Deep within the ancient Darkwood Forest—a place untouched by road or map, where the trees grew so densely packed that their canopies formed an impenetrable ceiling above—there existed a place men spoke of only in whispers. Even those who claimed to know the forest avoided this section, where shadows seemed to move of their own accord and the wildlife fell unnaturally silent.
The cave entrance yawned open like the maw of some primordial beast, nearly invisible among the tangle of gnarled roots and moss-covered boulders. Most travelers would walk right past it, their eyes sliding over the opening as if compelled by some unseen force to look elsewhere. This was by design. The illusion was subtle—not heavy-handed magic that would draw attention, but the gentle suggestion that nothing of interest lay beyond.
Guards stood watch, some visible with weathered faces and hard eyes that had seen too much, holding spears of blackened ash wood tipped with strange metal that gleamed with an oily iridescence. Others remained unseen, melted into the surrounding forest in ways that defied natural explanation—cloaked in whispered enchantments, shadow, or stranger things. A woman with hair so black it seemed to swallow light crouched in the branches above, her fingers tracing patterns in the air that made the eyes of animals passing by slide away from the cave mouth. A man whose skin bore tattoos that shifted position when no one was looking stood completely still, a statue among the trees, his breath synchronized with the forest's gentle sighing.
Thea Coldwater adjusted her plain brown cloak as she approached. The guards straightened imperceptibly, recognizing her gait despite her attempt to disguise it. She gave them a curt nod as she passed, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her features. The cave's entrance seemed to exhale cool air that carried the scent of wet stone and something else—something ancient and undefinable.
"Lady Coldwater," murmured one of the guards, his voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "The others await."
Thea didn't respond. She simply strode forward into the darkness, her footsteps sure despite the uneven ground. The passage twisted downward, narrow at first, then gradually widening as it descended deeper beneath the earth. Torches appeared, set at irregular intervals along the rough-hewn walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to whisper to one another in the flickering light.
The smell changed—moss and damp stone mingled with burning oils, strange herbs, and the unmistakable metallic tang of old blood. Not recent sacrifices—the Masked Council had abandoned such crude practices centuries ago—but the stone itself remembered what had transpired in its depths long before the current order took residence.
The passageway opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness above. Stalactites hung like frozen daggers, water occasionally dripping from their tips to the stone floor below with a rhythmic plink that echoed throughout the space. In the center of the chamber, a perfect circle had been carved directly into the bedrock—a table of sorts, though it remained connected to the cave floor as if grown from it rather than built.
Around this circular table stood twelve figures, each draped in robes of varying hues—deep crimsons, midnight blues, forest greens, and shadow blacks. But it was their faces that commanded attention, or rather, the lack thereof. Each member wore a mask of burnished gold, perfectly smooth and featureless save for narrow slits where eyes gleamed in the torchlight. The masks wrapped around their entire heads, leaving no hint of hair or skin exposed. When they spoke, their voices emerged slightly distorted, as if traveling from someplace far away.
Thea approached an empty space at the table and withdrew her own mask from within her cloak. The cool metal felt alive against her fingers, almost pulsing with anticipation. She slipped it over her face, feeling the familiar magic sealing it to her skin—not uncomfortably, but snugly, intimately. The world shifted as she viewed it through the eyeslits, colors becoming sharper, shadows deeper, and the auras of her fellow council members visible as faint halos of varied colors.
"You are late, Coldwater," came a voice to her right—Lord Ironwood, she knew, though his mask was identical to all others. His voice carried the gravel of age and too many harsh northern winters.
"The King's men have doubled their patrols along the Rose Road," she replied, her own voice altered by the mask to something melodious yet remote. "I was forced to take the mountain path."
"The King grows suspicious," said another voice—Lady Serwyn, whose fingers were stained permanently blue from the poisonous flowers she cultivated. "His Master of Whispers has been asking questions in places he shouldn't."
"Let him ask," rumbled another councilor—the massive form of Lord Bryden, whose family had once ruled the western islands before bending the knee. "Those who answer will find their tongues stilled before morning."
"Enough," came the authoritative voice of Master Quill, the eldest among them and the keeper of their histories. His golden mask seemed to catch the light differently, tiny runes visible along its edges when he moved. "We have matters of greater importance than court spies."
A silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the steady drip of water from above. The torches sputtered, sending shadows dancing across golden masks.
"There are whispers from the Vale," Thea began, her voice measured. "A bastard girl of Arryn blood. They say she shifts her form when the moon is full. Takes the shape of a griffin."
She placed a small pouch on the table. One by one, items emerged from it—a feather the color of burnished bronze that seemed too large to belong to any known bird; a tuft of fur that shimmered between colors as it caught the light; a sketch on parchment showing massive claw marks gouged into ancient stone.
"Children's tales," Lord Ironwood grunted, his mask tilting as he examined the evidence without touching it. "Every generation has stories of skinchangers and shapeshifters. The smallfolk claim she flies at dusk, wings like bronze and eyes like sapphire. Rubbish meant to frighten children into obedience."
