Chapter 38: The Shadow of Centuries, The Hunger for Divinity

Chapter 38: The Shadow of Centuries, The Hunger for Divinity

Centuries unspooled like black silk ribbons across the northern sky, each year a fleeting breath to Rico Moretti, Lord of Volcārys, Dragon King of the Stone Isle. The Dance of the Dragons, that bloody, self-immolating spasm of Targaryen ambition, had long since faded into the grim annals of Westerosi history. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, had reigned and died, his melancholy legacy the extinction of the last captive dragons in the south. Other kings had risen and fallen, their petty squabbles and fleeting glories distant, almost irrelevant whispers carried on the winds that lashed the obsidian towers of Rico's mountain fortress.

On Skagos, time moved to a different rhythm, the rhythm of volcanic heartbeats and draconic lifespans. Volcārys itself was now a marvel of dark, cyclopean architecture, a city carved into the living rock of a dormant volcano, its chambers vast enough to comfortably house his magnificent flight of five adult dragons. Obsidius, his firstborn, was a colossal titan, his scales like polished night, his intelligence a terrifying mirror of Rico's own ancient cunning; his roar could shatter glaciers and summon storms. Viridiax, Nocturne, and Nymeria were his formidable siblings, each a unique embodiment of draconic fury and grace. And Glacian, the ethereal ice dragon, was the undisputed master of the frozen Skagosi peaks, his frost breath a weapon of exquisite, crystalline lethality.

Rico himself was a figure of myth, a god-king to his Skagosi subjects – now a disciplined, fiercely loyal populace whose ancient savagery had been honed into a formidable army. His human followers, the core of his House Volcārys, were long dead, their children and grandchildren serving him with a devotion bordering on religious fanaticism. Alaric, his brilliant Maester, had finally succumbed to the weight of years, but not before meticulously transcribing his lifetime of research into dragonlore, Valyrian magic, and the forbidden secrets of the Children of the Forest into a vast, coded library within Volcārys, a legacy for his immortal master. Lyra, the Lyseni poisoner, had used her alchemical arts to extend her own life for a remarkable period, becoming a wizened, enigmatic figure, her knowledge of toxins and elixirs unparalleled, before she too faded. Only Shiv and Vorian, their lifespans unnaturally prolonged by their proximity to Rico's draconic aura and perhaps by subtle alchemical treatments Lyra had devised under his direction, remained from his original inner circle, ancient, lethal shadows utterly devoted to their timeless lord.

The young Children of the Forest he had taken from beyond the Wall centuries ago were now ancient themselves, though their appearance remained unnervingly youthful. They were his personal greenseers, their consciousnesses woven into the growing network of weirwoods Rico had painstakingly cultivated across Skagos, their eyes his spies in every rustling leaf and whispering wind, their nature magic a potent tool for shaping his island domain and defending it from any intrusion.

Rico had mastered his own myriad powers. He was a dragon in human flesh, his strength, speed, and senses beyond compare. His fire immunity was absolute, his control over elemental flame almost instinctive. He could wield the combined martial skills of countless warriors, the cunning of ancient spymasters, the arcane knowledge of Valyrian sorcerers and Dragonkeepers. His connection to his five dragons was total, a telepathic symphony of shared will and devastating power. He had delved into the deepest secrets of the Valyrian scrolls, his understanding of blood magic profound, his ability to shape reality with his will growing with each passing century. The longevity granted by the Children of the Forest was a palpable reality, the centuries flowing through him like a slow, deep river, his perspective utterly alien to the fleeting concerns of mortal men.

Yet, for all his power, for all his near-immortality, a final, gnawing hunger remained. The whispers of the most ancient draconic essences within him – Vhagar's primordial might, Dreamfyre's prophetic echoes – spoke of a final apotheosis, a transcendence beyond even that of a Dragonlord. To become a true god, eternal and absolute, he needed to consume the jēdar of a deity.

