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Chapter Text

Essos 290 AC-

Meera Shae sighed wearily as she walked alongside her family's cart; around her, dozens more slowly marched along in a long line as they made their way across the plains of Essos toward the free city of Myr. Being part of such a large trading caravan, Meera was used to days of long walks, followed by even longer days of waiting around before they moved to the next city for trade. Barely a week past her twelfth name day, Meera was already well on her way to becoming a beauty one day; she was slim, with bronze sun-kissed skin, bright blue eyes, and long black hair that hung to the middle of her back.

Like most of her family, she was dressed more for practicality than comfort, wearing a simple white V-neck short-sleeve tunic, leather breeches, and a simple pair of traveling shoes. Looking behind at the long caravan behind her, Meera couldn't help the sigh that escaped her as the tedium of her life once again made itself known. Her family had been traders for more generations than could be remembered, and it was expected that she and her twin brother Leon would follow in their families' footsteps one day.

Looking at her twin, Meera couldn't suppress the scowl that crossed her face; though only older than Meera by a half hour, Leon already looked more like a warrior than a trader. He was a whole head taller than Meera, and the constant work of loading and unloading the cart had granted the boy an incredible physique that would one day cause many heartbreaks. Currently, he was strolling lazily behind their family's cart, using the spear that their father had gifted Leon as a walking stick; he was supposed to be keeping a watchful eye on the horizon for bandits or, worse, Dothraki. Still, after days of grassland in every direction, Leon seemed to have grown complacent.

As she thought of the life that was already mapped out for her, Meera released a scornful sigh. It wasn't that Meera was against the idea; being a trader was a respected profession, after all; it was just the idea of spending her life walking from one city to the next bored her to no end and made her want to rip her own hair out. What Meera wanted was adventure, to see the world and have a life worth living; not being another nameless trader whose life could be ended in an instant should a Dothraki horde suddenly decide that her caravan was worth plundering.

As though fate was personally offended at Meera for provoking it, a sudden scream tore through the air at that exact moment, followed by another and another; in mere moments, the area echoed with hundreds of war cries as the ground beneath Meera's feet began to shake as though an earthquake were beginning. As Meera's father pulled up on the reins, causing their horses to stop, a rider blew past them with a look of panic on his face as he screamed out,

"Dothraki! The Dothraki are coming! Run for your lives!"

Instantly, panic set in throughout the caravan as men, women, and children all began to shout and curse. Some attempted to get their panicked pack animals to respond to commands, while others chose to leave the carts to the Dothraki and run as fast as their feet could take them. Turning to where she had last seen Leon, Meera gasped as she saw the boy had already disappeared to who knew where.

Looking up at where her parents sat, Meera could see the horror etched on both their faces as her father pulled and tugged on the reins, desperately trying to get the horses to turn around; around her, other families had decided that their lives were more important than their valuables, and were running from their carts as fast as their legs could take them. A moment later, a calm hand descended on Meera's shoulder, making her turn in alarm at the touch to see her grandmother staring at her with a smile.

"Worry not, Meera," her grandmother said softly, "We will be safe from harm… The pale one is coming…"

Meera swallowed at her grandmother's words and was tempted to roll her eyes, but something about the old woman's words caused Meera to freeze; this wasn't the first time her grandmother had claimed that this supposed 'pale one' was coming, but it was the first time that Meera actually believed the old woman. Meera's grandmother was a follower of an obscure religion that centered around a prophecy made centuries ago, long before Aegon the Conqueror had claimed Westeros for the Targaryen's, that claimed a pale god would one day descend on their world and wipe away the corruption and filth that had polluted it for far too long, bringing an era of peace to their world that would supposedly last for generations.

Meera's father thought his mother mad, like many of the caravan, and had refused to allow her to teach Meera the ways of her obscure religion, though when the two were alone, Meera and her grandmother would talk about this supposed' pale god' who would one day come. Meera had never really believed in the gods, per se; she liked to think that they existed and showed the proper respect when called upon. But after traveling through the free cities where slavery was ubiquitous and seeing the disgusting and horrific things that 'men of god' were allowed to get away with, well, suffice it to say that Meera's belief had begun to wane long ago.

If there were gods, and if they allowed mortals to do such things and receive no justice for their crimes, then they were gods that Meera wanted nothing to do with. But the god from her grandmother's stories was different; if her grandmother were to be believed, this 'pale one' would not only make those 'godly men' pay for the things they'd done but make it so that such things would never happen again.

"Grandmother, you've said that a hundred times," Meera retorted, "And he's never shown up! What makes this time any different!"

Meera's grandmother said nothing and simply gave an eerie smile in response as the screams of the Dothraki began to combine with the cries of terror from their victims as the horde slammed into the caravan, slaughtering all they came across.

"Mother!" Meera's father roared out, "This is no time for your crazed ramblings! We need to get out of here before those fuckers…"

Whatever Meera's father was about to say was lost was an arrow slammed into the back of his head, the point coming out of his mouth as his eyes widened in horror; Meera's mother screamed in horror at the sight as the man clawed at his wife for a moment before tumbling from the driver seat to the ground below. Meera's mother issued another terrified scream before three arrows slammed into her chest in rapid succession, sending her tumbling from the passenger seat to the dry ground, as well.

"Do not look, child!" Meera's grandmother replied, grabbing her and pulling her to the ground before giving her a shove under the cart. "We must wait until he comes!"

"Who?!" Meera shouted from where she lay as she desperately clung to her grandmother, "Who is coming!"

"Our god…" Meera's grandmother replied with a smile as Meera shook with terror; around the pair, the rest of the caravan was being mercilessly slaughtered, and Meera let out a cry of despair as she saw a Dothraki ride past them, dragging the dead body of her brother, an arrow protruding from his proud young heart.

A moment later, something grabbed her ankle and savagely pulled her backward from her hiding place under the cart, causing Meera to scream in terror.

XXXX

Kratos, the former god of war, sighed wearily as he approached his home, dragging the dead body of a large bear behind him, the product of another successful hunt. As Kratos reached his destination, he threw the rope over the limb of the towering tree outside his home and began to heave the bear into the air. Once the body was hanging a good three feet off of the ground, Kratos tied the rope off and dusted off his hands; tomorrow, he would clean and prepare the body, but that was tomorrow's problem.

Kratos was a large, powerfully built man, bald and standing over seven feet tall; his skin was as white as the snow that surrounded his home, a curse from his past to forever remind him of his greatest failure. Hard brown eyes hazed calmly out at the world, the same color as the bushy, thick beard that adorned his face, giving the man a rugged look well-suited for the harsh climate where Kratos had made his home. A faded red tattoo spread along most of his upper body, starting at his shoulder and ending over his left eye, while an old, faded slash scar spread across his right. Old fur-and-leather armor decorated Kratos' body from his midriff down, leaving his chest and abdomen bare; across his abdomen, a significant scar could be seen, a wound from another life that Kratos had fought long and hard to forget.

Across his back, a large axe could be seen, while twin dagger-like swords hung from his shoulders; attached were long chains tightly wrapped around Kratos' forearms.

Enjoying the cold air that filled his lungs, Kratos slowly lowered himself into the chair that sat outside his front door as he reveled in the solitude of the forest. How long had it been since Kratos had seen another living human? He could no longer be sure. Kratos had long since lost track of time since his son, Atreus, had left on his own journey; not long after that, Freyja and Mimir had too left, returning to Vanaheim to rebuild the realm after the destruction of Ragnarök. The two gods had even offered Kratos a place among them in Vanaheim, but Kratos had declined, seeking only silence and peace after millennia of war and destruction.

Peace. That was something that Kratos knew very little of; in the millennia of his existence, he had never experienced such stillness as he had found in this quiet place. The storm of anger and rage that had dominated most of his life had been appeased by his solitude in this snow-covered landscape. He was no fool, of course, and he knew that it would not last; beings such as him were not meant for lasting peace, after all. Eventually, there would come a time when he would have to fight and kill once more, and he knew that when the day came, he would once again do what he must; but for now, Kratos reveled in the silence of the forest, a balm to his tired soul.

Slowly shutting his eyes, Kratos' mind wandered back to his last conversation with Mimir and Freyja before they left for Vanaheim.

Flashback:

"Are you sure you won't come with us, brother?" The severed head of Mimir asked in a sad voice, "There is much work to be done in Vanaheim, you could do much good there."

"Mimir is right," Freyja added, "We've stopped Odin, once and for all. You should be a part of what follows, not exiled here on Midgard."

"I am sure," Kratos replied softly, his voice rumbling like stone, "I have seen enough of war… Now I simply desire peace… And solitude."

Mimir and Freyja shared a look as though they wanted to argue, but both knew that it would be pointless to do so; so instead, Freyja simply placed a comforting hand on Kratos' shoulder before turning away. From his place on Freyja's hip, Mimir offered one last word of wisdom,

"Brother… I know you think that war and death are all you are good for, but you are so much more than that. You've always been more than that… Your actions during Ragnarök have more than proved that."

"Perhaps…" Kratos responded, "But for now, I simply wish to be left alone…"

"Well, should the day ever come where you change your mind, brother." Mimir smiled, "We'll be waiting for you."

A moment later, in a flash of light, the two were gone, leaving Kratos alone with his whirring thoughts as he basked in the stillness of the forest.

End Flashback:

"It is time…" A voice suddenly whispered making Kratos' eyes shoot open in alarm and he quickly jumped to his feet, pulling the two dagger-like swords, the Blades of Chaos, into his arms as he prepared to face whatever might be coming. A sudden wind began to rip through his valley as Kratos looked around for the voice's origin, slow at first but gradually growing stronger.

"Who is there?" Kratos demanded, "Come out!"

"Save them…" The voice replied, sounding as though many were speaking as one and making Kratos growl as he looked around and found no one.

As the wind began to grow stronger, Kratos watched with narrowed eyes as the trees surrounding his home were ripped from the ground and hurled through the air, his bear waving wildly as the wind tried to rip it from the branch in which it hung. A moment later, a large rip literally appeared in the middle of the air in front of Kratos, and a blinding white light blazed forth, forcing Kratos to shut his eyes as the wind turned into a violent storm, sucking everything in the vicinity into the rip.

The body of the bear Kratos had hunted, as well as the branch itself, suddenly broke free and was sucked into the tear a moment later, disappearing without a sound. Spinning on his heel, Kratos threw the Blades of Chaos in front of him, embedding them deep into the ground as he tried to anchor himself from being sucked into the rip. This seemed to work for a moment before the wind grew even fiercer in the wake of Kratos' refusal to give in; one blade was ripped free, leaving Kratos to growl angrily as he hung on to the remaining blade with his one hand. A moment later, Kratos' eyes widened as the remaining blade was ripped free, and he tumbled backward, end-over-end, into the rip; as soon as Kratos disappeared, the crack sealed, and the wind died away, leaving a devastated area that was once a seat of calm and solitude.

XXXX

Meera tried not to show how utterly terrified she was as she sat amongst the few survivors of the Dothraki massacre, her hands bound together tightly; seated next to her, Meera's grandmother was sitting with her head bowed, silently praying. Screams, pleas for mercy, and cruel laughter echoed from all around Meera as the Dothraki reveled in their victory, tearing through the caravan for valuables and dragging female captives away to be raped.

The Dothraki had been quite thorough in their slaughter, sparing only the women and the very young; the men had all been killed, their bodies thrown on the bonfire that was blazing out of control not far away.

"As a sudden shadow fell across Meera, she looked up to see a Dothraki warrior leering down at her, blood splattered across his chest and arms; an arakh sword, covered in gore, was held loosely in the warrior's left hand, which he raised at Meera.

"You're next…"

"No!" Meera screeched as she tried to back away from the leering warrior, "Please no!"

"Silence whore!" The Dothraki spat, reaching forward and grabbing Meera by the hair, causing her to cry out in pain as the warrior began to drag her away from the other crying women.

The warrior had only dragged Meera a few feet away when a fierce wind began to blow across the plain, making the Dothraki release his hold on Meera as he tried to cover his face with his arm, his eyes narrowed against the growing dust; from where she sat, Meera's grandmother began to grin, as though having expected this to occur.

A moment later, black clouds began to spread across the once-blue sky as the wind grew ever fiercer; as Meera stared in shock, lightning began to flash above her with such ferocity that it took her breath away.

"He comes…" Meera's grandmother whispered reverently, causing a few of the women to turn to the old woman with looks of confusion.

As the Dothraki struggled to control their panicking horses, the wind blew across the plains with the strength of a hurricane. Black clouds filled with lightning ripped across the sky, and thunder boomed with such strength that it shook the very ground beneath Meera's feet.

A moment later, the group, Dothraki and captives alike, stared in shock as the sky ripped in two, unleashing a blinding light from the heavens that temporarily blinded all who looked at it. As the group continued to stare in shock, debris began to rain down from above; a staring Dothraki warrior was suddenly ripped from the saddle of his horse as an entire tree trunk slammed into his body, impaling him in the ground with a cry of anguish. Meera's grandmother, by this time, had risen to her feet and had her bound hands raised towards the heavens, a look of reverence on her face as everyone else watched in horror at what was occurring.

"What is happening!" A Dothraki warrior screamed as he struggled to control his panicking horse; a moment later, the body of a large bear slammed into the warrior, knocking both him and his horse to the ground. As his fellow warriors stared in shock, unable to believe what they had just seen, the warrior screamed and cursed as he tried to free himself from under the body of the bear, while his horse screamed and kicked in terror as it also tried to free itself.

Just when Meera thought that she could not possibly be more shocked, a man with skin as white as snow fell through the hole in the sky, crashing to the ground in front of the stunned Dothraki with such force that the ground literally shook with the man's impact. As she took in the behemoth of a man, who was slowly rising to his feet, Meera felt as though someone had stolen her voice from her; everything her grandmother had told her was true. The pale god was real. He was real and descended from the heavens, just as her grandmother had promised for years. It was all true.

"Behold!" Meera's grandmother cried reverently, causing the other women to look at her in shock. "The pale god has come!"

XXXX

Winterfell:

Ned Stark kneeled before the weirwood trees outside his home and stared in shock, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He had been paying his respects to the Old Gods as was his way when suddenly blood-red tears began to pour from the eyes of the face carved into the tree. Ned had always believed in the Old Gods, like all Starks before him; yet, he had never seen any proof of their existence, and nothing like what was happening before him had ever occurred. What did this mean? The answer would not come to Ned for a very long time.

XXXX

Tyrosh:

Melisandre stared in shock at the towering pillar of flame that spread from the floor to the ceiling before her, her mouth open in awe at the magnificent display of power that her god was showing her and all the faithful that were in his Temple at that moment. Mere moments before, she had been kneeling before the sacred flame of R'hllor in her god's Temple, seeking to commune about the future and what her god wished of her; for more years than the woman could remember, Melisandre had done everything in her power to spread the teachings of her god and ensure that all saw the light of R'hllor.

Yet, in all that time, nothing like what was happening before her had ever happened before. As she knelt before the sacred fire in R'hllor's Temple, seeking guidance, Melisandre was suddenly blown onto her back as the fire roared with power, becoming the pillar she now saw before her. A moment later, Melisandre and all within the Temple screamed in agony, their hands clasped tightly over their ears as a voice roared across their minds, as loud as thunder.

"THE PALE ONE HAS COME!"

Who the pale one was and what R'hllor's words meant was something that Melisandre would not discover for many years to come, but it was a message that she would never forget.

