Are we more than what we seem? We all walk around in similar skins, physical forms that are at once miracles of evolution and unremarkable slabs of gradually decaying meat. For ages man has posited that their existences reach beyond the ticking clock under which we all live. Man has sought gods, crafted timeless works, birthed and fathered the sciences, all in the name of creating something that lasts. Every individual knows on a basic level that our time in the world is fleeting, and at one point or another we wonder if there’s more than what we have before us.
Imagine, for a moment, that the answer is “yes”.
Amaranthine is an exploration of this answer.
The Game
Amaranthine is a tabletop role-playing game to be played with friends in a comfortable, conversational setting. It boasts no overt gimmickry, no miniatures or fancy dice. You just need a handful of six-siders. It’s the premise, mood and execution of Amaranthine that set it apart.
The premise is that the Amaranthine of the title are, in essence, immortal. Each is reincarnated over and over again throughout the ages, dying only to be born again with their knowledge intact, if tucked away in a mental steamer trunk for a few years. Contact with familiar places, lessons of the past and other Amaranthine draw out their true natures. By the time they reach young adulthood, an Amaranthine can already be operating with hundreds if not thousands of years of experience upon which to draw, yet they look no different from you or me.
Amaranthine’s mood is one of limitless potential, of destiny and the shadows. It’s an atmosphere any afficionado of the World of Darkness (old or new) will find quite familiar. Yet the Amaranthine are not monsters, and the point of the game is not to rail against one’s nature, but to embrace it. Being one of the Amaranthine means being excellent, living a life of epic proportions that mere mortals can only dream of.
The true crux of the game comes in its execution as a group-based experience. The lives of the Amaranthine, present and past, are mercurial and somewhat unpredictible. Those you consider friends now may have been rivals in a previous life, and those now your enemies may have been allies or even lovers in years gone by. These relationships and the decisions players make regarding them build a sense of scale into the game as well as helping it feel deeply personal.
The Book
A word on the quality of the printed version of Amaranthine before I get into the meat of the text. This book is, without question, gorgeous. It ranks with the best offerings of White Wolf or Wizards of the Coast. It boasts bold colors, fascinating choices in type and a comprehensive indexing system that makes information easy to find. But all that is sound and fury; the significance of the book is in what the text says, not how it looks.
The tales within the Amaranthine rulebook underscore the concepts and themes listed above. The early chapters draw players into this appealing world and give them the tools necessary to become a part of it. It concerns itself more with questions than with statistics, however: Who were you before? Who do you want to be now? Who mattered to you, and who still does? The stats systems, using the four humors as essential resources for the character, are at once familiar and unique.
Deeper in the book those brave enough to become Directors find the depiction of our world through the immortal eyes of the Amaranthine. From the ways they organize themselves to the threats they face, the book ensures a Director is well-equipped to tell a tale as sprawling or intimate as they wish. Threats to the Amarthine are describedin detail, and are not limited to creatures such as vampires, dragons and the fair folk. The Void is an ever-present aspect of the Amaranthine, to which they all must return and from which all draw strength… for a price.
The Company
I knew when I first heard David of Machine Age pitch Amaranthine that he was on to something. He and his wife Filamena have never been ones to sit idle working on gaming materials for others. They’re unafraid of the risks inherent in pursuing their own ideas and have the intestinal fortitude to see their dreams through in the face of adversity, mediocrity and doubt. They’re a couple of those troublemakers I go on about sometimes.
Their first game, Maschine Zeit, perfectly captured the dread and mystery of a quiet and horrible apocalypse of our own making. Guestbook makes playing a quick game with friends at a convention, train station or meeting so easy it seems almost shameful. Amaranthine encourages excellence, exalts in an epic scale and allows players to explore and answer questions about their own natures just as much as it pits them against creatures of the night and wonders from childhood myth.
Amaranthine is a high-quality, deep-concept gaming experience that I Would recommend to anybody even remotely interested in a modern setting for a tabletop role-playing group, and if it doesn’t put Machine Age firmly and permanently on the map of leading pen-and-paper game producers, it bloody well should.
All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.