His Game of Thrones lore, that strange, anachronistic wellspring of knowledge from a life an eternity ago, provided the only tangible clue. The Many-Faced God of Braavos. A god of death, worshipped by the Faceless Men, the most feared assassins in the known world. A god whose central seat of power, the House of Black and White, was a known, if shrouded, location. This was his target.

For decades, even centuries, Rico had patiently gathered intelligence. His Essosi networks, built upon the ashes of Malatesta's and The Scales' empires and now managed by generations of his own loyal agents, had slowly, painstakingly, compiled every scrap of information on Braavos, the Faceless Men, and their enigmatic deity. His own greenseers, their consciousnesses occasionally brushing against the weirwood network that faintly extended even to the ancient trees of the Braavosi Lagoon islands, brought him fragmented, unsettling visions. The obsidian mirror, Vējesy Kēlio, though its use was always perilous, sometimes yielded fleeting, terrifying glimpses into the shadowed halls of the House of Black and White.

He learned of the Faceless Men's philosophy of death as a gift, of their uncanny ability to change faces, to move unseen, to deliver their lethal art with chilling precision. He learned of the poisoned fountains within their temple, of the Hall of Faces, of the hushed reverence for the myriad idols that represented the countless aspects of their god.

But the nature of the Many-Faced God itself remained elusive. Was it a true, singular entity? A collective consciousness of all those to whom the gift of death had been given? A primal force, an avatar of oblivion? How did one "kill" such a being? How did one "absorb" the essence of death itself?

Alaric, in his final years, had theorized that the Many-Faced God was not a corporeal deity to be slain in battle, but a vast, ancient psychic entity, its power rooted in the collective belief and countless souls it had claimed. Its "heart," Alaric had posited, might reside within the House of Black and White, not as a physical being, but as a nexus of its divine energy, perhaps even embodied in its most senior priest or priestess, the Keeper of the Faces, the one who truly communed with the god. To consume the god, Rico might need to consume its ultimate servant, its most direct conduit, or disrupt the very flow of souls that fed its power, perhaps through a ritual of unimaginable arcane might and blasphemy.

The risks were astronomical. The Faceless Men were legends. The power of a death god, however abstract, was not to be trifled with. Failure would mean not just death, but perhaps an eternity of torment in whatever bleak oblivion the Many-Faced God presided over.

But Rico Volcārys was not deterred. His ambition was a cold, white star, burning with an intensity that dwarfed even the sun. He had waited centuries, honing his power, growing his legions, his dragons now colossal engines of destruction. The time for patience was ending. The time for the ultimate hunt was approaching.

He began his final preparations. In the heart of Volcārys's volcanic forge, drawing upon Horonno's Tyroshi mastery, the blood magic of Valyria, and the earth-shaping lore of the Children, he crafted artifacts of terrifying power. He forged a new suit of armor for himself, not of shadow-steel this time, but of a unique alloy he had devised – dragonbone, powdered weirwood heartwood, and obsidian, all fused and folded with his own fiery blood and Valyrian incantations. The resulting armor was as black as a starless night, yet shimmered with captured, ghostly light, impossibly strong, unnaturally silent, and resonating with both elemental fire and deep earth magic, offering protection against both physical and arcane assaults.

For his personal weapon, Anādrag was reshaped, reforged, its Valyrian-Tyroshi steel infused with the frost-essence of Glacian and the shadow-essence of Nocturne, its edge now capable of cutting not just flesh and steel, but, Alaric had theorized, perhaps even the ethereal threads of magic itself. He also crafted a series of obsidian daggers, imbued with the death-aspects of the Children's dragonglass, designed to disrupt or capture spiritual energy.

His team for this divine hunt would be small, chosen for their unique skills and unwavering loyalty, their lifespans already unnaturally extended by their service to him.

Shiv, his movements now truly supernatural, his soul as silent as the grave.

Vorian, his tactical mind honed by centuries of managing Rico's hidden global network, his combat skills still formidable.