XXXX

Kings Landing:

Jon Arryn knelt silently as he prayed to the seven for guidance; since becoming Hand of the King some years ago, Jon had done all he could to try and curb the King's many self-destructive vices, all to no avail. No one could control Robert Baratheon, it seemed; the man's interminable love for alcohol and whores seemed to be all that the man cared about.

The realm could go to the seven hells, for all Robert apparently cared, as long as he had a goblet of wine in his hand and a whore's lips around his cock. At the end of Robert's rebellion, Jon had thought that the days of a mad king sitting on the iron throne were finally at an end; that hope, it seemed, was quickly being dashed as Jon watched the boy he had all but raised, lose himself to his inability to control himself. That was what had brought Jon to the Temple of the Seven; he had come to beg the gods for guidance on how he could save the realm, for if things did not change soon, Jon had no doubt that another rebellion would unfurl in his lifetime, and this time Robert would be the King fighting for his crown.

While Jon was a pious man, a small part of him wondered if the gods even existed or whether he and all who entered this Temple were wasting their time and simply whispering to the wind. As Jon finished his prayer and began to rise to his feet, he looked up at the statue of the mother, who towered above him; hopefully, she would give him a sign of what it was he needed to do. No sooner had the thought entered Jon's mind when suddenly the ground beneath his feet began to violently shake; as the other worshippers in the Temple began to scream in fear and fall to the floor, Jon heard an unmistakable crack. As he was suddenly thrown onto his stomach, Jon looked up at the statue of the mother, his eyes widening in horror as he saw a large crack beginning to form across the statue's face; another loud crack had the Hand of the King looking up to the ceiling in horror as spiderweb cracks began to spread across it.

Realizing what was about to happen, Jon spat out a curse and quickly struggled to his feet as the Temple violently shook around him; shouting out a warning to the other worshippers to run for their lives, Jon sprinted for the door as fast as his old legs would take him. He had just managed to run out of the Temple's doors when it happened; with an almighty groan, the Temple crumpled like a house of cards, crushing everyone behind Jon who had been too slow to heed his warning and blanketing the stunned watchers in a suffocating fog of dust and debris. Jon knelt where he was, a look of horror etched across his face as he stared at the once mighty Temple of the faith, now a ruin, with an uncountable number of victims buried inside of it.

The people were much given to signs and portents, and Jon knew, without a doubt, that this would be considered a terrible one. The Temple of the Faith being ripped apart by an earthquake soon after Robert had taken the crown? The people would no doubt wonder if it was a message from the gods, showing their displeasure with Robert's rule! Jon would need to work fast if he was to head off a possible revolt. Quickly rising to his feet, Jon began to scream for the Gold Cloaks, the city watch of Kings Landing, to begin searching for survivors. Little did Jon know that at this very moment, across Westeros, similar violent earthquakes were destroying nearly every Temple built to honor the faith of the seven. The small folk would speak of the catastrophic destruction of the temples for years to come as the day when the gods truly abandoned their land in fear, but fear of what? That answer would not come for some time yet.

XXXX

The island of Pyke:

Balon Greyjoy glared angrily at the small number of boats that lay at anchor not far from him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he tried to smother the all-consuming rage that burned within him.

Barely a year ago, during the height of his rebellion against the fat bastard, King Robert Baratheon, Balon's fleet had numbered at a hundred ships; for several months, the Ironborn had ruled the waves, taking salt wives and plunder from anyone stupid enough to try and stand up to them. Then King Robert had come and destroyed all of Balon's dreams of conquest, killing his sons in the process and taking his sole heir, Theon, as a hostage and delivering him to the King's pet wolves, the Starks. It was not supposed to be this way; Balon was supposed to be the sword of the Drowned God, delivering his judgment to all those weak bastards who dared to look down on the Ironborn; instead, Balon had been broken, his fleet taken from him and his family left in ruins.

King Robert even humiliated Balon further by showing him mercy and letting him live rather than taking the iron price as Balon had expected. Had the roles been reversed, Balon would have relished in cleaving the King's head from his body, taking the fat bastard's whore of a Queen as his salt wife, the expected fate for a defeated enemy.

So consumed in his internal fury and hatred at the man who had taken everything from him and humiliated him afterwards that Balon failed to notice how quickly the water along the shoreline was receding. The sailors on the boats did, however, and began promptly jumping off their ships, running in a mad dash of panic as they tried to get as far inland as possible.

Finally, the panicked cries and running bodies seemed to register to Balon, and he looked around in confusion at what was happening around him; turning his eyes to the sea, Balon's mouth dropped open in shock as he saw the enormous tidal wave speeding toward him. Spinning on his heel, Balon began running as fast as he could towards his stronghold, not knowing he would never make it. That day, a series of tidal waves would slam into the Iron Islands, decimating them beyond anything they had ever experienced before; the exact number of dead would never truly be known, but it was suspected that the population of the Islands had been cut by more than half. No ships would survive the storm's fury, and it would be many years before the Ironblood could create even a tenth of the ships they once commanded.

XXXX

The Far North:

Leaf and the other children of the forest stared in horror as the man whom they called 'The Three-Eyed-Raven' screamed in absolute despair and agony, violently twisting and struggling to free himself from the confines of his prison. For more years than Leaf could remember, this man had been their advisor, carefully manipulating events worldwide to prepare mankind for the return of the White Walkers. Now, their advisor was sobbing incoherently like a small child as whatever he had foreseen with his gifts completely destroyed him. As Leaf continued to stare in shock, the man seemed to look right at Leaf for a moment before screaming,

"The pale one has come! And his arrival has broken the board against the wall! Find him! Only he can save us now!"

A moment later, blinding light erupted from the man's eyes, burning his eyes from his skull as he screamed in pain; Leaf and the others watching in horrified silence as the man's screams grew into shrieks before finally, he fell limp and silent against the roots that had, for so long, been his prison.

As she stared at the dead body of the Three-Eyed-Raven, Leaf felt herself swallow as her throat grew unbearably dry. Leaf was old, very old indeed, and she remembered the prophecy given millennia ago about the pale one's coming. But, after waiting so long for him to arrive and seeing no sign that he ever would, Leaf had understandably begun to doubt that the prophecy was anything but another lie that the humans had created to satisfy their own greed. If the pale one truly had arrived, then she and the other children would need to find him as quickly as possible, for only he could save them from the wrath of the White Walkers now.

XXXX

Wilding camp:

Several hundred miles from Leaf and the children of the forest, a Wise Woman was applying a healing poultice to an injured warrior when she suddenly froze, causing the warrior to look at her in confusion; when she was still frozen in place, several seconds later, the woman's granddaughter warily approached and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Grandmother…? Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, child…" The woman replied, tears beginning to run down her face as she reached up and gripped the small omega symbol that hung from around her neck, "I've never felt better… For you see… Our god has finally arrived…"

The girl's eyes widened in shock at her grandmother's words, and she reached up to grab her own necklace, her heart beating like a drum.

"You are sure…?"

"Oh yes, child," the old woman replied, "I feel it in my bones… He has finally come!"

"Who the bloody fuck are you two talking about?" The Wildling warrior demanded, annoyed that the Wise Woman had stopped treating his injury and appeared to have gone mad.

"We must speak to the chieftain," the old woman replied, ignoring the warrior's question, "If the pale one has truly come at last, there are preparations that need to be made!"

Without another word, both women hurried out of the tent, leaving the warrior to curse and yell after them as he stared between the door they had run out of and his half-treated injury.

XXXX

To say that Kratos was annoyed would be an understatement at the moment; he had just been kidnapped from his home and dragged through a portal of unknown origin for unknown reasons. After what felt like an eternity of being dragged behind Helio's chariot, he'd finally fallen free of the portal, crashing to the earth with such force that his arrival created a crater. As he slowly rose to his feet, Kratos quickly took account of his surroundings; he appeared to have landed in some grassland-type area, and judging by the bloody warriors who were staring at him with varying degrees of shock, the destroyed wagons, and the massive bonfire of burning corpses, Kratos suspected he had just arrived in the aftermath of a particularly brutal battle.

A sudden whimper from behind him made Kratos turn to see its origin, only to find a small girl kneeling before him and staring up at him with wide eyes. Not far from her, a group of bound, bloodied, and terrified women and children were all looking at Kratos with various expressions of shock on their faces, save for one bound elder woman in a long brown robe, who was standing in front of the seated group and staring at Kratos with a level of reverence that made him feel uncomfortable.

"Behold!" The elder woman proclaimed for all to hear, "The pale god has come!"

Kratos raised his eyebrow at that and stared imperiously down at the woman for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

"Where am I, woman?" Kratos demanded; to his surprise, the woman's smile seemed to grow at the question.

"In Essos, my lord," the woman replied at once, "Not far from the city of Myr."

"Essos… Myr…" Kratos repeated thoughtfully, "I do not know these lands…"

The old woman nodded at that as though expecting such a response, her smile still prominently displayed; behind her, the other women and children were staring at Kratos as though they couldn't believe he was real.

Turning back to the still-staring warriors, Kratos could see that their shock at his arrival was beginning to wear off, replaced with growing anger.

"These men, who are they to you?" Kratos demanded of the woman,

"Dothraki, my lord," the old woman replied, making Kratos inwardly groan at the title, "They are raiders who attacked our trading caravan and killed our menfolk, in search of plunder. The women, they like to take for…. Sport."

Kratos' eyes narrowed dangerously at that as a Dothraki warrior suddenly grew tired of waiting and stepped forward, raising his bloody arakh at Kratos.

"I don't know where you came from, you tall fucker, but if you don't want to die screaming, you will step away from our prizes."

Kratos stared at the warrior momentarily, his eyes narrowing angrily as he sized up the Dothraki; they reminded him of the barbarians he had faced so many years before.

"No," Kratos growled, coming to a decision, "These women are now under my protection. Find somewhere else to stick your dick…"

The Dothraki growled angrily at that and took a step forward as his fellow warriors laughed behind him. Kratos could see what was about to happen and sighed wearily, crossing his arms over his chest. Behind him, the kneeling girl had shuffled back to the others and was watching wide-eyed at the spectacle; as Kratos prepared for the inevitable, he heard the girl whisper,

"Grandmother, we must do something! He's going to be killed!"

The older woman laughed at that, and Kratos heard her reply,

"Be calm, Meera. These Dothraki dogs cannot hurt our lord."

The Dothraki took another step forward, violently slashing his weapon through the air as he made various threats against Kratos in his native tongue.

"You do not want this fight… Leave, while you're still able to…"

This final threat seemed to be too much for the warrior to bear, for he swiftly charged forward and jumped into the air, slashing down at Kratos' chest as he landed; a moment later, everyone watching gaped in shock as the Dothraki's weapon bounced harmlessly against Kratos' bare skin, leaving not even a bruise behind.

The Dothraki stared at his opponent for a moment, stunned that his weapon had not even scratched the pale warrior before him, and Kratos watched as the man swallowed nervously. The other Dothraki behind the warrior were likewise stunned, unable to understand how the man's weapon had been so ineffective; from behind him, Kratos heard the older woman softly laugh, as though expecting such a result.

"Leave." Kratos growled, "I will not tell you again."

The Dothraki warrior turned red with humiliation at being talked down to by Kratos and screamed out a war cry before beginning to violently slash as fast as he could at Kratos' body; yet, no matter where the arakh landed, it continuously bounced harmlessly off of Kratos' skin, leaving no wound behind.

Finally, after several moments of this, Kratos finally had enough and snapped his arm forward, grabbing the warrior by the throat and slowly raising him into the air as he violently thrashed to free himself.

"You were warned…" Kratos growled as the warrior in his grip stared back in naked fear, "You should have listened."

With a savage roar that sounded as if it had come from a dragon, Kratos grabbed the warrior's body with his other hand and jerked the arm around the warrior's throat, upwards; a moment later, the Dothraki's head was ripped free of his body, with his spinal cord still attached. With a sneer of contempt, Kratos let the body drop to the ground as he held the warrior's head, a look of agony still etched upon it. The surrounding group, both Dothraki and captive, stared at the aftermath in abject shock, unable to comprehend what they had just seen; this behemoth of a man had suddenly appeared from the sky, had swords bounce harmlessly off of his naked chest, and then ripped a man's head completely free of his body as easily as a girl might rip petals from a flower. Such things were simply not possible!

Carelessly throwing the severed head toward the watching Dothraki warriors, Kratos watched as they flinched away from the grotesque trophy as it hit the ground and rolled toward them.

"Unless you wish to join him… Leave now."

The Dothraki looked at one another, and for a moment, Kratos hoped that they would heed his advice; that hope disappeared seconds later when the warriors seemed to come to an unspoken agreement and charged at him, causing him to sigh wearily before reaching back and pulling his axe from behind him.

"So be it, then…"

With a deep growl, Kratos brought his arm back and hurled the axe as hard as he could at the charging warriors; faster than should have been possible, the axe left Kratos' hand and sliced through the warriors as easily as a knife through butter. A moment later, six Dothraki warriors fell to the ground, having been cleanly sliced in two; the sight of such an attack caused the other charging warriors to pause as they stared in shock. Kratos then raised his hand, causing those behind him watching to wonder what he was doing; their question was answered seconds later as the axe flew back into his hand, to the shock and awe of those watching, slicing through more warriors as it did so, and leaving a dozen dead in the span of a heartbeat.

Two dozen arrows suddenly slammed into Kratos' body and bounced harmlessly to the ground a second later, causing him to growl in irritation; as a warrior on horseback raced toward him with a drawn bow, Kratos reared back with his free arm and delivered an overpowered punch to the charging warrior's horse, sending it flying backward end-over-end and breaking its back as it came to a stop, its rider trapped under it as the horse screamed in pain. Seeing such savage power seemed to shock the Dothraki beyond anything they had ever experienced, and Kratos took advantage of their shock to the fullest as he slashed, stabbed, and ripped the raiders apart one by one.

XXXX

Meera stared in horror at the gory spectacle going on before her; mere moments ago, she and the other women had been at the Dothraki's mercy. Now, those same savage warriors who had slaughtered hundreds of her people were themselves being slaughtered as easily as a butcher might kill a pig. Moreover, their killer seemed to possess powers that no mortal could claim! Swords and arrows bounced harmlessly off his body as though he were wearing Valyrian armor; his axe continuously flew from his hand to rip Dothraki to pieces, only to return to his open palm as if by magic, and his strength!

No human being could possibly be that strong! Meera's eyes widened even further as she watched the man physically pick up a charging horse over his head and hurl it, horse and rider both, at another group of charging riders, creating a pile of screaming horses and broken men!

A moment later, a charging rider was lifted clear of his saddle as the pale warrior punched the Dothraki in the chest, his arm actually going through the warrior's chest and coming out his back, leaving the Dothraki hanging upon the pale warrior's arm for a moment before the pale warrior flicked his arm and sent the Dothraki crashing to the ground. Spotting a fallen arakh, Meera placed the handle between her feet and began to feverishly saw at the bindings on her wrists.

"Wow…" A small boy whispered as he gazed out at the battle from under his mother's arm, "Look how strong he is, Mommy!"

"Gods save us…" The boy's mother whimpered back as they watched the pale warrior bring his axe down on a Dothraki, splitting him into two vertical halves.

"They have," Meera's grandmother proclaimed happily, "Can you not see him for what he is!"

As her bindings snapped free, Meera passed the weapon to another woman who began to saw at her bindings, just as Meera had. Turning to her grandmother, Meera looked up at the old woman and paused at the expression that Meera saw on her face; Meera's grandmother had a smile of pure reverence adorning her face, even as tears ran freely down her cheeks, as though all of the old woman's prayers had been answered and she could not possibly be happier.