My time in the House of Black and White that sits in Braavos taught me several things. I learned patience, for those days after I awakened in a small acolyte’s room were long and quiet. I learned how precious every moment is, considering how I’d simultaneously delivered a soul onto death and nearly fell into its arms myself. I learned that while I was recuperating in the temple of the Many-Faced God, the face of the weirwood of Storm’s End was the one that came to mind when I felt the need to pray. I learned to speak more languages, to listen to whispers, to watch how people moved and looked around when they spoke. And I learned the water dance from Mavek Kushahn, Third Sword of Braavos.
She took my dagger from me, letting me fight only with wooden swords. It wasn’t until I took her practice weapon from her hand that she returned it. That same day, I thanked the priests in the House of Black and White and, wearing the clothes of a bravo, hired myself as a deckhand and sellsword to a trading ship. So it was for years, before wanderings and adventures brought me to Pentos.
I was days from turning ten and seven, a man grown by Westrosi reckoning. I had taken scars and lives alike, and as I walked through the city to make my delivery I drew in the salty sea air and thought of how different it smelled from the spray of Storm’s End and the cold loam of Dragonstone. I didn’t miss them, precisely, but I knew they were the foundation upon which Cadmon Storm the bravo had been built.
I handed the wineseller his cask and took his money. I was counting it for the third time – just to be certain – when I bumped shoulders with a youth just a few years older than me. He had his hand gripped tightly around the wrist of a young girl who caught my eye. While the teen pulling her along called me a fool and to watch where I was going, I found myself staring, the image of her searing into my memory.
Her hair, caught in the breeze and sunlight, looked as if spun from a metal more precious that silver, more rare than gold. She was wearing a fine if somewhat insubstantial dress that was very much in keeping with the fashions of the upper-crust ladies of the Free Cities. What captured me, though, were her eyes. Not their color, though you don’t often see them the color of amethysts. No, it was the sadness. The longing. Though she was dressed in the manner of a daughter of wealth, she looked very much a prisoner.
A little voice in the back of my mind told me I would embarrass myself if she caught me gauping, and I tore my eyes away from the sight of her. Her escort, whoever he was, turned his eyes to me, eyes the same color as hers, and if looks could kill I would have dropped dead on the spot. Instead, I bit out an obscenity in Valyrian – another skill I’d refined in the House of Black and White. His eyes went wide and I winked at him, before he himself ran headlong into an oncoming traveler. I ducked out of sight before the drama unfolded any further.
There was something about that pair, a feeling in the back of my brain that coiled and writhed in a mix of uncertainty and excitement. Who had I just seen? Why did this notion of destiny poke at my heart? I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. I had coin, and free time, and I knew what to do with both. Pentos had more than its share of taverns, and I had a favorite, the “Sea Lady’s Chamber”, a short walk from the docks.
The Chamber is a home away from the sea for sellsails, oarsmen, and shipwrights of all types. One at the bar was smiling and laughing with a pair of ladies, wearing a dark tunic with a strange device over his heart: an onion, embroidered in white.
It was a device I knew well.
The ladies were striking in their own right. The more flamboyant of the two was also the larger, a collection of curves and bright flashing gold hanging from belts and sashes. Her bright hoop earrings and bold-colored scarves on her head were a stark contrast to her dark skin. She didn’t look like one for fighting, but all the same, a jeweled scabbard holding a sickle-like dagger was prominent on the front of one of the many sashes around her waist.
Her companion was more slender, her curves more modest, the caramel of her skin subtly accented by her fashionable skirt, slit up to her hip to expose bare leg running to the boot that came to just below her knee. A gem flashed in her navel, set in a taut belly shown by the tied-off sleeveless shirt in the same sandy color as the skirt. Behind her cocked hips, I could see the hilt of a Braavosi blade. Her hair was long and ebony, braided with threads of silver woven through it. The only other decoration she wore was a slender silver chain that encircled the base of her neck, itself braided at the hollow of her throat and hanging down between her full breasts and into her shirt.
Again, the eyes got my attention. But they weren’t exotic, like the amethyst orbs I’d beheld earlier. No, these eyes were a stormy, expressive blue. Familiar eyes. Eyes I’d caught sight of in mirrors or polished glass from time to time.
Curious, intrigued, and perhaps a little aroused, I began to make my way over.