And Lyra, her alchemical knowledge now bordering on the divine itself, capable of brewing elixirs that could grant temporary invisibility, ward against psychic assault, or induce a death-like trance.

His dragons… they were his ultimate weapon, but Braavos, with its canals and labyrinthine alleys, was no place for a frontal assault by five colossal beasts, at least not initially. They would be his ace in the hole, his ultimate sanction, waiting in the desolate, mist-shrouded islands north of the Braavosi lagoon, ready to be called forth by his will. Obsidius, telepathically linked to him across any distance, would be his eyes in the sky, his silent, ever-watchful sentinel.

The journey from Skagos to Braavos was a display of Rico's now almost casual mastery over the elements. They sailed not on mundane ships, but on a single, vast, black-sailed vessel forged in Volcārys, its hull imbued with enchantments that allowed it to glide through the water with unnatural speed and silence, its passage cloaked in mists summoned by Rico's will. Glacian, his ethereal form often hidden within storm clouds of his own making, scouted their path across the Shivering Sea and down the coast of Essos.

Braavos, when they finally reached it, was a city of canals and secrets, its towering Titan a silent, brooding guardian. Rico, his appearance now subtly altered by a constant, low-level glamour woven from CotF nature magic and Valyrian illusion (a skill he had perfected over centuries), appeared as an enigmatic Essosi merchant prince, his features unmemorable, his aura carefully shielded. Shiv, Vorian, and Lyra were equally disguised, melting into the city's cosmopolitan throngs.

Their target was the House of Black and White, an austere, windowless temple of grey stone, its silence a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of Braavosi life. For weeks, they observed, gathering information, mapping its approaches, studying the routines of the Faceless Men who came and went like whispers on the wind. Rico, using his greenseeing abilities (now vastly amplified, able to perceive the faintest echoes of life and death, of sorrow and devotion, clinging to the ancient stones), and occasionally risking a brief, terrifying scry with the obsidian mirror, began to understand the true nature of the temple.

It was more than just a place of worship; it was a nexus, a spiritual conduit, a vast reservoir of death-aspected energy, fed by the countless souls who had sought the Many-Faced God's "gift." The god itself, Rico sensed, was not a singular being, but a vast, amorphous consciousness, an ocean of oblivion. To "kill" it was impossible. But to "absorb" a significant portion of its power, to tap into that divine reservoir, to perhaps even seize control of its nexus… that might be achievable, especially if he could find and consume its primary human vessel or focal point.

Alaric's final, desperate research, completed just before his death decades ago and preserved in their coded library, had hinted at such a possibility. He had theorized that the true power of the Many-Faced God was channeled through a succession of "Keepers of the Poisoned Chalice," high priests or priestesses who, through ancient rituals, became living avatars of the god, their own jēdar merging with its divine essence. To find and absorb such an avatar… that was Rico's strategy.

The infiltration of the House of Black and White was planned with a level of meticulous, cold-blooded precision that would have made The Scales weep with envy. Lyra devised a series of alchemical diversions to draw the attention of the Braavosi authorities and the temple's outer guardians. Shiv, his stealth now a form of localized reality warping, would create a path through the temple's labyrinthine inner sanctums. Vorian would be their rearguard, his centuries of combat experience a silent promise of death to any who interfered.

Rico himself, cloaked in his shadow-forged armor, Anādrag and his obsidian daggers his only companions, would seek out the heart of the temple, the chamber where the Keeper of the Chalice communed with the Many-Faced God.

The night they struck, Braavos was shrouded in an unnatural fog summoned by Lyra's alchemy, its canals choked with confusion as her diversions erupted across the city. Shiv moved through the House of Black and White like a whisper of death, its famed guardians – the Faceless Men themselves – finding their senses subtly dulled, their attention drawn elsewhere by illusions woven from CotF magic that Rico projected from afar.