"Grandmother!" Meera cried out, "We must flee while we have the chance!"

The old woman looked down at Meera in confusion at that,

"Why would we flee, child? Our lord will not harm us. See the power he holds! We, his faithful, are perfectly safe from his rage. It's his enemies that need fear his savagery, not us!"

The other women listening began to relax at the old woman's words, though a few still looked unconvinced and horrified at what the pale warrior was doing; several women, however, were beginning to look at the warrior with the same reverence as Meera's grandmother.

"Your father never truly believed…" The old woman continued, gently wiping away her tears, "But I did. I always knew he would come… Knew it in my soul…"

"He's real…" Meera whispered as the truth finally hit her. Her grandmother had been telling the truth, and all these years, Meera thought her mad.

"Oh yes, child…" The old woman replied in an awed whisper, "He's absolutely real… And he's going to change our world forever…"

XXXX

Kratos snarled with fury at the idiocy of the men facing him; Kratos had slaughtered dozens of their fellow warriors, and yet they just kept coming! An intelligent warrior would have seen that their weapons were useless against Kratos and ordered a retreat, but it seemed there was no such warrior among these 'Dothraki.'

Like annoying stinging bugs, these idiotic warriors just came, believing that even though none of their weapons had so much as scratched Kratos, they would still be able to overpower the Spartan through sheer force of numbers alone—an incorrect assessment, as they were quickly learning.

Kratos had lost track of time since this battle began, locked in his dance of death that was quickly seeing the battlefield fill up with fresh corpses of horses and men, who seemed too stupid to realize that they were not going to win this fight or perhaps they were like the Spartans of Kratos' homeland, choosing to die on the battlefield rather than surrender. If that were the case, then Kratos could at least respect their choice to stand and fight rather than flee in dishonor.

Finally, after an interminable amount of time, one lone warrior on a tall black steed screamed out something in his native tongue, causing the other warriors to stop their attack on Kratos and fall back, making Kratos grunt. Perhaps these Dothraki were not as stupid as he had first thought. Those who still had horses quickly turned their mounts from the battlefield and kicked their sides hard, fleeing from the battlefield and from the warrior who had decimated their ranks. Those without horses held out arms to their fellow warriors to be picked up as they rode past, or else were forced to flee on foot, send hateful glares over their shoulders at Kratos as they ran.

Finally, only Kratos and four Dothraki warriors remained, the one who had called a halt to the fighting and three others who sat behind him. As Kratos gazed across the sea of corpses that had been left in his wake, he was once again reminded of the barbarians of his past and of the destruction they had been left in, the day Kratos had made the ultimate mistake.

Kratos' mind was brought back to the present when the Dothraki leader pointed his weapon at him and shouted something at him, causing the Spartan to tightly grip his axe in preparation for another stupid attack. Instead, one of the other Dothraki calmly led his mount forward until he was only a few dozen feet separated them, causing Kratos to raise a brow in confusion.

"The Khal wishes to know the name of such a mighty warrior!" The Dothraki called out, "One who has killed so many of our people deserves to be known!"

For a moment, Kratos considered remaining silent. He had no need to give these people his name, but as he gazed across the battlefield, he felt a smudge of respect for their courage in facing him, even when they knew they could not win.

"I am called Kratos."

The Dothraki warrior turned in his saddle to face his leader and shouted back a response in his native tongue; the leader stared thoughtfully at Kratos for a moment before shouting something back, making the translator nod once.

"Kratos. It is a strange name. He is called Khal Drogo, leader of the Khalasar that you have just destroyed. Where do you come from that breeds such warriors?"

"I am a Spartan. My people are bred for war; tell 'Khal Drogo' that his people were very brave." Kratos replied simply, causing the warrior to turn and translate again; behind him, Kratos could hear the woman and children repeating his name and land in hushed whispers.

Khal Drogo shouted out one last time in his native language before turning his steed away from the battlefield and kicking in his heels, quickly speeding away, followed by the three others behind him.

"Khal Drogo says he will remember you, Kratos of Sparta! You are a great warrior, worthy of his respect! The caravan is yours to do with as you see fit, a worthy prize for a battle well fought!"

Without another word, the warrior turned his mount and followed Khal Drogo; a moment later, Kratos stood alone on the battlefield, save for the captives who were still seated behind him.

Kratos stared out at where the warriors had vanished for a moment more, making sure that they were actually gone, and not just circling back to attack once his back was turned; such a tactic would not work, of course, merely piss Kratos off, and Kratos doubted that someone like this 'Khal Drogo' would actually use such a tactic. Kratos had taken the measure of the man, and the Dothraki leader did not seem the type for such dishonorable tactics. Yet, more than one warrior had been felled due to his own carelessness after thinking victory was assured. After several moments of inactivity, Kratos returned his axe to its spot on his back before turning back to the captives, who were all watching him with differing expressions. Some were staring at him with naked terror, no doubt thinking that they would be next to feel the wrath of his rage.

Others were staring at him with relief as though he were their hero and had been sent by the gods to save them from an unspeakable fate. A small number, however, were staring at Kratos with reverence and devotion that made him feel uncomfortable; Kratos was not used to people looking at him like that. Fear, hate, anger, those he could understand as they had been the expression that many had viewed him with for most of his life. But reverence and respect? Those were entirely new, and he didn't know how to respond to such looks.

After several moments of silence, the old woman from earlier approached him and knelt in front of him as Kratos gazed down at her imperiously,

"My lord, Kratos… I have waited a long time for this day…"

"Rise to your feet, woman," Kratos growled, "I have no need for your sycophantry!"

"Of course, my lord," the woman smiled happily as she slowly climbed back to her feet.

"You claimed to have been waiting for this day… What did you mean?" Kratos demanded,

"It is just as I said, my lord," the old woman replied, "Centuries ago, a prophecy was made that proclaimed your arrival! The arrival of the pale god who would one day descend from the heavens and save our world, sweeping away the corruption and filth that has long polluted it! He will lead his people in battle against the cold ones and bring about a golden age of peace! The Targaryen's perverted our people's prophecy and made it seem like they were the ones destined to stop the cold ones, but our people always knew the truth, my lord."

Kratos felt his temper rising with every word the woman spoke; even centuries after their death, the fates STILL couldn't stop themselves from dragging Kratos into things that the Spartan had no interest in being a part of!

"I am no hero…" Kratos growled, "And you are not my people. Your prophecy is wrong. You should salvage what you can and be on your way."

"No, my lord," the old woman declared at once. "You ARE my way. We follow you now, as all will one day, whether they know it or not."

Kratos growled again at the woman's words, causing the captives behind her to shuffle back nervously, yet the old woman stood firm, smiling up at him as though his anger was immaterial to her.

Gazing down imperiously at the old woman, Kratos felt as though he was looking at a mirror image of his mother from ages past; the woman's age was impossible to know, but she appeared to be reaching her seventieth year, if he was any judge. Her hair was as white as his skin, and age had ripped her once youthful features away, leaving a hunched old crone behind; only her eyes still held any strength to them, and as Kratos gazed into the bluest eyes he had ever seen, he could feel the strength of his devotion to him. It unnerved him, to say the least. As Kratos continued to stare at the old woman, his gaze zeroed in on the small iron symbol that hung from around her neck, a symbol that he knew very well; his symbol. The symbol of war.

"Where did you get that?" Kratos demanded, pointing at the small iron omega hanging from the woman's neck, causing her to look down at it momentarily.

"It is the symbol of my order, my lord Kratos… We have worn it since my people first heard the prophecy of you…"

Kratos glared hatefully at the symbol for a moment more, causing the woman to smile knowingly as she gently caressed the iron omega.

"It is your symbol, my lord. Is it not?"

Kratos said nothing and simply continued to stare at the iron omega, as though he would have liked nothing better than to rip it from the woman's throat and hurl it as far away from him as he could; yet, despite Kratos's obvious anger, the woman continued to caress the symbol as though it were the greatest gift she had ever received.

"Are you really a god, mister?" A small boy suddenly asked, causing his mother to quickly grab him, pull him into her arms, and such him as Kratos' attention turned from the old woman to the child.

"Yes," Kratos stated, seeing no reason to lie. These people meant nothing to him, and telling the truth cost him nothing; the captives began to whisper excitedly at Kratos' reply, and the boy's eyes widened to a comical degree.

"But I am not the god you are waiting for…" Kratos growled. "I did not come here to save you. My arrival was not by choice."

"You are, my lord Kratos…" The old woman replied firmly, "You are destined to save us. You just don't know it yet…"

Kratos growled in annoyance. The old woman's devotion to him and refusal to be dissuaded that he was not who she thought he was were beginning to grind on Kratos' nerves.

"You said that your so-called 'prophecy' proclaimed that I would defeat the cold ones… Explain."

"The cold ones are the enemies of all mankind, my lord," the woman replied quickly, her eyes growing dark, "They seek only to kill every living thing on earth and leave it in a state of perpetual winter, where nothing living will ever grow again. For now, they reside beyond the Great Wall of Westeros, but one day soon, they will come through it, and the final battle will begin.

"Great Wall?" Kratos repeated thoughtfully, "What is this Wall?"

"The Wall is an incredibly massive structure of ice and stone, built thousands of years ago by Bran the Builder for reasons that have been lost to time. Some say that Bran knew of the cold ones, having encountered them before, and built the wall to keep them out. It's several hundred feet high and over three hundred miles long, reaching from coast to coast."

Only the small tick of Kratos' eyebrow showed how impressed he was with the Wall as his mind raged at how such a thing could have possibly been built.

"And who defends such an impressive defense?" Kratos asked, after a moment of quiet contemplation, "Why not have them fight these 'cold ones' you speak of?"

The old woman's face twisted into an ugly scowl at that before she spat out hatefully,

"Perhaps once, they could have, my lord! But that time has long since passed… The Wall is guarded by members of the Night's Watch, an order of brothers who swore off children, lands, and titles to spend the remainder of their lives protecting 'The realms of men.' In times past, that did mean keeping a watchful eye out for the cold ones, and the order was filled with thousands of honorable warriors who swore to do so.

These days, however, the Night's Watch has become a shadow of its former self; they barely have enough warriors to man three of its nineteen castles, and the few they do have are mostly made up of rapists and murderers sent to the Wall as punishment, not for any sort of honor. When the cold ones do come, the Night's Watch will be easily consumed in their fury. Only you will be able to stand against them, my lord Kratos. You and those who follow you."

Kratos growled in annoyance at that, turning away from the captives to view the battlefield. He had no wish to be part of another quest to save the world, nor did he wish to be a leader to these people. He had been a leader once, and it had cost him everything he cared about, including his soul. He had learned well from his past mistakes and had no wish to repeat them. As his thoughts raged with all he had learned, Kratos gazed across the battlefield at the aftermath of not only his own slaughter but also that of the Dothraki who had come before him. Perhaps a hundred dead Dothraki littered the ground, and another hundred bodies that were obviously the captives' friends and families. Not far away, a huge bonfire was blazing out of control, the dead bodies of the Dothraki's victims used as kindling.

"Come, there is work to be done," Kratos rumbled, turning back to the whispering crowd, "The bodies of your kin do not deserve to be left here to rot. We will give them the rites they are due to ensure their spirits reach their final resting place."

"You heard our lord!" The old woman cried out, clapping her hands together, "On your feet and get to work!"

The captives quickly rose to their feet and strode through the sea of corpses, looking for friends and loved ones. Kratos watched, annoyed by what the woman had once again called him; with a tried sigh, Kratos wearily shook his head and strode forward as well, to help however he could.

XXXX

Meera stifled a sob as she stared at the three wrapped bodies that were burning before her; around her, dozens of similar pyres were burning, sending smoke into the night sky as the women and children all sobbed and said their last goodbyes to loved ones. Next to her, Meera's grandmother was silently praying, tears running down her cheeks as she whispered a final goodbye to her son, daughter-in-law, and grandson.

So caught up in her own grief, Meera failed to notice as Kratos stepped up behind her, it wasn't until his rumbling voice spoke that she realized he was there, jumping in alarm at his voice.

"Do not weep for them, girl."

"What?" Meera asked in confusion as she spun around to face the god, "How can I not? They were all I had! And now, I'll never see them again!"

"Sorrow is to be expected," Kratos nodded. "But tell me this: Did they die well?"

"As well as can be expected, my lord," Meera's grandmother replied sadly, "I saw my grandson spear one of those Dothraki dogs in the side before an arrow killed him; based on the wound, I don't believe the bastard will survive the night."

Kratos nodded in approval at that, seemingly pleased with the old woman's words,

"Then he has earned his place in Elysium."

"Elysium, my lord…?" Meera asked in a small voice, staring up at the god, with wide eyes,

"It is the reward for all warriors of honor," Kratos replied, staring off into the distance at a place none but he could see, "A place of peace and beauty… The beautiful afterlife…"

Unbeknownst to Kratos, a great many of the former captives were standing nearby listening to his words and took great peace from them. Elysium. The beautiful afterlife. Those words would be planted in the minds of every person present, and one day soon, they would spread far beyond this place of death and sorrow; the beautiful afterlife, a place reserved for all the followers of Kratos, all the faithful.

Turning back to the still-crying girl, Kratos placed a warm hand on her shoulder and spoke again. His rumbling voice was still as strong as before, but it had a small measure of softness to it.

"Do not dishonor their courage with needless tears, girl. Instead, honor their memory by living every day that you are given, every day that they were denied, and perhaps one day you too will be worthy of Elysium.

Kratos' words profoundly impacted Meera as she stared up at him in awe; beside her, Meera's grandmother smiled proudly and gave a quick nod at Kratos' words.

Quickly wiping away her tears, Meera stood straight as an arrow and looked back into Kratos' eyes with a newfound determination that made the god nod in approval at her. She would do exactly what her god had told her to do, honor her family's sacrifice by living every single day as though it were her last, and one day, earn her place in Elysium and see them again.

Seeing that his words had done their work, Kratos nodded once more before removing his hand from Meera's shoulder and turning to the old woman,

"Come, woman. We must talk."

"Of course, my lord," Meera's grandmother replied at once, following behind Kratos at a respectful distance; Meera turned back to the burning pyre one last time, whispering a soft goodbye before quickly following the pair.

XXXX

Kratos sighed wearily as he led the old woman away from the multitude of burning bodies; throughout the day, he had watched with a careful eye as the women and children sorrowfully performed the rituals that would see their families to whatever afterlife awaited them. And the longer he watched, the more agitated Kratos became as an unarguable truth descended upon him: these people would all be dead in a matter of days if he left them to fend for themselves. There was not a warrior left among them, the Dothraki had seen to that; what was left were traders, mothers, and children barely old enough to learn how to swing a sword.

"What is your name, woman?" Kratos demanded as he finally stopped, staring out into the grasslands' darkness, yet knowing she was behind him without looking.

"I am called Kara, lord Kratos," the old woman replied happily as Kratos rumbled her name over his tongue.

"Kara… Tell me, should I abandon you and the rest of your people here, will you continue to follow me despite my repeated declarations that I am not the one you seek?"

"Of course, lord Kratos," Kara replied with a cocky grin as Meera gasped at the thought of Kratos leaving them, "Because you ARE the one we are meant to follow."

Kratos sighed wearily at that, and lowered his head in thought as he crossed his bulging arms over his chest.

"The land you came from," Kara said softly, "The land called Sparta… Is it the realm of the gods?"