Three bravos burst into the Chamber behind me. I stepped to one side; I didn’t want to be seen as an obstacle to them. Not yet, at least.
“Dale Seaworth!” The bravo that called the name drew his blade. “You will come with us!”
Dale looked at the bravos, then his companions, then drank down the remnants of his wine. “Why would I do that?”
“Your ship has raided and taken the property of our employer.” It was the middle bravo who spoke now, his Westrosi Common slightly more refined. “We’ve come on behalf of our lady, Betharios of Braavos, to demand recompense.”
The slender woman set down her goblet and crossed her arms, the firelight reflecting from the studs of her fingerless gloves. “Dale. Have you been pirating?”
Dale shook his head. “The ships were carrying slaves towards Westeros. I turned them back.”
“Lies.” The bravo who hadn’t spoken yet, the largest one, had a voice like gravel being ground underfoot. “You kept the cargo of Betharios for yourself.”
People are not cargo, I wanted to say, but Dale beat me to it. “I daresay that people are not, in fact, cargo.”
“I know Betharios,” said the large woman, leaning on the bar. “She’s a bitch. I’m not surprised she sent dogs to do her dirty work.”
The first bravo spat. “We are no dogs!”
“And at least we are not pirates and thieves,” the second agreed. “Not like you. Now will you come with us or shall we draw your blood now?”
Dale got to his feet. People were quietly leaving the tavern or getting into a better position to watch. “I can’t leave. My ship departs with the tide. I need to be on it, you see, as I am her captain, and we have goods to take back to Westeros. Goods, I might add, that were not taken from the leaky boats of Betharios.”
“We are three.” The first bravo grinned, a smile missing a few teeth. “You are one. Odds are not good, pirate.”
“Learn to count.” The slender woman uncrossed her arms and moved, hips almost in a slither-like motion, to stand by Dale. “We are two.”
The grinning bravo moved his hand to his hilt. “I can count. And we still number more than you.”
“You there. Tall, dark, and ugly.” I stepped out of the crowd, lifting my chin to the big, stoic one. “We shall duel, bravo, you and I.”
He blinked at me. “You will stand for this Westrosi seadog?”
“Aye. Any seadog of Westeros nursed at the same bitch I did.”
Dale smiled. “The Narrow Sea’s a cold, hard one.”
The woman smiled, too. My heart might have skipped a beat.
“Enough talk!” The first bravo roared as he attacked. We paired off immediately: the first with Dale, the second with the woman, and the big one with me. I parried and gave ground. He was strong enough, but he lacked finesse. Dale was quick on his feet and had a Westrosi longsword in his hand before his bravo could get close enough to stick him. The woman, for her part, ducked and darted like a snake, and I read in her water dance a placid patience, moreso than any sort of fury or malice, as she looked for the perfect place and time to strike. I kept mine busy, moving around the tavern and letting him grow tired and stupid… well, more stupid than usual.
Sure enough, he over-extended his thrust and I took him in the chest, just below his heart. He slid back off of my blade and staggered, looking down at the wound in shock. I raised my blade to my face in salute, then turned to the other as he backed Dale into a corner. Dale wasn’t used to fighting water dancers, and while he was holding off the attacks, it was only matter of time before he was disarmed or worse. The other bravo saw me moving, and was about to shout a warning when the woman capitalized on the distraction, her thrust landing in his throat. Winking at her, I turned back to the first bravo, my left hand reaching for my dagger. Valyrian steel whispered through the air as I ducked low, slicing the tendons at his heel. His leg turned to rubber, but he somehow stayed upright, clearly well-trained enough to keep his balance despite the sudden handicap. The large bravo shocked me when he roared and came at with with a final burst of energy. Effortlessly, the woman spun into his path, the tip of her blade slashing his face. He stopped, mid-stride, even more shocked than before. A good shove from her put him down on the floorboards. He didn’t get back up.
Dale finished off his hobbled foe when the bravo pressed an unwise attack. He slapped the thin blade of his opponent aside with contempt, and cleaved the man’s neck down to the spine on the reverse stroke. The bravo bled all over his flamboyant clothing as he sank to his knees, then fell to one side. Dale cleaned his blade, nodding in my direction as the woman sidled up beside me.