Rico reached the Sanctum of the Many Faces, a vast, circular chamber lined with the death-masks of a thousand gods, its air thick with the scent of incense and oblivion. In its center, before a poisoned fountain from which a black, oily liquid seeped, knelt a single figure, cloaked and cowled, their gender indeterminate, their presence radiating an aura of immense, ancient, and utterly chilling power. This was the Keeper, the avatar.

The confrontation was not one of steel, but of will, of essence. As Rico approached, the Keeper rose, their face hidden in shadow, their voice a chorus of a thousand dying whispers that echoed directly in his mind.

"You reek of stolen lives, Fire-Made. Of dragon's greed and broken oaths. You seek the Gift, yet you are an abomination against it. Why do you come to the house of He Who Has Many Faces?"

Rico's own mental voice, now a symphony of draconic roars, Targaryen commands, and the ancient, patient whisper of the weirwoods, met the challenge. "I come not for the Gift, Keeper. I come for the Giver. I come for your god's soul, to make it my own."

A wave of pure, unadulterated death-energy, of cosmic despair and utter oblivion, slammed into Rico, an attack designed to shatter the will of any mortal, to extinguish any spark of life. But Rico was no longer mortal. His draconic fire, his Valyrian blood-will, the deep earth magic of the Children, all roared in defiance, forming an impenetrable shield around his core jēdar.

He lunged, not with Anādrag, but with his obsidian daggers, artifacts designed to interact with spiritual energy. The Keeper did not move, did not resist physically, but the psychic battle was titanic, shaking the very foundations of the temple. Rico felt his own myriad absorbed souls crying out, threatening to unravel, but the core of his being, the original Rico Moretti, the ultimate predator, held firm, fueled by an ambition that now touched the stars.

He plunged the obsidian daggers into the Keeper's shrouded form. There was no blood, only a blinding flash of black light, a silent scream that echoed in the deepest recesses of his soul, and then… an influx.

It was not like absorbing a dragon, or a human, or even a Child of the Forest. It was like swallowing the void itself. An ocean of endings, of stillness, of every death that had ever been or ever would be. He felt the weight of a million million extinguished souls, the quiet wisdom of oblivion, the terrifying peace of non-existence. He gained an understanding of death not as an ending, but as a transition, a force, a power in its own right. He learned the secrets of the Faceless Men – their face-changing glamours (now trivial to him), their mastery of untraceable poisons, their ability to become true no-one.

And he felt the essence of the Many-Faced God itself – not a personality, but a vast, cold, and unthinkably ancient consciousness, the sum total of all death, all endings. It threatened to overwhelm him, to extinguish his own flame in its infinite emptiness.

But Rico's will, forged in the fires of a thousand stolen lives, was stronger. He did not just absorb; he conquered. He consumed the Keeper, consumed the nexus of power within the House of Black and White, and in doing so, he took a piece of the Many-Faced God itself into his being. He did not become Death. He became Death's master.

When it was over, he stood alone in the desecrated sanctum, the poisoned fountain now dry, the death-masks on the walls crumbling to dust. The House of Black and White was still, its ancient power… changed. Subsumed.

He felt… complete. The final piece of the puzzle had slotted into place. The draconic fire, the Valyrian blood, the nature magic of the Children, and now, a measure of command over Death itself. He was no longer a demigod. He was Rico Volcārys, the God of a New Age, his lifespan truly eternal, his power absolute, his ambition finally sated… or perhaps, merely transformed into something even grander, even more terrifying.

He and his team retreated from Braavos as silently as they had come, leaving behind a city that would soon awaken to find its most feared institution inexplicably… empty. The Faceless Men, their connection to their deity severed or warped, would scatter, their purpose lost.

Rico returned to Skagos, to Volcārys, to his five magnificent dragons who now bowed not just to their master, but to their god. He looked out over his hidden kingdom, his eyes holding the wisdom of millennia, the fire of dragons, the stillness of the grave, and the cold, bright light of distant stars.

The game of thrones was long over. The age of men was fading. His age, the Age of Volcārys, was dawning. And the world, blissfully unaware, awaited the coming of its new, and eternal, master.