"No," Kratos replied in a monotone, "It was a kingdom in a country called Greece. Every kingdom in Greece was known for one thing or another; some were known for their philosophy, others for their art or culture. However, Sparta was known and revered for its warriors; its children bred to be soldiers first and men second. From the moment we can stand, Spartans are baptized in the fires of combat, taught never to retreat, never to surrender, and taught to make sword and shield as much of themselves as their own beating heart. Each man protected the man next to him, killed for him, and would willingly die for him; a brotherhood like no other…"

"You speak of them as though there are no more of them, my lord…" Kara offered, noting the sadness in her god's voice as he gazed up into the night sky at a past only he could see.

"There aren't," Kratos rumbled back, "I am the last. As their military might grew, so did their hubris; they were my people once, and I was their god of war, the most important deity in their pantheon, but that was long ago and they are all gone, now…"

"I disagree, my lord. Respectfully, of course…" Kara replied softly, causing Kratos to turn back to her, "Sparta and her people may be gone from this land called Greece, but that does not mean that your people must disappear as well. No matter where you take us, my lord, we will follow you. And if you would allow us to carry the name of your people, we would make Sparta rise again to glory."

"Being a Spartan is not an easy life…" Kratos rumbled back, "And it is not something that can be freely given, it must be earned." Turning to the girl standing beside Kara, Kratos glared at her imperiously for a moment, "And you, girl? Do you wish to be a Spartan? To fight? To kill?"

"I do, my lord," the girl instantly replied, dropping to her knees before him. Unbeknownst to Kratos, a large group had followed him and Kara and likewise knelt before him as they declared their wish to be Spartans.

Kratos gazed down at the dozens of women and children before him who were proclaiming their loyalty to him, declaring themselves his people. His people. Such a strange and foreign concept. How long had it been since Kratos had people to call his own? To follow him. Fight for him. He had been a captain, a general, and eventually even a worshipped god, but those titles all felt the same, like leading armies.

Battles were the only place that people knew his name, and in his youth, when rage and violence were as close to Kratos as his own kin, he had reveled in the adoration he received for bringing destruction upon his enemies. But these people were not warriors; they did not need him to bless them with rage and fury. What they looked to him for was strength and stability; they wanted his blessings for their children, so that they would grow beyond the few short years that life had taught them to expect in this savage land. They wanted guidance and patience so they could learn to survive and not just survive but thrive!

These people claimed that they wanted to be Spartans, but Kratos was unsure if the old Spartan mentality was something he wanted to impart upon them; his people had been the greatest warriors that the world had ever seen, it was true, but their greatness had eventually led to hubris, and from there to their own destruction.

As Kratos glared down imperiously at the kneeling people before him, Mimir's words rang in his ear again, loud as thunder:

"Brother… I know that war and death are all you feel that you are capable of, but you are more than that… You have always been more than that…"

Perhaps the severed head had spoken true, after all. Perhaps he could aspire to be more than just an instrument of destruction and rage; even now, Kratos felt it; with every whispered prayer and word of gratitude from the crowd in front of him, Kratos felt himself growing stronger.

It felt different than when he was the god of war of his father's pantheon; he was already a god, but the genuine worship he was now receiving from these people seemed to amplify his already impressive power, transforming him into a true God. He felt connected to these people through their worship, and could clearly make out every invocation, every prayer, every supplication and offering.

Slowly, he looked down at the glowing blue veins that ran under the mark he had gotten so long ago in memory of his brother, Deimos. A symbol of his chosen path, or rather a path he thought he had chosen, only to later discover that there had been no choice at all. A long-forgotten spark of hope reignited within him, a goal Kratos had long thought unattainable, even when others hoped it for him. To be more than the monster he had become, more than the lone warrior fighting against everyone and everything that dared to cross his path.

Such an ambition still seemed utterly impossible to Kratos, how could he, 'The Ghost of Sparta,' be anything but a savage animal. But as he looked back out into the crowd, Mimir's words once again thundered in his skull; perhaps he had finally found a place to call home in this strange place that Kratos had found himself in. A home and a people to call his own, and who would call him their own in return; his new Spartans, but less an instrument of war and more a nation. Here was an opportunity to be for them what so many gods had failed to do for the mortals of his own world; protect them and teach them to be better. The only question that remained was, would he accept?

Gripping his hand into a fist so tight that it could have strangled the Nemean Lion effortlessly, Kratos reached his answer: yes.

He knew not what strange events had led him to this land or what this so-called 'prophecy' said about his being one day forced to fight again; such things no longer concerned him; all that mattered to Kratos, at that moment, was that he had found a new way to remake himself, to be better, and perhaps finally find redemption for the sins of his past.

"You are not Spartans…" Kratos growled, causing more than one person to look down in sadness at his rejection, "But you will be."

A dozen heads shot up in shock at those words; moments later, smiles began to break out amongst the group as they realized what had just happened. Their god was not turning them away, after all!

"To be Spartan is to embrace discipline, struggle, perhaps even death…" Kratos continued, "You must be willing to give your life for the person next to you, and know that they will do the same at a moment's notice. I will show you how to act as one, to be an unstoppable wall of shields and spears that will not break, no matter how large the force you face is! I will make you into Spartans!"

Dozens of conversations began at once as the crowd took in Kratos' words, filling the night with hushed whispers of excitement; slowly raising his hand, Kratos brought the noise to an end as he spoke again.

"Now, rise to your feet and take heed of your first lesson, and learn it well! If you wish to bear my people's name, then you must also bear the one truth that all Spartans have embraced since their founding: Spartans kneel to no one."

The crowd looked at one another for a moment as they registered their god's words; Kara's granddaughter was the first to heed his words, rising to her feet slowly but standing straight as an arrow once she had a look of fierce pride shining in her eyes at the prospect of earning the right to call herself a Spartan.

Others quickly followed the girl, slow at first but quickly gaining in number until, at last, the entire group was standing before Kratos and staring at him with a look of complete devotion and loyalty. They were his now, fully and completely, and he would ensure they learned quickly how to survive in this savage land; never again would his people need fear for their lives from raiders, bandits, and monsters seeking only slaughter and sport.

"Rest tonight," Kratos rumbled, "Tomorrow, we will gather what supplies are unspoiled and plan accordingly. If I am to turn you from a rabble into true Spartans, you will need weapons and to be taught how to properly use them."

Turning back to Kara, who had been watching the entire process with a gigantic smile, Kratos inwardly sighed.

"You said we were near a city. What is its name?"

"Myr, lord Kratos. It is but a few short hours from us," Kara replied quickly, "But it would be better if we kept our distance."

"Explain."

"Myr is heavily involved in the slave trade that dominates the Free Cities of Essos," Kara explained, making a dark look cross Kratos' face, "And if we attempt to reach the city, such as we are, there is a very real chance that we will be taken by the city lords and sold. Such a thing has happened many times before, and with no men folk to protect them, many women and children have suffered such fates in the aftermath of a Dothraki raid."

Kratos was quiet for a moment, his thoughts racing with what he had learned. He was no stranger to slavery. Growing up in Sparta, Kratos had been surrounded by the Helots, whom Sparta had enslaved long before Kratos' birth. Yet, since the day Kratos had become a slave to Ares and then to the gods of Olympus, Kratos had fostered an almost all-consuming hatred for the trade.

"How many slaves does Myr 'proudly' claim?" Kratos growled, venom creeping into his tone at the word 'proudly.'

"No one knows, my lord," Kara replied sadly, "But it is said that there are three slaves for every freeborn, and Myr calls hundreds of thousands home."

Kratos growled at that, his hands clenching into fists as his snarl rolled like thunder through the watching crowd, all who were watching their lord with worried looks.

"Tonight, we will clean and prepare the bear that arrived with me," Kratos rumbled. "It will serve as our meal for tonight and tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will gather what supplies are still useful and make our way to Myr."

"And once we reach the city, my lord?" Kara asked as a cruel grin began to spread across her face, having already suspected her lord's plan.

"Then, YOU and the others will wait outside Myr's gates while I increase our numbers," Kratos replied simply, "Myr will be but the first city we take. And once taken, Myr's slave population will join us. Myr will die, and Sparta will be born…"

Perhaps it was her imagination, but as Kratos' words washed over her, Kara felt as though she had suddenly deaged by decades as a strength all but unknown began to fill her very core. She knew at that moment that she had been correct about who Kratos was; he was the god she had been waiting for and would truly change the world forever. Tonight was a beginning, and the ground upon which she tread was sacred soil. It might take years for him to teach her people, HIS PEOPLE, all that he knew, but one day, she and all the others standing here tonight would be called Spartans, and the world would never be the same.

XXXX

Author's Note:

This story was commissioned by Kaos-lover97.

Don't expect regular updates on it because I don't like to make promises that I cannot keep; if more ideas for this story come to me, I'll periodically drop a new chapter or two, but other than that, I promise nothing.

I've already got four other stories that I am currently working on. I don't have time to take on a new one, especially when it's hard enough to update the ones I'm already writing; I only accepted this commission because this story is an entirely new frontier for me, and I was curious if I could do it. That and the idea sounded frigging awesome! I hope you like what I've created so far.

Chapter Text

Floki the shipbuilder, often called 'Floki the fool' by many of the people of Myr, sighed as he lay down among the dock slaves, growling lowly as he tried to make his pathetic straw mattress as comfortable as he could as he prepared for sleep before another day of misery began. Known for his distinctive appearance and habit of talking to himself, Floki was lean and agile. His wild, light brown hair added to his chaotic persona, made worse by the intricate dragon carved into the left side of his head, which ran from his neck up past the back of his ear and ended at his temple. His dark blue eyes, cold and haunted, unnerved most people. Added to this, Floki also rubbed charcoal under his eyes, enhancing his mysterious look and encouraging others to keep their distance from the 'mad shipbuilder.'

Once, he was the son of a master shipbuilder from a distant land he no longer remembered. One day, as Floki and his father were out at sea, testing the new ship that Floki's father had just finished, the pair were attacked by pirates; though only a boy of eight name days, Floki had put up a terrific fight alongside his father, but all for naught. His father was brutally killed by a slash to the throat, and his body was thrown carelessly into the sea soon after; Floki was quickly overcome after that and would have joined his father had the captain not stopped his men from killing the boy. Realizing that there was nothing of value on the ship, the pirate captain decided to take Floki instead, and the boy was forced to watch teary-eyed as his father's beautiful ship burned in the distance as the pirates sailed away with their prize.

For weeks, Floki's only view was a never-ending ocean as he was fed just enough to keep him alive; finally, when Floki began to believe that he would never see land again, the city of Myr appeared on the horizon. But upon landing, Floki realized that he should have prayed to remain at sea; quickly sold, Floki's life became one of constant pain and humiliation as he was quickly sold to a fat merchant within the city and forced to obey the man's every whim, no matter how degrading.

From being used as the man's personal 'fan boy' to keep the man cool during the hottest parts of the day, to cleaning out the man's disgusting bedpan. Any hint of stubbornness was quickly beaten out of the boy by the cruel merchant, who seemed to take great pleasure in watching Floki's back laid open with a whip, often not stopping the punishment until Floki passed out from the pain.

When Floki had turned twelve, the fat merchant had caught the boy drawing images of boats and recreating the ship that his father had made so long ago; at first, the merchant was enraged at the boy for daring to steal paper from him to waste on 'useless doodling,' and had Floki permanently marred for the theft, by carving an intricate dragon into the left side of the boy's skull. This type of punishment was reserved for only those slaves who had greatly enraged their masters so that all would know that they were 'the worst sort of slave.'

Soon afterward, however, the merchant came to the realization that Floki had much potential despite being a lowly slave. He'd quickly hired the boy out to other shipbuilders in order to 'gift the boy with more experience in order to increase his resale value,' and Floki had soaked up everything that he was taught like a sponge soaking up water in the desert.

For ten long years, Floki had learned everything he could from his teachers about shipbuilding, from what was the best type of wood to use, to how thick to make the hull; even the most immaterial and esoteric intricacies of shipbuilding, that no one else seemed to deem important, Floki would study until he knew them like the back of his hand.

Throughout those ten years, Floki's reputation as a madman would be cemented in the minds of most of Myr. Often, when learning something new about shipbuilding or looking over the blueprints for a new ship, Floki would talk to himself as he sought some way to make the ship even better than it already was. When the solution would finally present itself, Floki would begin giggling to himself, which seemed to unnerve those around Floki even more.

Those ten years were perhaps the happiest of Floki's life, or as happy as the life of a slave could be, and despite Floki's reputation as a madman, his reputation as an incredible shipbuilder was even greater.

But then, Floki made an incredibly costly error; he approached his master with plans for a new type of ship that would move faster through the water, hoping to secure funds to make his dream a reality. Instead, Floki had watched as his master had ripped the plans to shreds as the fat merchant sneered in derision, telling Floki, 'There was no need for new ships when the old design had served Myr well for centuries.'

After over a decade of having his master control every aspect of his life, this final insult proved to be too much for the shipbuilder to bear, and for the first time in his life, Floki struck back. Before the merchant knew what was happening, Floki's hands were around the man's neck; a savage jerk later, the man was dead with a broken neck, and Floki was staring down in panic.

Knowing the fate of slaves who dared to kill their masters, Floki knew he had to figure out a way to cover this up before the merchant's guards came in to check on their master. Quickly grabbing a nearby jug of wine, Floki had hastily poured the contents down the merchant's throat and on his robes before dragging the man outside and throwing him over the balcony.

Though all the evidence pointed towards the man getting drunk and falling from his balcony, the merchant's wife still was suspicious of Floki's involvement and quickly exacted her own form of petty revenge on him by selling him to the worst slave master she could find on the docks. The once revered and respected shipbuilder was now used only as a pack animal; no longer allowed to actively take part in the building of Myr's magnificent fleet, he was instead used to load and unload cargo from the incoming merchant ships, or else, help repair the ships that had been damaged due to storms or pirate raids.

That had been Floki's life for five years now, five years of being denied that one thing that had made him truly happy in a life of pain and misery. Gone in a fit of madness, all because he had lost control one time, but that one time had been enough to take everything he had left.

Yet, as Floki laid his head down on the straw and tried to force his mind to stop so that he could have a few blessed hours of sleep before he had to return to the ship he'd been tasked with repairing, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. What that 'something' was, Floki had no idea, but the feeling was there all the same, like a buzzing, itching gnat that wouldn't leave him be.

With a tired sigh, Floki put the thought out of his mind and closed his eyes; dawn would be here in a few hours, and he had work to do if he wanted to make sure the ship he'd been tasked with repairing was done on schedule. Floki had no wish for another visit with the whip should he fail to meet his new master's expectations.

XXXX

Meera stood silently beside her grandmother, the two staring between Kratos' back, and the city of Myr that lay within eyesight, perhaps no more than five miles away; behind Meera, more than a hundred women and children were also standing in a large huddled mass, all equally silent as they awaited word of what their god would do.

The previous night, as she and a few others had helped Kratos skin and clean the body of the large bear that had arrived with him, Meera had asked about the Spartans of Kratos' homeland; for several moments, the god had said nothing, and Meera had mentally prepared to have her request denied. But then, Kratos began to tell Meera and the others about the former King of Sparta, Leonidas, who led three hundred of his Spartans brothers against the hordes of Persia, who sought to conquer Greece and enslave it to their rule.