“You made that a lot easier than it could have been, friends. Thank you.”
“Any family of Davos Seaworth is family of mine.”
“You know my father?”
“Quite well. This dagger was a gift from him. He helped me leave Westeros. I was in a place where bastards like me are seen the way a noble looks at a pile of horseshit he just stepped in.”
The woman was studying me intently at this point. She smiled, and again, the effect it had on me was undeniable. “I know a bit about being a bastard of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s a shame your experience was so negative.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t have the advantage of your charms.”
“Don’t go trying to seduce my first mate away from me!” The large woman walked over to us and laughed. “She’s far too much of an asset to the Pillowqueen.”
I knew that ship name. My face split into a huge grin.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the great Madrosa Saan!” I removed my hat and swept low in a bow. “I hear that business is treating you and your family well.”
Large dimples appeared as Madrosa smiled at me. “It is, young bravo, but you do have me at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“My name is Cadmon Storm. And, if I may, I find myself between jobs, and I’d be honored to be considered for your crew.”
Now the woman by my side was openly staring. “‘Storm.’ As in Storm’s End?”
I turned to her, blinking. “Yes. I was born there. My mother is…”
“Rhiannon Penrose.” She took my arm. “Walk with me.”
We left Dale Seaworth and Madrosa Saan watching us in confusion. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw them exchange a look and a shrug. We walked across the street and down the docks, under a cloudless night littered with stars. The moonlight did fascinating things to the woman’s skin. I noticed, now, that she was closer to my age than I’d originally thought. She turned to me when we were alone.
“I know who your father is, Cadmon. Because he’s my father, too.”
She reached between her breasts, into her top, and drew out the end of the chain. At the end of it was a large ring. She placed it in my hand. It was heavy. It had a thick band and fit over the long finger of my left hand. Its central accent was not a gem, but a signet of white. It depicted a tall tower with a flame at the top. I studied it for a long moment, then looked up into her eyes.
“I didn’t know who he was until after I arrived in Braavos. My mother kept his identity secret, even to me.”
“My mother had no need for such deceptions.” She rested her hand on mine, the ring now shared between our skin. “My name is Sylvaria Sand, and I’m your half-sister.”
I suddenly felt a little abashed for feeling so attracted to her. She must have noticed this, because she flashed her alluring smile. Even with this new revelation, I couldn’t help but notice the fullness of her lips.
“No need to be so bashful, Cadmon. This isn’t Westeros, and we’re not intended for high seats. We should embrace what’s beautiful, not hide from it. My mother, herself a bastard, taught me that.”
I tabled that for the moment. Plenty of time for such talk later.
“I can’t help but feel there’s a reason we met tonight,” I said. “Both you and Dale Seaworth, in the same tavern at the same time, on a night I arrive there… Do you believe in fate, Sylvaria?”
She gently slid my finger free of the signet ring, but did not let go of my hand. “Sometimes, it’s hard to deny that there might be such a thing as fate. And meeting you, as delightful as it is, reminds me of home, and how much I miss it. The Water Palace, and my mother’s love, and my sisters. I should very much like to see them again.”
Something wells up in my heart. “My mother and I haven’t seen each other since I left.”
“It’s settled, then.” As boldly as she stepped up to fight for Dale Seaworth, my half-sister leaned into me and placed a warm, gentle kiss on my lips. “Let’s go home, Cadmon.”
All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.
Most of the children I grew up with barely knew Braavos existed.
There were a few who were curious about the lands across the Narrow Sea, but for the most part it was all about the gossip and impressing one’s parents. My mother had just been happy I was alive. I never felt the compulsion to impress anybody. Since I found the lessons dull and the company irritable, I was often running down books and maps I could get my hands on, and engaging the maesters with questions while the other children played.
So when I left Storm’s End at my mother’s behest, I got to see those lands in person. The years I spent aboard the Black Betha were happy ones. The sailors were happy to teach a cabin boy so willing to learn, and I learned to play their games of dice as much as I learned their knots. It couldn’t last forever — what does? — and a raven from Dragonstone caused Ser Davos to put me off of the Black Betha in Braavos. He explained it to me as well as he could.
