in a horrible, thin smile, his teeth glinting like a predator's.
"Luck favors the bold, or so they say. We shall see, Stark."
Wormtongue slithered away, his back radiating silent threat, the air behind him heavy with malice.
Éowyn leaned in, her voice low and grim, her breath warm against his ear.
"He is plotting. I can feel it. He will seek to destroy you for drawing my eye. And the King is talking of the warg threat on the western marches. That will be his weapon."
John stared out the great door, the setting sun painting the sky in fiery streaks, the hall's grandeur a hollow shell.
"Wargs. Another respawn waiting to happen," he thought, rubbing his scarred hands, grim anticipation settling like a stone in his gut.
In a quiet moment, John traced a faded rune on a wooden beam, his fingers brushing splintered edges, a memory of doodling in a notebook surfacing. Éowyn approached, her presence a calm anchor, and they shared a silent nod, her hand lingering on his shoulder—a subtle bond amid the court's venom.
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