Throughout the tale, Meera found herself enthralled in awe at the strength and courage of Leonidas and his Spartans, who managed to hold the gates of Thermopylae for three long days against thousands of Persian warriors. And she wasn't the only one. As Kratos continued to tell of how Leonidas and his warriors fought with the ferocity of true Spartans, his hands continuing to skin the bear with the efficiency of one who had done it a dozen times before, more of Meera's people began to group around the god, listening with awe at the courage of Leonidas and his bold three hundred, until, at last, all were listening with rapt attention as Kratos spoke.

Meera's awe was raised even further at the end of Kratos' tale when he told of how, at the end of the battle, Leonidas and his Spartans were betrayed by a fellow Greek, which allowed the Persians to get behind them, completely surrounding the heavily outnumbered Spartan army. But, rather than retreat, the Spartans had chosen to stand and fight, selling their lives dearly and buying their fellow Greeks more time to prepare for the Persians by killing ten for every one Spartan that fell. He'd then told the awestruck crowd of how the Persians were eventually defeated and driven back to Persia by a coalition of nearly all the Greek city-states, who, though ordinarily at odds with one another, had banded together in defense of sacred Greece, and through this alliance had managed to save her from falling under the yoke of Persia.

At the end of Kratos' tale, the listening crowd stood in shock, tears running down many a woman's face as they bowed their heads in respect for Leonidas and his fallen brothers. This tale, however, only seemed to cement Meera's desire to earn the right to call herself a Spartan one day, to stand alongside men like King Leonidas and his brave three hundred who had managed to survive for three days against thousands of Persians. True, they had been defeated in the end, but that defeat had not come from the Spartans being overrun, but rather due to treachery, and if not for that filthy traitor selling his brothers out to Persia, Meera would have placed a heavy bet on the Spartans coming out of the battle victorious.

That night, as Meera ate her portion of the bear that Kratos had prepared for his people, Meera's resolve was hardened stronger than a Valyrian blade; no matter what she had to endure in the future, no matter how hard Kratos was in teaching her his ways, she WOULD earn the right to call herself a Spartan.

As Meera tore her gaze from Kratos back to the far-off city of Myr, she felt that same resolve stir within her again; Myr had no idea what was coming, but the world would never be the same by the day's end.

XXXX

Kratos growled lowly to himself as he stared at the far-off city of Myr, his bulging arms crossed over his chest. The city was eerily reminiscent of Athens from his homeland. For a moment, Kratos mentally chuckled at the irony of his plans to destroy a city that bore such a striking similarity to Athens when, in another life, Kratos had battled another god of war to save Athens from destruction.

As Kratos continued to analyze the city before him, his mind went into overdrive as he tried to find a weakness. An enormous wall surrounded the city, made of what appeared to be white stone, the same color as the long winding road that stretched across the fertile green grassland and led away from the city. Like Athens, Myr was situated on a coastline, and Kratos could see dozens of ships both exiting and entering the walled harbor. Trade ships that were no doubt taking Myr's treasures to the rest of the world, or else bringing the world's treasures to Myr.

The longer he stared at the city, the more Kratos began to realize that though he held no animosity towards the city, beyond his disgust for the slave trade practiced there, as well as the men and women who benefitted from it, Myr would make the perfect place to create the new city of Sparta. It was a center of trade, easily defendable from both land and sea, and could easily be transformed in a matter of years into the image of Sparta that Kratos held in his mind. The only question was how to take it without destroying the city, which would require many years of hard work to rebuild it.

The people behind him were not warriors, not yet at least; they would be, in time. But for now, they were all but useless to him, and as such, Kratos would have to take the city alone. With a grimace, Kratos closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the well of power that resided within him; he had been shocked upon waking that morning to discover that his already impressive power had nearly tripled in the night, with no explanation as to how.

His only guess was the power of the belief that the people he had saved held for him; even as he slept, he was still aware of everything that was happening around him. Every prayer to him, veneration, and ounce of worship sent his way was like a constant unending buzzing in his mind that sought to drive him mad and yet made him feel more powerful than he had felt since his days as the Olympian god of war.

Slowly opening his eyes, Kratos looked up toward the sky, wanting to test his new power; to his surprise, nature seemed to obey his unspoken command as the sky darkened. Thunderclouds as black as night began to appear overhead. At the same time, the people behind him watched with awe. The only indication the event was also shocking to Kratos was the slight twitch of his brow as he watched the once sunny sky darken in mere moments as violent flashes of light ripped across the once peaceful sky.

"Hmmm," Kratos growled softly, causing Meera and her grandmother to turn to look at him,

"My lord? Kara asked, "Have you an idea on how to take the city?"

"Perhaps…" Kratos growled, "How many slaves did you say resided within Myr?"

"No one knows, my lord," Meera's grandmother responded, "As I said, the official tally is three slaves for every freeborn."

"And where are the majority kept?"

"In the slave pens," Kara replied scornfully, "In the southernmost part of the city. I saw them once as a young woman. Once was enough."

"Interesting…" Kratos replied, running a hand under his beard as a fierce wind suddenly joined the black sky.

Suddenly, a plan began to form in Kratos' head, and he smirked unseen beneath his beard before turning back to the watching crowd; a torrential rain began to pour down at this point, yet, to the surprise of all, not one of Kratos' people seemed to be getting wet; something that made many of the watchers laugh out in shock and delight.

"Kara, I have a task for you…"

"Anything, my lord," Kara said at once,

As Kratos told the old woman his plan, Kara couldn't help but smile at what her god had planned. There was no doubt in her mind that it would work, and it would catch the defenders of Myr completely by surprise.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I'm not gonna lie, I was caught off guard by how many followers this story gained so quickly; I didn't realize I had tapped into a market so many enjoyed, lol.

In the next chapter, Myr will be destroyed, and I will do my absolute best to make it as amazing as I can. As seen in the last chapter, the worship that Kratos is receiving from his people is already on its way to making him stronger, so what do you think will happen when that number is multiplied by several thousand? I decided to add Floki to this story because the day will one day come when Sparta will sail to Westeros, and who better to build the boats they will need than my personal favorite mad shipbuilder? I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if not, tell me what I can do to improve the next one.

Chapter Text

Kara walked calmly through the large open gates of Myr, casting a small smirk, unseen beneath her hood, at the people staring at the sudden change in the weather, with worried expressions. Mere moments ago, the sky was blue and calm, while the warm sun showed down on the city, indicating another peaceful day was at hand; now, the sky was as black as night, save for the violent flashes of light that would periodically rip across it, followed by booming thunder that seemed to shake the very ground beneath her feet.

Once she was past the gate, Kara quickly made her way past the dozens of stalls set up on either side of the street. Vendors were screaming out to anyone who would listen about what they were selling, creating a chaotic throng that kept bumping into each other as Kara tried to make her way through.

As she made her way to the south of the city, Kara couldn't help but sneer as she looked about her surroundings with a weathered eye; the wealth of the city could be seen everywhere, from the brightly-dressed 'nobles' who strutted past her like peacocks, not even trying to hide their luxury, to the large and impressive manses that Kara could see in the distance.

For more generations than could be counted, this city had enriched itself on the blood and backs of slaves, men and women who were used, abused, and then tossed aside or murdered when they had nothing more to give to the 'masters' of this accursed city. That would all end today. Today, every slave from generations past who had had their dreams taken from them, who had been born with chains around their wrists, would be avenged, and those who thought themselves the masters would be lying dead in the mud before the sunset.

The thought brought a wicked smile to Kara's face as she continued on her way, keeping her head down and her hood up to avoid being noticed. By the time the sun set this day, all of Essos would know that a new god had come to this earthly plane and that Myr was but the first to taste his wrath. Kratos had judged the city of Myr and found her wanting, and soon she would die in glorious fire and bloodshed, and a new city would rise in her place; a better city, where slavery would never again be tolerated.

As Kara left the marketplace, the cacophony of noise finally fell away, leaving behind an eerie silence that slightly unnerved her. Rounding the following corner, Kara saw her destination in the distance, and her eyes blazed with anger and hatred.

It would seem that the so-called 'slave pens of Myr' had not changed since Kara had seen them fifty years prior, and as Kara stopped to stare, she couldn't help but feel an overwhelming feeling of disgust and despair, as if all those who had died within were calling out to her for vengeance—vengeance that was very near at hand.

The slave pens were little more than a prison. Standing like an angry red tower, hundreds of feet high, they housed the city's unsold slaves as well as the slaves used for the city's manual labor: dockworkers, carpenters, construction workers, etc.

As she drew closer to the entrance, Kara began to hear the noise growing again and felt her lip curl with disgust. It seemed even the incoming of such a violent storm couldn't stop the people of Myr from flocking to the slave pens, eager to see the newest product on sale.

The only entrance to the pens was a large gate with Unsullied guards standing at the ready on either side. As Kara stepped past the two guards, she felt their eyes on her for a moment before they turned their attention back to the front.

As Kara stepped into the yard, the first thing she noticed was the large crowd all standing before a raised platform where a man in an expensive-looking red robe, the slave auctioneer no doubt, was standing, holding a scroll and yelling something; beside him, a dark-skinned woman with long flowing ringlets of black hair, who couldn't have been more than twenty and was wearing a filthy brown slaves tunic, was standing with her head bowed in silent misery, thick heavy chains hanging from her wrists which bound them together.

Beside her, two Unsullied were standing with one of their hands on each of the girl's shoulders, in case she should try anything. The next thing Kara noticed was the score of Unsullied guards placed strategically around the square, their faces hidden beneath their helms and their spears held at the ready, just in case they needed to restore order.

The man in the red robe laughed at something that someone in the crowd shouted at him, and Kara watched with narrowed eyes as the girl visibly flinched at whatever was said.

"Don't worry, lass…" Kara whispered, "Soon, this entire city will pay for its cruelty, and you shall have a new lord to protect you."

It seemed that even though he was not here to witness what was happening, Kratos also shared Kara's disgust at what was going on, for at that moment, a truly awe-inspiring burst of lighting spread across the sky, creating a spiderweb-like pattern that made all noise in the square drop away in an instant as the people watched with shocked expressions; even the slave girl's mouth dropped open in awe at what she was seeing.

A moment later, an explosion of noise echoed around the square, causing dozens of people to scream in terror as a roll of thunder followed the lightning, causing the ground to literally shake beneath Kara's feet. As though realizing the danger they were all in, the auctioneer suddenly shouted that all sales for the day were closed before quickly hurrying down the wooden steps of the platform; a moment later, the Unsullied followed their master, dragging the girl with them as the crowd began to hurry out of the sudden pouring rain.

"People of Myr…" A voice suddenly called out from the heavens, causing Kara's head to shoot up; around her, hundreds of others did the same, seemingly frozen in place, their mouth hanging open in shock as they heard a literal voice rain down from above, "For time immemorial, you have grown rich off of the sweat and blood of those you have deemed lesser than yourselves… No more. Your city's ledger has been tallied, and the weight of your transgressions has crushed the scales of justice; by my hand, the penalty of destruction shall be executed, and your people shall be scattered to the winds…"

Another awe-inspiring blast of lightning followed these words, and Kara couldn't stop the beaming smile that spread across her face as the people descended into outright panic. Screaming and fighting one another, they all tried to get out of the square at the same time, creating a dam of people that only grew worse as more people pushed and shoved while the Unsullied guards tried to restore order.

Seeing that no one was paying attention, Karra quickly made her way through the crowd of screaming masses to the still-open door that led inside the slave pens.

For a moment, Kara was rendered blind as the light inside the stone building dropped to nearly non-existent; the only light came from the flickering torches hanging from metal ringlets on the wall.

Taking a breath against the unbearable sadness that seemed to permeate from every stone, Kara quickly made her way down the long hallway, the noise from outside gradually going silent, the further in she went.

After several moments of near pitch-black darkness, the hallway finally emptied out into a large open area that made Kara's eyes widen in shock; more than a dozen levels surrounded her, each level holding hundreds of cages in which people were packed beyond safe capacity. It seemed as though the masters of Myr did not care about the slaves having adequate room; they only cared about putting as many into each individual cell as they could.

Several dozen Unsullied guards strolled back and forth along the walkways, as Kara watched, each completely silent and carrying their signature spear. Hearing the shuffling of feet behind her, Kara quickly ducked into the darkness, trying to make herself as small as she could as the red-robed auctioneer from earlier sprinted into the open area, his once pristine appearance, replaced with one of panic and dishevelment.

"Guards! Guards! Get your asses down here, now!"

Almost as one, the Unsullied began to run down the stairs to the ground floor, assembling into a large ten-man front before the auctioneer, who glared at them imperiously.

"Whatever that voice was has caused panic in the streets!" The auctioneer raged, "There's rioting going on! Go out there and protect your masters!"

"And the slaves?" The lone Unsullied in front of the others asked, receiving a backhand slap from the auctioneer as a result, before coming back to attention.

"Do not question me, you ballless bastard!" The auctioneer snarled, "The slaves are all locked up, they cannot hope to escape their cells! Now, go and do as I order, before I have you whipped!"

"Yes, master," The Unsullied said at once, dipping his head in obedience before storming past the man, his fellow Unsullied behind him while the auctioneer watched with distaste.

Once they were all gone, Kara made her move, springing from the shadows like a viper and stabbing her long dagger into the man's neck from behind; the man's eyes shot open in shock and horror, and he tried to scream for help, the cry coming out as a gurgle as his life's blood poured from the wound, while Kara watched, cleaning the blood from her dagger with the end of her brown robe.

A moment later, the man's legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, one hand desperately trying to stop the flow of blood while the other clawed at the ground as he tried to crawl away, leaving a large trail of blood behind him. After managing to crawl an impressive distance, the auctioneer finally stopped, his hand falling away from his neck as the loss of blood finally did its job.

Nodding in satisfaction at the man's corpse, Kara put away her dagger before turning and walking into the light in the center of the open area; as she stepped into the light, the slaves began to point at her and whisper to one another.

"Slaves of Myr, the hour of your freedom has come!" Kara called out, her voice echoing around the prison-like structure, "Your new god has come to set you free, and punish all those who would see you as nothing more than an animal!"

"Oh? And what god would that be?" A voice called out sarcastically, making Kara turn around to try and find its origin, "Because I have prayed many times to the gods and never received an answer! Not when my wife was sold to a pleasure house! Not when my child was sold to the mines! Never!"

"I speak not of the petty gods who have allowed you to languish here in pain and misery!" Kara snapped back, her voice rising with every passionate word, "I speak of the god of the Spartan people! My god! And the god, who even now is bringing destruction to the people of Myr for their centuries of brutality! I speak of the god, Kratos!"

Pausing momentarily, Kara smiled as she heard the slaves whisper her god's name, creating a wave of noise that echoed around her.

"I've never even heard of Kratos before!" The same voice called out, "Nor the Spartan people! How do we know that your words are not just those of a deceiver! That your so-called god is not just another 'master' who seeks to place us in chains!"

Kara felt her temper rise at that, and her hands curled into fists as she fought against the rising anger at her god being so disrespected.

"Make no mistake, today Myr will die…" Kara hissed, her voice echoing around her, "And in her place, a new city will be born, a city you all can be a part of! A place where never again need you fear the lash or of having your children stolen from your arms and sold to men who will defile them or make them work until their bodies drop!"

At this point, the prison had gone completely quiet, and every slave seemed to be pressing against the bars of their cell to listen to Kara's words.

"What have the 'lords' of Myr given you?" Kara sneered, "I'm sure many of you have lived by their rules your whole life. You've protected them, envied them, and for what? To be treated like an animal? YOU ARE NOT ANIMALS! Is this what you want!? You can choose to be more than this! You do have a choice! You can be slaves, or you can be…. SPARTANS!"