“The Greyjoys have started a rebellion, and Lord Stannis needs me back home. It won’t be like the little skirmishes we’ve had here and there with pirates. It will be a brutal, extended business and I want you nowhere near it.”
“I can fight.” I was eleven. Of course I protested. “I can carry water to the wounded.”
“You’re a brave boy, Cadmon, but you’re still a boy. It’s important for you to stay safe. Stay in Braavos, stay close to the docks. I promise you, you won’t go any longer without word than I can help it. Maester Cressen will take my letters and send them across the Narrow Sea to you.”
“You could learn to write yourself, you know.”
Ser Davos made a face. “Such things are for smarter men. You’re smarter than I am already. Keep that up. Be smart, and stay here. Learn.”
I wasn’t happy about it. “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”
Kneeling in front of me, Davos smiled. “Good. She told me I was to keep you safe, and I’m glad I’m not failing her.” He took my hand, and placed a sheathed dagger in it. “Here. It’s something I got from a merchant in Lys, a long time ago. He said it was good luck.”
The sheath was simple wood, stained dark, and the handle was the same. With no hilt, cross-guard, or adornments, you could mistake it for some sort of short club, were it not for the small steel seam where handle and sheath met. Unable to resist, I tugged on the handle. The blade was short, no longer than my hand from wrist to fingertip, but it was curved, and there were dark ripples in the steel. I looked up at Ser Davos, eyes wide.
“You give me a knife and tell me I can’t fight?”
“Now, Cad —”
I didn’t hear anymore. I turned and ran from the deck of the ship, onto the docks, and didn’t look back.
I was resolved, in my childlike sense of justice, to resent Ser Davos right up until the first letter came from Dragonstone. Maester Cressen wrote the words of Ser Davos that told me of the Greyjoy Rebellion, of his lord Stannis storming the islands with Eddard Stark and how Jaime Lannister and Thoros of Myr had slain scores of men. It was the first of many, and I read it over and over in the candlelit nights on the docks. I even wrote some back, when I was able.
People need their ships tied up and cast off when they arrive or depart. They may not know where the nearest spice merchant or inn or whorehouse is. They might just need an extra pair of hands carrying cargo to its destination. I was one of several children who fulfilled these roles. They’re called Gulls on the Docks.
I spent the next couple years on those docks. As Ser Davos had bid me I learned all I could. I was starting to pick up words and phrases in Valyrian, listening to the news from the other Free Cities, watching the bravos duel one another. I sometimes bet a little of the money I had on the duels. The fact that I won more often that I lost was a sore spot with some of the other Gulls, especially a Tyroshi boy named Symuril.
“That was utter shit.” Sym kicked a stone away as we walked back to the docks following a nasty duel. He was a dark-haired boy but he’d gotten half of it painted blue in the Tyroshi style. “Ilastus shouldn’t have fallen for that last feint. He’d seen it before.”
“But his blood was up. He wanted to split Timon like a ripe melon. He ended up taking the split himself, but I understand why he attacked so aggressively.”
“Feh. It still shouldn’t have happened.”
“It was going to. Ilastus was hot-headed, moreso than most bravos. Timon knew this and used it. That’s how fights are. It doesn’t change the fact that you owe me ten.”
Sym glared at me. “It was a cheap win, damn close to cheating, and I don’t owe you anything.”
I walked to stand in front of him. “You owe me. Pay me.”
Symuril was older than me by at least one name day. I was close to my twelfth when this happened. He sneered at me, his green-brown eyes full of childish conviction, and poked my chest with a finger. “Timon’s a cheat and a liar. I bet fans of his aren’t any different. And I don’t pay money to cheats and liars.”
It was stupid of me to throw the first punch. Yet that’s what I did. As much as it had been what he’d wanted, Symuril was surprised by it. He responded in kind, though, and we were suddenly on the ground, tussling in the gutter. Ser Davos, Storm’s End and my mother were another world, and in that moment I was a young bravo dueling with an upstart from another Free City because he’d impinged my honor and, frankly, I didn’t like him all that much. We punched, kicked, bit and wrestled until I ended up on top of him, punching his face with all the strength I had.