"Yet the smallfolk claim to have seen it," Lady Serwyn interjected, her voice smooth as silk despite the mask's distortion. "A farm boy was found weeping before the sept, claiming a beast with a woman's eyes carried off his sheep. A hunter—a hard man, not given to fancy—swearing on his mother's grave that he watched a maiden transform beneath the weirwood tree."
Lord Bryden shifted his considerable bulk, his mask catching the torchlight. "A hoax, then. Some clever trickster with mechanical wings, perhaps. Or a mountain lion that the frightened mind transforms into something more fantastic."
"Or worse—truth," Thea replied, her fingers resting lightly on the bronze feather. "I spoke with the septon at Wickenden. The girl was brought to the Vale as an infant, following the death of her mother—a camp follower who caught Lord Arryn's eye during the rebellion. Since childhood, she's been kept isolated in one of the mountain holdfasts, tended by silent sisters and old servants sworn to secrecy."
"Why would Arryn hide away his own blood?" asked a councilor who had remained silent until now—the scholarly Lord Vaith, whose mask concealed burns that had claimed half his face years ago.
"Shame? Perhaps," Thea replied. "Or fear of what the child might become. The mother was rumored to be from across the Narrow Sea, from lands where old blood still runs strong."
"The girl is to be watched," declared Master Quill. "Observed but not approached. Not yet."
The council nodded, murmuring agreement. For several moments, golden masks turned toward one another, thoughts hidden behind their still expressions as members engaged in silent calculation.
"Then there's the boy," said a voice from the far side of the table. The speaker was Lady Blackwind, her form smaller than the rest, yet her presence somehow filling more space. Her voice was colder than the cave air, precise as a surgeon's blade. "Thor Baratheon. His... abilities grow stronger by the month."
A heavy silence fell over the council. Even the most skeptical among them had heard the reports from Storm's End.
"Three ships lost in a sudden squall that appeared from nowhere when the boy had a tantrum on the battlements," said Lord Bryden. "Witnesses claim the sky was clear one moment, black with storm clouds the next."
"Storms have lashed the coast when he weeps," added Lady Serwyn. "Thunder answers his fury, lightning strikes where his finger points. The smallfolk have begun leaving offerings at their doors when he passes—bread, salt, small trinkets to appease him."
"Emotion shaping weather," Lord Vaith mused, his scholarly mind clearly cataloging possibilities. "Historical accounts suggest similar manifestations among the Storm Kings of old, before the Conquest. But nothing so pronounced in centuries. He is no ordinary child."
"He may be the reason the old magic stirs again," Master Quill said quietly. "The ancient texts speak of this—when power awakens in one of royal blood, it calls to other latent gifts. Like striking a bell and hearing distant chimes answer."
The implication hung heavy in the air. For generations, the Masked Council had watched over Westeros from the shadows, monitoring the slow retreat of magic from the world. Some celebrated its fading; others mourned it. But all understood the chaos that would come if it returned too quickly, too violently, to a world that had forgotten how to live alongside it.
"If magic rises unopposed..." Lord Ironwood left the sentence unfinished.
"The boy must be dealt with," Thea declared, voicing what many thought but hesitated to say. "Not with swords," she added quickly, seeing the shift in posture from several council members. "Not with poison or any method that would raise suspicion. This requires subtlety."
"The methods of Lady Blackwind," the smallest figure concluded, her voice betraying neither eagerness nor reluctance, merely cold certainty.
Lady Blackwind had once been a healer before joining their ranks—a woman who understood the fragile boundary between life and death, health and illness. Her techniques were neither crude nor cruel, but they were final in their own way.
"A wasting illness, perhaps," Lady Blackwind suggested. "Something that would arouse no suspicion in a child his age. Gradual enough that even the Grand Maester would find nothing amiss. By the time the boy's power fades with his strength, it will be too late or she can make it quick and blame it on faith or rival house."
A beat of silence followed, heavy and final.
One by one, the masked figures nodded. Agreement, unspoken yet absolute.
"Then it is decided," Master Quill intoned. "Lady Blackwind will journey to Storm's End. Lord Vaith will continue researching the Arryn girl. The rest of us will monitor for other... awakenings."
Outside the cave, miles above their heads, thunder rumbled across a previously clear sky. Some of the council members shifted uncomfortably, golden masks turning upward as if they could see through stone and earth to the heavens above.
"A coincidence," Lord Ironwood muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
"There are no coincidences," Master Quill replied softly. "Not anymore."
As the council dispersed, making preparations to depart separately as they had arrived, Thea lingered at the stone table. Her fingers traced the ancient carvings worn smooth by centuries of similar meetings, similar decisions. The weight of what they had set in motion pressed against her chest.
The storm outside howled faintly, audible even through layers of earth and stone, as though listening—or perhaps, she thought with a chill that had nothing to do with the cave's dampness, as though answering.
She removed her mask slowly, the magic releasing with a whisper, and stared into its blank golden face. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw the reflection of lightning in its polished surface, though no light had flashed within the cave.
"What have we awakened?" she whispered to the empty chamber, but only the steady drip of water answered her question.
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Chapter end.