The prison was quiet as a tomb for several moments at the end of Kara's speech, as though the building itself was holding its breath; a moment later, it began. Small at first but growing by the minute as each cell rang out with voices, all shouting as one,

"Kratos! Kratos!"

"Kratos! Kratos"

"KRATOS! KRATOS!"

Kara smiled as the shouts grew into a roar, until it seemed as if the very walls of the prison would come tumbling down from the volume of the voices screaming their new god's name.

Quickly making her way to a hook on the wall where a ringlet of keys was hanging, Karra ripped the ringlet free and began to unlock the cells one by one as the prisoners continued to scream Kratos' name.

XXXX

Kratos slowly opened his eyes and gazed down at the city of Myr. Moments ago, he had used the new power he felt welling up inside him to deliver his message to the city, and the results spoke for themselves. The city looked like an overturned anthill, and even from here, he could see people streaming from its gates as they fled in terror from the voice they had just heard come from the sky and the message it had given. Chaos was already beginning to grow in the city, it seemed, as Kratos could see several pillars of smoke rising up from different parts of Myr, making him grimace slightly.

Unable to stop himself, Kratos smirked beneath his beard; Mimir would have applauded Kratos' message, which was poetic yet menacing. Too much time with the head hanging from Kratos' belt seemed to have left a piece of him with Kratos, as Kratos had never been anything other than laconic in the past. He hoped he wouldn't become a chatty pain in the ass like Mimir had been...

"It's time…" Kratos growled before looking over his shoulder at his followers, "You will wait here."

"You mean to fight the entire city by yourself?" Meera replied in shock, something that was shared with the rest of Kratos' followers, if the looks on their faces were any indication.

"Yes," Kratos replied as though the answer were obvious, "You are not warriors. In time, perhaps. But, as of now? I have no use for you, and you will only get in my way."

Shame seemed to fill the air as Kratos' followers recognized the truth of his words, even as they hated themselves for being so worthless to their god.

Without another word, Kratos stepped forward and began to walk toward the city as his people watched in silent shock.

Kratos approached the front gates just as they were being closed to keep the few remaining citizens from fleeing in abject terror as many already had; with a sneer of contempt, Kratos pulled back his fist and delivered a solid punch to the wooden door, causing an explosion of wood and bodies as the door blew inwards, showering the people within with shrapnel.

As Kratos stepped through the large hole he had created, he saw dozens of dead bodies lying in puddles of blood, while others were rolling around crying out in pain as pieces of wood and stone stuck out of their bodies.

Casting his victims one final glance, Kratos made his way toward where Kara said the conclave of magisters met to discuss the various aspects of ruling the city. In such a situation, all of Myr's rulers would be in one place, making Kratos' conquest of this city all the easier.

XXXX

Brownflea grunted as he drove his spear into yet another stupid individual who was trying to use the chaos that was going on in the city, to enrich themselves; beside him, a dozen other Unsullied had taken a half-circle perimeter around the front gate and were likewise killing anyone who came close as they tried to defend the front gate of the manse, beyond which lay the family of one of the magisters of Myr.

The master of the manse had left some time ago for an emergency meeting with all the ruling magisters of the city, to discuss just what that voice from the sky had been and what impact it might have on the city itself; before leaving, however, the master had given the Unsullied precise instructions: no one was to enter his manse until he returned. This was why Brownflea and the dozen others under his command were mercilessly slaughtering anyone who came close.

Even as he killed his fiftieth person in less than an hour, Brownflea was unfazed, barely batting an eye as he flicked the gore from the end of his spear; he was an Unsullied, had been since he was a child, and as such, Brownflea was used to violence and brutality, it had been ingrained in him since his manhood was first taken from him.

As the crowd finally realized that they would not be getting in, they began to dissipate, disappearing into the alleys as they went in search of softer targets where they might find riches to steal and women to rape. The entire city seemed to have lost its collective mind since the voice spoke, and Brownflea could hear screams and what sounded like swords clashing, even now.

Retaking his ready position, Brownflea stabbed his spear hard into the ground and breathed a sigh of relief as the rain poured down around him, washing the blood away; more would undoubtedly come, but for now, he could rest. Like the rest of the city, Brownflea was shocked when he heard the voice coming from the sky, but his shock quickly morphed back into discipline. It was not for him to wonder where the voice had come from or what it meant for the city. No, his task was to defend his master's property and family, even if it meant Brownflea's death in the process. As a blinding flash of lightning exploded across the sky, Brownflea saw movement down the darkened street and readied his spear for another possible offensive.

A moment later, his eyes widened in alarm as the largest man that Brownflea had ever seen stepped out of the darkness and stopped a dozen feet from him and his men; the man was over seven feet tall and powerfully built, with pale white skin, a large brown beard, and a strange red tattoo that wound itself around his arm, before ending over his eye. What's more, the man's aura seemed to exude a feeling of absolute authority and power that made Brownflea feel something that he had not felt in decades: fear.

For a moment, neither side moved, and the man glared imperiously at the assembled Unsullied, his bulging arms crossed over his chest; finally, after a moment of tense silence, the man spoke in a voice as hard as a stone.

"Step. Aside. I have business up that road, and you are in my way."

Instantly, Brownflea and the others crouched down into position, their spears moving as one toward the towering giant who simply glared at their refusal.

"Very well, then…" the giant growled, pulling his axe from his back. Brownflea's eyes widened as he saw it; it was nearly as large as the man who held it and covered in glowing blue runes that seemed to pulse with power.

With a snarl, the man hurled the axe at Brownflea and his men, the weapon flying through the air as fast as thought; Brownflea narrowly avoided being beheaded by throwing himself to the ground. As he raised his head, his eyes widened in shock as he saw that four of his men hadn't been so lucky and were now lying headless on the ground. In contrast, the others immediately hurled their spears as one toward the charging giant, who, somehow, appeared to have his axe back in his hand. As the Unsullied watched, their spears slammed into the giant's chest, and for a moment, Brownflea thought they had won, only for his jaw to drop almost comically as the spears bounced harmlessly off the man's chest before clattering to the ground.

"Impossible…" Brownflea breathed, those spears were made by the finest blacksmiths in Myr and were maintained to keep their edge at all times; there was simply no way that those spears could have been so ineffective.

"Draw swords!" Brownflea roared as he rose to his feet and drew his short sword; behind him, he heard the others do the same as they raised their shield and prepared for close-quarter combat.

An instant later, the Unsullied were sent sprawling as the warrior barreled into them with all the strength of a charging bull; by the time he had risen back to his feet, four more of Brownflea's men had been butchered as easily as if they were children and lay unmoving in the street.

As Brownflea watched, one of his men raised his shield to block the man's incoming blow, only for the shield to prove completely worthless as the axe passed through the shield and then the man as easily as if both were made of butter. With a cry of agony, the Unsullied was split down the middle, falling into two heaps on the street while the others stared. With a snarl, another of Brownflea's mean charged forward and stabbed at the man's exposed side, only for the blade to stop as it hit the man's skin as though he were wearing the strongest armor on earth.

"Wha?" The Unsullied had time to say before the man backhanded him, sending him flying into the nearby way with such force that it left a spiderweb-like crack behind as the Unsullied fell to the floor, dead.

At this point, only Brownflea and one other remained, and both men nodded at each other as they mentally prepared to die; with a cry, Brownflea's companion charged forward and slashed at the man several times, his sword continuously bouncing away as Brownflea bent down to pick up his spear.

With a weary sigh, the man suddenly exploded into action, grabbing Brownflea's fellow Unsullied by the head before crushing it in his grasp, showering the street and nearby wall with blood and gore.

As the giant turned to Brownflea, the Unsullied released a cry and charged forward, sending his spear against the man's skin where his heart should be, only for the spear tip to shatter into a hundred pieces as the weapon proved just as useless as all the others that had been used against this warrior.

As he stared at the broken speak, Brownflea felt only shock, how could such a being exist? All of their weapons had proved useless, and he had slaughtered all of Brownflea's men as though they had been helpless infants, rather than the capable warriors they were.

Looking up into the giant's face, Brownflea tried not to show any fear as he closed his eyes and readied himself to die, only to gasp in surprise as the giant placed a hand on Brownflea's head.

"Even now, when you know that you cannot win, you choose to stand and fight… All for someone unworthy of such a sacrifice…"

Brownflea's eyes shot open as he heard the man's words, finally recognizing the man's voice as the one that had been heard coming from the sky. Did that mean that Brownflea and his men had been fighting against a god? No wonder they could not win!

"I can sense what the 'masters' of this city have taken from you, brave one…" the 'god' continued, causing Brownflea to feel shame. "Such courage as you have shown should be rewarded, not punished.

A moment later, pain the like of which Brownflea had not felt in an age filled him, and he collapsed to the ground with a scream; for several moments, he lay there, sobbing in sheer agony before the pain finally disappeared.

As Brownflea lifted his head from the hard stone street, he saw that the giant had disappeared and that he was alone, save for the bodies of his fallen companions. Rising shakily to his feet, Brownflea felt a strange sensation coming from his trousers, a sensation he had not felt in decades.

Shocked beyond words at the implications of what he felt, Brownflea began to tear his armor from his body until he stood as naked as the day he was born, in the middle of the street, the pouring rain drenching him to the bone.

Reaching a shaky hand down to his manhood, Brownflea released a cry of shock that immediately turned into a sob as he felt what had been returned to him. What the god had returned to him...

XXXX

Captain Tavos Fyllonnis growled angrily as the torrential rain drenched him to the point where he never thought he would be dry again as he stood at attention in front of the large double doors that led to where the magisters were holding their meeting; above him, the storm seemed to be growing in its ferocity as the once peaceful sky was ripped apart with violent flashes of light. At the bottom of the stairs, perhaps three dozen feet in front of him, over a hundred men stood neatly in rows of ten, facing outward and dressed for battle, all just as miserable as Tavos.

The second son of the house of Fyllonnis, Tavos had never really considered playing any significant role in the running of the city, that was his older brother's destiny, and upon their father's death, Tavos' older sibling had taken their father's place in the 'Hall of Silver' as one of the ruling magisters of Myr. To Tavos' surprise, however, his older sibling had immediately made Tavos the captain of the city guard, a much respected and lauded position that had made Tavos affluent very quickly, as well as giving him a purpose, for which Tavos would always be grateful.

Like his older brother, Tavos was tall and slim with olive-colored skin and long black hair that he kept oiled and well-maintained, the same as his well-trimmed goatee. Like the rest of Myr's city guard, he wore a set of dark grey armor with a golden dragon painted on the center and a cone-like helmet. On his hip rested a sword of impeccable beauty that had a large ruby embedded in the hilt and would have cost him several months' salary, were he anyone else of 'lesser blood.'

When the storm had first begun, Tavos had contented himself to a long night in one of Myr's more impressive pleasure houses, warm and comfortable, while the rain drenched the rest of those unfortunates who weren't able to find such shelter.

All that had changed when 'the voice' had descended on the city, shocking the entirety of it to its core and causing mass panic and chaos to ensue; Tavos' older brother had immediately ordered Tavos to bring out the entirety of the city guard and surround the 'Hall of Silver' while the magister's tried to make sense of what had happened. The Unsullied had been relegated to defend the many manses of the city and try to maintain some semblance of order, but the city guard had been given the far more important task of ensuring that no one disturbed the magisters while they convened and discussed what was to be done.

That was why Tavos and all the others stood out in the pouring rain, growing wetter by the second, while his older brother and the rest of the nobles who ran the city were warm and dry inside, discussing.

As a sudden wind began to blow, chilling Tavos to the bone, he grit his teeth and growled angrily again; this was ridiculous! He was the son of a noble house. Yet, he stood out here, risking catching sickness in the pouring rain. At the same time, his older brother wasted time talking, and knowing the other nobles, these talks would go well into the night!

As Tavos let his anger drive his thoughts further, he suddenly heard something. Straining his ears against the howling wind and pouring rain, He tried to make out what it was.

A moment later, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people poured into the square, all waving whatever weapon they could find, some had no weapon at all, and each wearing the distinctive dirty outfit of a slave.

For a moment, Tavos didn't know what he was seeing, and his jaw dropped open comically as the horde of screaming people charged toward the equally shocked soldiers.

A moment later, his thoughts caught up with him, and he began to scream out orders for his men to prepare for battle! The slaves were rebelling? Right as the city was descending into chaos? This was a disaster!

"Kill them!" Tavos screamed against the pouring rain, hoping his voice would carry, "Kill them all! They cannot be allowed inside the Hall of Silver!"

Instantly, the guard all drew their swords as the horde slammed into their ranks and began to slash and stab at anyone who drew close to them; likewise, the horde of slaves used anything available to kill the guard. Many were unarmed and so were trying to tear the guards apart with their bare hands, while a very small number managed to find weapons, such as blacksmith's hammers, and pitchforks. As the guards began to fall, the slaves happily picked up the fallen swords and began to fight all the harder while Tavos maintained his position in front of the double doors, screaming out orders while his outnumbered guard were swiftly slaughtered to a man.

XXXX

As Kratos stepped into the square where the building that the so-called 'leaders of Myr' were congregated, he grunted in surprise at what he saw; the entire square had turned into a battlefield, with hundreds of slaves attacking men in armor with a ferocity and savagery that nearly made Kratos nod in approval. Looking past the battle, Kratos could see a lone man standing at the top of the buildings stairs, pointing with his sword and screaming orders that were lost in the wind of the storm that Kratos had created.

Looking up at the building, Kratos couldn't hold back the sneer that crossed his lips as he viewed the affluence that the city leaders flaunted so openly; the building was a monstrosity of pure white that seemed to stretch interminably towards the heavens so that Kratos could not see the top of it. The more Kratos stared at the tower, the more it disgusted him, and the more he felt his anger growing with the nobles who ruled this city. They treated those who worked for him like animals and, all the while, built things like that? All to showcase their own greed and affluence.

Slowly raising his hand into the air, Kratos felt the power within him beginning to build, searching for somewhere to go yet contained within Kratos' being. Tighter and tighter, Kratos compressed the power until it felt like he would explode if he didn't release it soon. The fighting in the square slowly died away as the storm became ever more violent, the wind blowing with all the power of a hurricane and causing many to drop their weapons as they threw their arm over their eyes against the dust and debris that surrounded them; when Kratos felt as though he couldn't possibly hold it any longer, he dropped his arm. Those watching were shown firsthand the power he now wielded.

A bolt of lightning, impossibly large, fell from heaven and slammed into the Hall of Silver, momentarily causing it to glow bright yellow before it suddenly exploded as those watching stared in awe and horror.

As stones the size of large horses began to fall from the sky, causing screams of panic from those in the square, the tower collapsed in on itself, creating a suffocating blanket of dust that quickly enveloped all those who were watching.

For several moments, no one could see anything as those who had been caught in the tower's collapse fought for air against the dust that blanketed their lungs.

With an annoyed growl, Kratos swept his hand before him, causing the dust to instantly disappear, much to the shock of all those who had been surrounded by it moments before. As Kratos stared at the ruin that had once been a magnificent ivory tower, the only indication that he was as shocked by what he had done as all the rest was the slick 'tick' of his brow. Though he was the son of Zeus, and his father was the master of the sky and wielder of lightning, Kratos had never thought himself remotely possible of what he had just done. Looking down at his hand, Kratos could barely make out the faint shadow of lightning as it danced between his fingers, and he couldn't help but wonder what else he would be capable of in the coming days.