I don’t know where his stiletto came from. But it was a slender little blade that stuck in my side. It was an intense pain, which made me scream, a feeling of intense heat washing over my belly and side as the blood flowed. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, and he glared at me as he tried to pull his blade free. I reached for my own weapon, tucked in my belt at the small of my back. The gift from Ser Davos. While it was small, I’d practiced with it a bit at night. I’d learned it was curved so you could draw it in a certain way, and that’s exactly what I did.
I was surprised by how much Symuril bled when I opened his neck.
I’d seen game slaughtered before, and during a pirate skirmish one of Davos’ men had lost a leg. Still, seeing such things is not the same as getting blood squirted on your face yourself because you slit someone’s throat. The Tyroshi boy’s eyes went wide and he gasped, both hands reaching for his throat, his stiletto forgotten in my side. I stayed on top of him and pulled the thin blade out of me, putting my hand down over the wound. I felt him kicking under me, each passing moment making the motions more feeble. His eyes never left mine as blood gushed from under his hands and oozed from his mouth. Even when he stopped moving entirely, and his bowels emptied themselves into his stylish trousers, his green-brown eyes shouted their accusations. I was crying when I rolled off of his corpse and limped away.
I don’t know how I got as far as I did. I remember dragging myself up the steps towards the doors, one of weirwood and one of ebony. My nostils were full of the smell of incense.
The doors parted as the last of my strength left me. I remember gentle hands on my body, and an old man’s voice speaking in Valyrian, two words I recognized.
All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.
The road from Moat Cailin to the Twins will be somewhat long. I don’t blame Lord Luxon for bringing me along. It was I who discovered the girl, after all, and endeavored to keep her safe. She’s had a difficult time of it, and while I cannot relate to her exact circumstances, I do know what it’s like to realize you’re an unwanted child among a noble house. I realized it at Storm’s End, a year after I first met Ser Davos Seaworth.
When you grow up without the full support of a household in a castle, you often have time to yourself. When I wasn’t finding time to learn more about reading or fighting, I was exploring. Storm’s End, like most castles, is honeycombed with passages and tunnels either forgotten or rarely used. Most were simply shortcuts, and would lead one to the threshold of a hall or set of chambers without being seen. I’d discovered one that deposited me within earshot of the main hall when I learned the fate planned for me.
“The boy is a menace.”
The harsh voice, pinched with anger, belonged to Symeon Trant. Young, fat and spoiled Sandor Trant’s father. He’d been a guest at Storm’s End for some time, angling to work with or even supplant the master-at-arms. I’d seen him fight in the yard. It might have been only for practice, but I knew how vicious he could be.
“Are you seriously telling me you’re afraid of a child?”
The other voice was the castellan, Cortnay Penrose, my mother’s cousin. He ruled Storm’s End in the absence of Renly Baratheon. While not as boisterous as his liege-lord, they shared a warmth; at least, my relative showed me such a side of himself. I’d heard he was a seasoned warrior and battle commander, but he treated me with kindness. As castellan, though, he wanted things running smoothly, and I stayed out of his way, helping my mother when I could, being as useful as possible around Storm’s End.
But that wasn’t good enough for Symeon Trant.
“I’ve been watching him for the better part of a year. That boy showed no respect for the highborn, and even picked fights with highborn youths. He spends far too much time with the maester and those pirates. He should be scrubbing floors and carving meat from game for our feasts.”
“He’s seen in the kitchens more often than not. Maester Aloysius does not mind his company. And Ser Davos Seaworth is no longer a ‘pirate’, nor was he ever one in the strictest sense. He’s the reason this castle still stands, lest you forget.”
“I wasn’t cowering behind castle walls like you during the Rebellion. I was sacking King’s Landing.”
“Yet now you seek to hide behind me from a mere boy?”
“You will not always be castellan, you know. Robert Baratheon, who now as king can overrule his brother, is not too distant. My brother also stands with him, a member of Robert’s Kingsguard.”
“And running south to King’s Landing to ask for help in dealing with a child is such a better alternative. I’m sure the courtiers will love to hear of it. That will go so well for House Trant. I wish you luck.”
There was a deadly silence. I dared not move, or even speak.
“I will not forget this. House Trant will not forget. And when you find that bastard’s body, I trust you will not forget, either.”
“I won’t. Especially considering that bastard’s mother is family of mine.”
