#coiaf

So when a tree as black as weirwoods were white sprouted out of the table it was little wonder that all shot up exclaiming and shouting.

But then again, there were times when he could appreciate the beauty of such an immediate information system. Especially when it was only utilized for extreme cases.

The branches of the sapling unfurled, letting their delivery drop into expectant hands. There was a commotion about, white faces of fear, shock, awe, confusion, someone running for the Lord Commander. Castle Black ignored them all as he read Winterfell’s precise script.

Unlike their children, Cities lived ages and ages. They could see the bigger picture, and they played a game as well with actions and consequences spanning centuries of deceit and manipulation. And Casterly Rock had just made his move.

The thing about Cities, you see, is that they are not necessarily representative of their children. Most of the time, their interests coincide, if not for exactly the same purpose, because Cities are often benefited by having their children gain.

But every once in a while, their interests collided. In this case, it was not, and had never been, in Castle Black’s, or any of the Wall, for that matter, to isolate themselves from the kingdom’s machinations. They were already small enough. True, they never forgot the danger posed by the Others, but there weren’t any Cities Beyond. It really was… just a wasteland unlike…

It was their move now. The stone had been thrown; the ripples were already spreading.

Well, he thought, Casterly Rock must be in quite the fortified position, to make such a move. I wonder how much strength would we need, a dozen, hundred, thousand ripples even he could not stand against. And for all their boasts, the Free Cities are chafing. I'll just give them a little... heads up.

Chroyane is married now to the greyscale and the greyplague, the third wheel in a disaster of a deadly relationship. She steps across lonely streets and empty buildings haunted by a perpetual mist no longer driven off with flashing torches and feasts to remember, tournaments and endless festivals.

She had been a something to remember once. She remembers the faces of traders bringing in spices and silks and jewels for her to glitter and shine, open and smiling with awe and delight. She remembers the feel of Volantis' hands on her waist as they spun and dipped and whirled to the music. They were the center of every party, every interaction, every event.

The first daughter of Valyria had truly been something to behold, majestic and royal and wise. Chroyane had always felt so young, filled anew with innocent wonder when Volantis graced her with a smile, gold eyes sparking with the dragonfire of her birth. Back then she had been the baby of the family, the pretty bauble raised by the Nine. Volantis claimed her, sent trade upriver between them, attended her festivities. And there had been much to celebrate indeed. 

There had even been talk of a formal alliance between the two Cities, a pact of reduced taxes, to war for the other and more, and all the world from Asshai of the Rising Sun to her other eight brothers and sisters to newly built King's Landing in the strange and savage Seven Kingdoms to Valyria herself would see them wed in glittering splendor beneath her crystal halls.

Until what the humans called the Doom fell upon them and the stone that had once been her grace and beauty became her greatest weakness. Finely adorned nobles and ragged peasants alike could not stand against the stone sickness. It seeped through her walls and into her soil tainting Lhorulu as it emptied into the Rhoyne until it seemed that very veins flowed with molten stone.

(But that wasn't right, stone melted hot and burned long; Volantis had shown her once with the dragons that she no longer visited her with, and she had felt what it was like to have fire for blood when Volantis breathed into her mouth, marked less permanent tattoos with sharp teeth and soft, warm lips alongside the colors that bloomed beneath Chroyane's skin, and this stone was cold, unforgiving and disastrous.)

Her children flee in droves, those that are sane enough to. She begs them not to, shouts, "I will keep you safe, I swear I will!" They don't listen, if they don't ignore her outright they look at her sadly and shake their heads at what had once been. She swallows their rejection quietly because they are right, the plague is sunk too deep in the foundations of her being, it runs in her blood, slow and lethal and to remove it would be to raze her to the ground and burn the ruins and salt the ashes but even then that would not be enough for Mother Rhoyne flowed wide and strong though perhaps not fast, and there was no fire that would dry a river--not the summer sun and not dragonfire and not alchemical demonfire. 

Chroyane begs her sisters, her brothers, even Volantis, but even if they could they have their own troubles to contend with. ("There was a time you would have gone to war for me," she whispers. But Volantis says, "I cannot fight death, nor time, nor change.")

And if you looked into her eyes now you'd be lost in the swirling eddies of the Rhoyne eating out her ancient edges. It is strange to think that she is ancient, impossible, wasn't her greatness a mere decade past? She wanders the Bridge of Dreams untouched by the cries and moans and pleas of the children-who-are-not-her-children left here abandoned to be consumed by stone. As long as they are here, she is not yet dead.

(Her skin remembers, the vibrancy she once possessed squirms in red and green and violet vines with blue and yellow flowers across her back and under her arms and twisting down her legs.)

The un-children are dying and unwanted where they've forced themselves into her heart but they keep her from lying down and fading away. For now at least, and she thinks of the numbness crawling up her toes and the steady thrum of rock flowing through her, petrifying her from the inside out.

Chroyane, once the gem of Old Valyria, looks out into the mist and wonders whether she should accept Tyria's offer.