As the storm began to abate, those standing in the square, both slaves and city guards, stared at Kratos in open awe, their mouths hanging open in shock at what they had just seen.

As the rain poured down upon them, no one moved, too shocked to do anything but stare at the impossibly large man who had destroyed the entirety of Myr's rulers and the building in which they met, with just a wave of his hand.

A sudden cackle caused nearly every one to turn to its origin, Kratos among them, only to see Kara come hobbling from one of the nearby alleys, her brown robe soaked from the storm.

"Did I not tell you!" Kara screamed passionately, "Did I not tell you what was coming? What your god, Kratos, would do to the scum who ruled this city! Behold! The truth with your own eyes! Kratos, the god of the Spartan people, has come!"

Kratos growled in annoyance at the woman's antics, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes as she approached his side with a look of pure devotion in her eyes.

A moment later, the slaves in the square all began to kneel one-by-one before Kratos while the city guard, what few remained, remained standing for a moment more, as though unsure of what to do; seconds later, they too knelt before the giant as Kratos stared at them all imperiously. The tower was completely gone, resembling a broken pile of stones now, rather than the tower of affluence that it had once been, and Kratos could see several large stones had unfortunately crushed a great many who had been unable to get out of the way as they fell.

"It is as you said, my lord…" Kara whispered as she gazed out at the entire square, all on their knees before her god, "Myr has died, and Sparta has been reborn…"

"Hmm, not yet." Kratos growled, causing Kara to look up at him, "There is much to do before this city can earn the right to call itself Sparta. But you are right. This is a beginning…"

As a sudden burst of lightning flashed overhead, Kara couldn't help but agree, especially when the slaves looked up, and she saw the devotion reflected in their eyes. They were Kratos' now, and he would lead them to glory.

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Author's Note:

I hope this chapter was everything you expected. I was planning on having Kratos invade the Hall of Silver and kill the magisters there, but just blowing up the tower seemed far simpler. It also seemed a way to showcase his new power to those he will now rule. Let me know what you thought of this chapter and what you liked and didn't like. Until next time.

Chapter Text

Sparta (Formerly Myr) 291 AC-

Meera Shae sighed happily as she sunk her exhausted body into the warm bath, reveling in the heat that seemed to sink into her very bones. Even as she closed her eyes and felt her tired muscles begin to relax, Meera was aware of dozens of other women who were likewise enjoying the bath, or else lounging on nearby benches and gossiping with their fellow citizens.

So much had changed in the year-and-a-half since Kratos had liberated the city of Myr and renamed it Sparta, that sometimes Meera couldn't believe they had actually happened, and fully expected to awaken any time now to find her parents still alive, and Kratos nothing more than a dream.

The first thing that Kratos had done upon conquering Myr was to inform every slave within the city that they were now free and could stay and help rebuild the city, or leave and find their fortune elsewhere, as they wished. To the surprise of none, every single man, woman, and child had kneeled before the god and proclaimed their desire to stay and help him build the newly named city of Sparta.

The biggest surprise, at least to Meera at any rate, was when over a hundred Unsullied had marched through the crowd, causing many to tense as they expected the men to attack the god, only for them to drop their spears and kneel before Kratos. The leader had then risen and thanked Kratos, with tears in his eyes, for returning his manhood to him, and swore to serve the god until the end of the leader's days as payment.

Unsurprisingly, Kratos had simply shaken his head and told the man that he owed Kratos nothing, nor did anyone else in Myr for that matter. Kratos was not interested in freeing the slaves in Myr, only for them to become slaves again, even if it was willingly. That seemed to be the correct response for the citizens had loudly proclaimed that they would never be slaves again, but they would follow their new god to the ends of the earth, all the same. Meera had nearly laughed out loud at the annoyed look that had crossed Kratos' face at that, and only sheer force of will had stopped her; that, and her grandmother's raised brow, that promised punishment should Meera forget herself in such a serious moment.

After that, Kratos showed just how powerful a god he truly was when he had every single Unsullied step forward; one-by-one, Kratos touched each man on the head causing him to scream in agony before collapsing to the ground from the pain, only to rise a few moments later with looks of awe on their faces as they realized what Kratos had done to them, while the stunned crowd watched.

After nearly an entire day of this, every single Unsullied had been restored from a simple touch on the head, and they had immediately swore an oath of loyalty to Kratos until the end of their days. The first few days after that were perhaps the bloodiest that Meera had ever seen as the slaves took vindictive pleasure in slaughtering their former masters, something that Kratos allowed for a time, with the express order that children were to be left untouched. For four long days, slave owners, both male and female, were dragged to large wooden platforms that their former slaves had constructed, and executed before the cheering crowds.

On the fifth day, Kratos had seemingly had his fill of blood and ordered the executions to cease. The incredibly small number of 'freeborn' that remained alive by this point were all thrown from the city's gates and told to never return. Given that they were denied food or water, and the nearest city was nearly a week's walk, none expected them to survive the trek. Once the city had been completely cleared of all the former 'masters' of the city, Kratos ordered every single scrap of wealth within the city brought to him; when the work was done, a towering pile of gold and jewels stood before the awestruck crowd, who had never seen such riches before in their entire lives. Kratos, however, scowled at the affluence that he beheld, with barely concealed disgust at how rich Myr had become from the blood of a thousand generations.

He had immediately declared the riches the property of Sparta, proclaiming that every coin and jewel would be placed in the city's vault and that all of it would go to making the city a better place for his new people. In a single day, Sparta's treasury had grown large enough to sustain itself for a thousand years without ever needing to trade with any other city, if need be.

After that, the real work began as Kratos led the efforts to rebuild the city; however, to the surprise of all, Kratos had decreed that it would not be rebuilt in the image of Myr, but rather in the image of Sparta, the city which Myr had officially become. The many manses of the freeborn were torn down, as were the many temples to the multitudes of different gods that had once been as ubiquitous with Myr as its slave population. Kratos had tried to argue against this, saying the people didn't need to tear down the temples, as he had no wish to make them forget the gods of their ancestors, but the people had simply shouted him down, saying that they had no need for the temples anymore when they had a true god to worship, rather than ones who had never answered their prayers, and allowed them to remain in bondage.

Against the roar of a hundred thousand voices, Kratos had no choice but to allow the people to do what they wished, even if it annoyed him to no end. With each torn-down building, something new and better took its place, making Myr, now Sparta, even grander than she ever was before; aqueducts to bring fresh water to the city, a new sewage system that helped clean away the filth and stink, gymnasiums, libraries, healing centers. But perhaps best of all were the bathhouses. Declaring it mandatory for all citizens of Sparta to bathe regularly to not only keep sickness away, but also to keep themselves from stinking, Kratos had ordered more than a dozen bathhouses built across the city, all of which were free to any citizen of Sparta who wished to use them. Each bathhouse was the same, made with pure white stone, and containing half a dozen large baths, both hot and cold, as well as a steam room to relax in, should one desire to do so.

Those who had been trained in how to operate their master's bathhouses were placed in charge of maintaining the newly built ones, with the only difference being that now they were being paid to do so, rather than forced. Six months later, the city of Myr had been completely transformed, and unless one knew what the city looked like before, one would never have guessed that Spart and Myr had once been the same city. Hundreds of new buildings spread throughout Sparta, all built using the same style of white marble and towering columns that Kratos had called 'Greek architecture.'

The largest of these buildings was still under construction, built in what was once the slave market, where so many had their lives and futures stolen from them; the old tower that was once the slave pen had been completely obliterated and in its place, the citizens of Sparta had built a monumental temple of the purest marble that could be found, and dedicated it to their new god, to Kratos.

Kratos had at first refused to allow the temple to be built, declaring that he would reduce it to rubble should the citizens build it. God, though he may be, he had no wish for his new people to bow and scrape to him, Spartans were above such demeaning forms of devotion. Only when Meera's grandmother had taken the god aside and spoken to him had he finally relented and allowed the temple to be built; however, he had made sure that the citizens knew that while he would allow the temple to be built, he still had no wish for them to bow and debase themselves in his name. If they wanted to be Spartans, then they had to act like it, not like the slaves they had once been. No one knew just what Meera's grandmother had said, but all were thankful for changing Kratos' mind, and many were now viewing her as their god's high priestess as a result.

Day and night, the best sculptors and architects worked on the temple to ensure that it would not only last for many generations to come, but also that it would stand as a monument to the god who had come and set them all free. Even after a year, it was still far from complete, but when it was finally finished, Meera knew that it would be an awe-inspiring piece of architecture that many would travel the world to see.

However, a month after Kratos had freed Myr, an army had arrived on their doorstep, sent by the two remaining cities of the Triarchy, Lys, and Tyrosh, to conquer Myr and return it to how it was before Kratos had freed it. Nearly twenty ships filled with mercenaries had sailed toward Sparta intending to kill all those who resisted and return the survivors to slavery.

Meera had expected a large-scale battle to take place, but instead had watched in awe as Kratos simply waved his hand and created an incredibly powerful storm that destroyed nearly every ship and sent the few remaining ones running back home. Since then, Lys and Tyrosh had seemingly decided on a change of strategy and Meera had heard that they had sent out a call for every available mercenary to come to their city to be trained for the upcoming war against the newly dubbed city of Sparta. If the rumors were to be believed, the two cities had gotten their wish as nearly twenty thousand mercenaries had flocked to them in the last year, with more coming every day; which was why Kratos began the next phase of his plan to transform Myr into Sparta.

Once the majority of the city had been rebuilt, then came the next task that Kratos viewed as vitally important: transforming his people into true Spartans.

Ordering every single citizen to present themselves to him, Kratos had carefully inspected them all, examining them from every angle with a careful eye as he noted those who would be eligible for service in Sparta's army and those who would serve her in other ways. After over a week of this, Kratos had finally separated those who would be warriors from those who would serve Sparta in a different capacity, such as blacksmiths, healers, traders, etc.

Even after making his decision, Meera was shocked to see that the number of citizens ordered to the Spartan army had easily reached over ten thousand. Meera was sure that Kratos would have balked at having to teach so many, his ways, but to the surprise of all, it seemed he actually relished the challenge. The smirk that he had given that day still brought a chill to Meera whenever she remembered it. The Unsullied, after learning just what Kratos expected of them, had been placed in charge of training the children between the ages of eight and eleven, everyone else was taught by Kratos himself.

Despite her excitement about learning how to fight like a Spartan, Meera quickly learned that any romantic ideas of glory should be put out of her head; Kratos' training was as hard as the man himself, and he would not tolerate any weakness, no matter the age or gender of the offender. For the first three months, Meera had simply been one of thousands who were forced six days a week, at dawn, to run to a large marble pillar that Kratos had built, five miles from the city. Not used to such strenuous activity, Meera had spent the first month of her training in abject misery, and more than once had thrown up her breakfast as she gasped for air, alongside thousands of others.

Once the men and women reached the pillar, Kratos had each of them form companies with twenty-man fronts, and each was given a large, heavy shield, and an equally large and heavy spear; then, they were ordered to practice the same maneuvers repeatedly until they could perform them by sheer muscle memory. Again, and again, Meera and the others were forced to stand in neat rows and move between interlocking their shields defensively, to wielding the harmless 'sticks' that Kratos had given them in place of real spears, as one cohesive unit. At first, Meera had been one of a multitude who questioned why they were learning what Kratos had called 'the phalanx,' when the traditional battle was to charge forward and kill as many of your enemies as you could.

The answer had come several days later when one foolish individual had asked exactly that, only for Kratos to order ten men and women, the fool who asked the question among them, to step forward. Once they had done so, he ordered them to interlock their shields as they had been taught; upon doing so, Kratos had ordered another fifty men and women forward and ordered them to attack the phalanx. To the surprise of all, the ten had managed to withstand the charge almost effortlessly and when the fifty had worn themselves out, those ten had found themselves just as strong and ready to fight as before.

"That's why Spartans use the phalanx," Kratos had growled, "Because the phalanx is what built Sparta her empire. One unbreakable brotherhood of shields." And in that moment, Meera and the others knew just what Kratos was teaching them; by creating one impenetrable wall of shields and spears, Kratos was effectively creating an army that would be virtually unstoppable. The hardest thing that Kratos had tried to impart to those learning, however, was to conquer their fear and not run and thereby break the phalanx.

Kratos had warned them all on the first day that if they wanted to call themselves Spartans then they would have to earn the right, and he would not allow any cowards or weaklings to shame his people's name. On one of the first mock battles that Kratos had forced those learning to perform, several had dropped their shields when the charging group approached and ran.

Kratos had the individuals stripped in front of the watching others and given ten strikes to the back with the wooden sticks that they used as their spears; he then told them that this was their last chance. They were no longer slaves and could leave if they wished, but if they stayed then they could not run again; doing so in battle would cause the phalanx to crumble and thereby cause their fellow warriors to be killed without mercy. Such a dishonorable action was unbecoming of a Spartan, and if they could not conquer their fear, then they had no place in his army. Risking the disappointment of their god had seemed a far worse fate than death, it would seem, for no one had run since then, though Meera had been sorely tempted a few times.

After six hours of drill, the men and women would then run back to the city with their spears and shields, a strenuous task the likes of which Meera had never encountered before. Upon reaching the city, the men and women would drop their equipment to the ground, where they would be loaded into carts to be taken back to the pillar, the next morning, where the whole process would begin again.

Once they had safely dropped off their equipment, they would move to another training yard, this one inside the city, where they would be given wooden swords that were twice as heavy as a real one would be. This was to build up their strength, so that when the day came that they were issued real equipment, they would actually have the ability to use it, rather than save their enemy the effort, and do themselves an injury.

For three hours, Meera and the others would repeat the same movements over-and-over again, just as they did with their phalanx training, until they achieved muscle memory; only allowed to stop for fifteen minutes every hour. Anyone who stopped before Kratos gave permission would find him behind them in an instant roaring into their ear to keep going; how he managed to keep an eye on so many at once was anyone's guess, but somehow, he managed it. When the end finally, and blessingly came, the men and women would stack their weapons back on the racks in the training yard, and head to the final part of their training for the day: learning to read and write.

For the final three hours of every day, Meera and the others were forced to sit together in a large open area, while hundreds of 'learned men' attempted to teach them literacy. At first, many didn't understand why Kratos was demanding they learn to read and write,

"A warrior's mind needs to be just as sharp as his blade," Kratos had growled to those who dared question his order, "Any fool can swing a blade, but it takes far more skill to outthink your opponent than to stab him."

Even the most stubborn could see the logic in Kratos' argument, and within three months Sparta had achieved something that no other city in Essos could claim: nearly every single one of its citizens could read.

When finally released for the day, the multitude of bathhouses in Sparta would become choked by the thousands who wanted nothing more than to wash themselves and relax before heading home for the night, eager to sleep before the whole thing started again the next day.

This had become Meera's life, six days a week for the last year; on the seventh day, the men and women were free to do whatever they wished, but many of them spent the day recovering from the unbearable training routine that their god was putting them through. A few of the more dedicated, or insane, depending on who you asked, would use their day off to train even harder at one of the city's many gymnasiums; wrestling in the soft sand that made up the floor.

After a year of the same routine, Meera and the others had built up an incredible level of stamina, that few would have believed themselves capable of before; they could now run the entire five miles without stopping once, and only the few who had aged out of the Unsullied's training and had joined Kratos' group were now forced to stop during the run back at the end of the day, though each day was bringing them closer to being equal to those who had been with Kratos from the start.