He swept out of the hall. I peeked around the corner to watch him go. The castellan sat in the largest chair in the hall, rubbing his temples. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but as I watched him, I realized he would do nothing. What could he do? I was not, strictly speaking, of noble birth. Having guardsmen running around to protect a bastard boy when they needed to watch the walls and man the gates would not go well for him. And all the protective detail in the world would do no good in the dead of night when Trant’s spoiled eldest slipped into my room with his precious knife.
I ran to my mother. I guess it was the only thing I felt I could do. She listened to my tale, and immediately started packing two bags.
“I am going to King’s Landing,” she told me. “Little remains for me here. My cousin is a good man, and I’ve brought him enough trouble. Having you, and keeping you… I knew, in my heart, it would cause trouble here, someday. And I won’t return to Parchment; my father won’t want to take me in.”
“What about mine?”
She paused, then shook her head. “He already has a wife. To have me show up at his doorstep with you would be just as much of an embarrassment. No, it’s King’s Landing for me. I can find work there, and peace.”
“Okay. I’ll find us horses.”
She turned to me and smiled. “Cad, come here.”
I’d been tossing clothes into a bag. I put it down and walked to her. She knelt and ruffled my hair.
“I’m glad you’ve helped me in the kitchens and around the halls so diligently. You make me so proud, with your strength and patience. And learning to read! I never did that.”
I remember blushing. “I want to make you proud, Momma.”
She kissed my forehead. “You always will. But our paths must part.”
I looked up at her. “What? Why?”
“Because King’s Landing is no place for you. I’ve kept your father’s identity secret all these years to protect all three of us. In King’s Landing, such things become known all too easily. A woman alone is only as enigmatic as her smile and what’s up her skirts. A woman with a boy out of nowhere brings up more questions, and someone will pay for the answers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. You will, in time.” She kissed me again. “I want you to go with your friend. I want you to go with Ser Davos. If you are with him I know you will be safe. And… I have ways to find safety for myself. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Momma…”
“I know you’re scared. I am, too. But it must be this way. We must go, and quickly, and in separate directions, where these terrible people cannot find us.” Tears were in her eyes. I nearly started crying myself but I bit my lip, hard, to keep the sobs down. She gripped my shoulders. “We won’t let our fears drive us, Cadmon. We’ll face them and overcome them. I was afraid of disappointing my father when I couldn’t read more than a few words, and even more afraid of going to Dragonstone to serve the Targaryens. I was so afraid that I ran from my father, from his love and hopes, from any of my prospects. I let my fear carry me on waves to these halls. But because of that, I had you. And you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I will always love your father for that.”
I sniffled. She squeezed my shoulders.
“I can’t bear the thought of you coming to harm. That’s why you need to go. Go to Ser Davos. I know you want to go to sea. I also know the sea will bring you back to me. But for now it will take you away. Just as I am going away. This is the way things must be if we are to see each other again in this life.” She picked up my bag, opened it, and put a small pouch and a sealed scroll inside. “There’s some coin, to help you. And… I wrote you a letter, about your father, for when you were older. Read it when you’re across the Narrow Sea.” She closed the bag’s flap, held her hand there, tears in her eyes. “And know how much I love you, my sweet Cad, and how proud I am of you, and always will be.”
She handed me my bag, kissed my cheek one last time, and told me to go. So I went. I went to the docks to find the man who’d take me away from Westeros, from the Trants, into the unknown I’d dreamed of but never truly seen.
So the Game of Thrones season finale was last night. I’ll be seeing it myself tomorrow night, but in the meantime I know a lot of people are hungry for more.
I’ll just have to do my best to help.
I’ve added a new page, simply entitled ‘Westeros’, where I’ve indexed the Beginner’s Guide posts and will be adding the snippets I write about Cadmon Storm. Those are non-canonical, as I’ve mentioned, but it should still help folks who actually read this stuff limp along until Spring 2012 when the series returns to HBO. I will also work on making the Guide posts easier to navigate one to the other.
Tomorrow Cadmon writes about leaving Storm’s End, Wednesday is your regular Art of Thor feature, Thursday is a post on Magic the Gathering’s Commander variant and Friday is the return of IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! with Killers, starring Ashton Kutcher.