They could also move as one cohesive unit, seamlessly moving from one formation to another without even having to think of it, the moment that Kratos screamed out the order. Their strength, too, had grown in the year since their training had begun; their bodies had become hard and lean under Kratos' grueling training regimen, and the fat from their bodies had been quickly replaced with muscle; on more than one occasion, Meera had stared at her reflection in shock, unable to separate the powerful women she was becoming from the scared girl she had once been.

As she slowly opened her eyes, Meera gazed around at the other women who, like her, were all enjoying the heat of the bath. For over a year now, Meera and the others had done nothing but train to bring glory and honor to Sparta, and to ensure that when the armies of the Triarchy finally arrived, they would all leave in pieces. Yet, even after a year of training, of pushing her body to its absolute limit, she and the others had STILL not been given their armor, or any real weapons for that matter! It was maddening! Meera trusted Kratos and knew that he would give them to her and the others when he felt they were ready; but all the same, it still hurt that after a year, her god still refused to allow them to train with real weapons.

With an aggravated sigh, Meera rose from the hot water and made her way to the steam room, the water dripping from her naked body as she strode towards where she heard voices talking, hoping the heat would burn away her growing impatience.

XXXX

Under an unusually large tree that sat atop a hill overlooking the city of Sparta, Kratos was seated, eyes closed, as his thoughts raced and raged with all the fury of a storm. It had been nearly two years since Kratos had been sent to this new world with no indication of who had sent him here or for what purpose. In those two years, he had conquered a city, freed its slave population, and begun to fashion them into an army that the Sparta of old would have been proud of. They still had a long way to go before they could actually call themselves Spartans, they hadn't even seen a real battle, and until they did, until he knew for certain that they would not break in the face of the horrors of war, they would never truly be able to call themselves Spartans.

That time was fast approaching, it would seem; for many weeks now, Kratos had been receiving word from his scouts that the army that Tyrosh and Lys had spent the last year assembling was nearly ready to make its way toward Kratos' city. He could very easily defeat them all himself, his powers had made such a thing quite easy, but he had no intention of using them. When the Triarchy's army arrived, Kratos would send his Spartans out to face them, giving them their first true test, and seeing if they were worthy of bearing his people's name, or if he had spent the last year wasting his time.

Slowly opening his eyes, Kratos stared down at the city that lay beneath him, as he felt the power within him that rested just below the surface, just waiting to be unleashed.

Truth be told, the power that Kratos held, scared him at times, he felt more powerful than he had ever felt in his life, even when he was the Olympian god of war, he never had this much power at his disposal, and once again he wondered just how he had become so powerful so quickly. Almost two years ago he had unleashed a storm of lightning on Myr that had nearly razed the entire city to the ground, then he had created a tidal wave with the wave of his hand that had destroyed a veritable armada of invading ships; how was he able to do these things?

He had been a god once before, but his dominion had been war, and even with all the wars happening in Greece at the same time, he had never commanded such power as he did here in this world. And that was why he was wary of it. His father had been the king of Olympus, powerful beyond belief, and had ruled for millennia; but all that power had given Zeus a monstrous level of arrogance, and worse made Zeus afraid of losing his power to the point where he committed an entire plethora of atrocities to ensure that none ever challenged him. In the end, Zeus' fears were justified as his crimes had resulted in his death at the hands of his own son.

Kratos sighed softly as the memory of that fateful battle came back to him, of the monster that had destroyed all of Greece for no other reason than his own anger and lust for revenge against his father. A philosopher from Greece, whose name Kratos no longer remembered, had once said that all power corrupts eventually, and absolute power corrupts even quicker.

Was that his fate? To become the same monster that he had been in the past? To become a mere shadow of his father Zeus? Kratos had come a long way to freeing himself from the shackles of the man he once was, but there was always the danger of falling back onto old habits, of returning to old ways. Uncrossing his arms from over his chest, Kratos rubbed his left hand over the scars on his right arm, feeling where the Blades of Chaos once were attached. Even now, the memory of the monster he once was threatened to disturb the peace he was feeling, as the sky above him began to darken with storm clouds.

Releasing a weary sigh, Kratos slowly raised himself to his feet and willed the clouds away, once again bringing out the sun as he crossed his arms back over his chest and stared down at Sparta.

"I will be better, Faye…" Kratos whispered, not knowing if his wife's spirit could even hear him in this far-off land, "I swear it…"

"My lord!" A voice suddenly called out, making Kratos sigh in irritation as he realized that his peaceful day was at an end, "My lord Kratos!"

"What is it?" Kratos demanded as he turned to where Kara was climbing the hill towards him, quite effortlessly despite her advanced age.

"One of our scouts has returned, my lord," Kara replied as she stood before him, "He reports that the army of the Triarchy has departed. They will be here in less than a week."

"Hmmm," Kratos growled as he rubbed his chin, "Then the time has come for our army's first true test…"

"They will not fail you, my lord," Kara assured her god, "I can promise you that."

"Then you are a fool," Kratos sneered, "There can be no such promises in war. Even the most seasoned army can be defeated, and ours hasn't even seen a battle yet."

"They fear disappointing you far more than any army from the Triarchy," Kara replied in a tone that brokered no argument, "And you have given them a year to prepare themselves, my lord. I promise you that by the end of this battle, the whole world will know and fear the name of Sparta."

"We shall see…" Kratos replied, staring down at his city one last time before turning and making his way down the hill, Kara marching resolutely behind him.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and if not, please tell me what I can do better in the next one. I tried to make Myr, now Sparta, look how I think a city in Ancient Greece would look, complete with marble buildings and a large temple to their new god, Kratos. I hope I did it justice. In the next battle, the whole world will learn the name of Sparta, and I hope you all enjoy what I come up with.

Chapter Text

Kratos walked purposefully through the large hall, the sound of a hundred hammers banging away echoing around him in a constant cacophony of grunts and labor.

The 'Hall of Hephaestus' as it was called had been one of the first things constructed by Kratos after he conquered the city of Myr and renamed it Sparta; the hall, which could more be compared to an open field, was nearly four hundred feet from one end to the other and surrounded by a fifteen foot stone wall of pure white marble that was tiled with dozens of red clay tiles, like many of the newly built buildings of Sparta.

Built specifically to house the cities blacksmiths, Kratos had been disgusted by the 'apprentice' system that Myr had employed before and had built the hall as a sort of school where those who wished to learn the art of metalworking could enroll and learn from hundreds of different masters of the trade, thereby significantly increasing their ability, rather than just learning from one person and stagnating their growth. An extensive pulley system had been built by Kratos himself, a marvel of engineering that Kratos explained had come from his homeland ages past, that allowed the roof to be closed during bad weather; however, seeing as how Kratos could control the weather with but a twitch, it was hardly ever used.

Even the hall's name had come directly from Kratos; one day, when the building was still being built, Kratos came to check on its progress and discovered two groups of blacksmiths arguing about what the building should be called once it was completed. Kratos watched with growing agitation for several minutes as the men and women bickered back and forth about what the building should be called when, finally, one lone blacksmith turned to Kratos and asked the god who had been the greatest blacksmith of his homeland. A sad expression had come across Kratos' face then, and he had looked away to a place none, but he could see before finally answering in a soft voice,

"His name was Hephaestus; he was the greatest metal worker who ever lived, but more than that, he was a good man who died trying to save the life of his daughter…"

A solemn silence descended upon the group then, until the blacksmith who had spoken looked up at Kratos with a determined expression and replied,

"Then that is what we will call this hall, in memory of the world's greatest blacksmith, but more than that, to honor a good man."

The roar of approval from the other blacksmiths had risen like that of a storm, and Kratos half expected the entire city to have heard the ruckus; he was half-tempted to veto the idea, for he had no wish to bring Olympus' gods to Essos, their time had passed as far as Kratos was concerned. Yet the look of adoration on his people's faces made the decision for him, and Kratos simply sighed and allowed them this victory.

Nearly eight months later, when it was finally complete, many agreed that the 'Hall of Hephaestus' was one of the most beautiful buildings in the city; made entirely of white marble, the entry-way stood nearly a dozen feet high, supported by half a dozen large white columns and had a statue of a large blacksmith at work before an anvil, made entirely of black ebony stone, with his hammer held high and a regal look of intense concentration upon his face.

The first fifty feet inside the building was cool and shaded by the roof, with half a dozen individual classrooms on either side where new students would learn before moving on to hands-on training. Past fifty feet, the building opened into an enormous open area, surrounded by hundreds of large marble columns where nearly a hundred blacksmiths could all work comfortably without fear of bumping into one another.

Seeing his target, Kratos quickened his pace as he approached a large, ebony-skinned blacksmith, bald with a large beard that ended just above his bare chest. Who was hard at work hammering away at something.

"Decker…" Kratos growled; his voice somehow managed to be heard, even above the unending noise surrounding him, causing the man to stop his work as he turned to face Kratos.

"My lord," Decker replied with a bow, causing Kratos to frown,

"I've told you before, Decker…" Kratos said softly, only for the man to cut him off with a smile,

"I know, my lord. Spartans do not bow to anyone. You'll have to forgive me; too many years as a metal worker has ensured my memory is not what it once was…"

A ghost of a smile graced Kratos' face for a moment before it was gone. Decker put down his hammer, took off his leather apron, and hung it on the wall behind his station.

"It is time, Decker…" Kratos growled softly as the man turned back to face his god, his body gleaming with sweat from the heat of his forge; yet, as Kratos said those words, the blacksmith's eyes glowed with excitement. "Are they ready?"

"They are, my lord…" Decker smiled, "My men and I have spent the last eight months making as many as we could using the design you gave us."

"And their integrity?" Kratos demanded, crossing his arms over his bulging chest, "They need to do their job, not just make the bearer look good."

"I assure you, my lord," Decker replied, "Every man and woman here knows how important what they've made is to Sparta. And to our brothers and sisters who will bear them to war. They'll do their job. I'll wager my life on that, my lord."

"You would be wise to think before you speak…" Kratos rumbled as he looked down imperiously at the blacksmith. "For if your creation fails to do its job, your life is exactly what I will take as recompense."

Decker swallowed nervously at that before nodding that he understood, which Kratos returned a moment later.

"Take them to the training yard tonight," Kratos continued as he turned to leave. "I want them ready by dawn tomorrow when the troops return from their morning drills."

"It will be done, my lord," Decker replied with another bow, making Kratos sigh wearily before he turned to leave, the aged blacksmith smiling at his back.

XXXX

The next morning, when Meera and the others stepped into the training yard, they expected to see it empty, save for the heavy wooden swords that hung on their hooks on the wall.

Instead, to their collective shock, they saw thousands of bundles of red cloth, which lay in neat lines exactly where Meera and the others usually stood when they did their sword drills.

A moment later, Kratos stepped through the door on the opposite side of the training yard and crossed his bulging arms over his chest as he stared at the group with a frown.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Take your places!"

As one of the recruits began to walk towards the wall where her sword hung, Kratos suddenly spoke again, his growl echoing off the walls of the training yard and stopping the woman in her tracks.

"I did not say retrieve your weapon; I said take your place! Now, move!"

The collective group suddenly exploded into action as the discipline that Kratos had spent the last year-and-a-half beating into them took over; rushing forward in a mad scramble, they quickly took their place in the yard before slapping their hand to their side and standing at attention, eyes locked forward.

After a long look at the trainees, Kratos nodded satisfactorily before stepping forward. He stood before them, his arms locked behind his back as he gazed at the twelve thousand before him.

A moment later, Kara stepped up next to him, a look of immense pride on her weathered features as her eyes found her granddaughter's before she spoke in a firm voice that carried to every corner of the training field, with Kratos' help, of course.

"The time has come…"

Meera's eyes widened as she heard her grandmother's words, and she felt her pace quicken as she looked down for a moment at the large red bundle that rested at her feet, hardly daring to believe that it could be what she thought it might.

"This will be the last time I expect any of you to ever kneel again…" Kratos' voice rumbled out, "Now do so."

At once, all twelve thousand sunk down onto one knee and bowed their heads before Kratos, who looked down at Kara expectantly; at the unspoken signal, Kara raised her weathered hands to the sky and called out,

"Repeat after me: I swear to defend the city of Sparta with my life, to uphold her laws and the traditions of my ancestors, and to never yield in battle. I swear that my loyalty will only ever be given to Sparta, her people, and her god, Kratos. I vow to shield my brothers and sisters, stand strong in the face of danger, and fight with honor and courage. I will not falter, I will not flee, and I will not betray the trust of my fellow warriors nor the god of her people. I will be a warrior of Sparta, fierce and unyielding, and bring glory to my family and city. By the god of the Spartan people, I swear it!"

As twelve thousand voices called out as one, the ground shaking beneath them from the strength of their words, Kara felt as though her heart would burst with pride; when Kratos had given her the sacred duty of creating the oath of Sparta, the oath that all future generations would swear, she had accepted fully aware that she would need to create something truly magnificent. Something that would survive for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. For the past years, she had devoted herself fully to that end, spending an uncountable number of hours poring over parchment as she tried to create something truly worthy of her god and his people who would one day be known the world over with awe and fear.

"You knelt as individual men and women…" Kratos rumbled, "Now rise… As Spartans."

As Meera rose to her feet, her legs shook, and she thought she might collapse as the true weight of her oath seemed to settle upon her; she was a Spartan and would remain so until the last breath left her body and she rejoined her family in Elysium.

"Now, you may unwrap the bundle at your feet," Kratos continued, an unseen smirk dancing on his lips as he watched the people before him kneel down to see what Kratos had brought them. A moment later, cries of delight echoed throughout the training yard as thousands gazed down in awe.

Within the red cloth lay a complete set of armor, including bracers, greaves, and a large helmet, all made from the same glowing silver metal that seemed to emit power all on its own.

As Meera bent down and picked up the helmet, she couldn't help but stare in awe at it as though it were the most valuable thing she had ever been given, which, to her, it was.

The helmet was made from the same silver metal as the rest of her armor. It featured an open face with a nose guard that created a Y pattern that would allow her to see while at the same time protecting her face and neck. But the thing that drew her gaze was the prominent omega symbol stamped in the direct center of the helm, just above the nose plate, the symbol of her god and the symbol that the whole world would know and fear one day.

"This armor is not yet yours…" Kratos rumbled, bringing attention back to him as the recruits stared in confusion, "You have yet to earn it. That will come when you have faced the army that the Triarchy has sent against us. When you have stood against them, and their bodies litter the ground while you stand victorious over them… Then that armor will truly be yours. But know this: When you wear that armor, I expect you to honor the name you bear with it. If you fall in battle, your armor will be burned with you and will accompany you to Elysium. But if you run, if you abandon your brothers and sisters to save yourself… I will have that armor stripped from your body, and you will be left for the crows."

A sense of foreboding yet determination fell upon the group. As Meera looked back down at the silver helmet clutched between her hands, she made a silent vow to herself and to her god that she would never run and that this armor would be with her when she died. Looking around, Meera could almost sense the same promise being made all around her and felt her heart swell with pride; these were her people, her fellow warriors, and together, they would make Sparta's name legendary.

"Tomorrow at dawn, you will return here dressed in full armor," Kratos rumbled, "And we shall march to war…"

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope this chapter satisfies you all. I tried to make the Spartan armor look like it did in antiquity. Still, if you want to imagine how it might appear, you can Google 'Spartan Armor' and then imagine it in silver instead of bronze. The helmet is similar to the ones seen in 300, except in silver and with an Omega branded into the center. The oath that I had them make is one of my own creation, and it took me a while to perfect it; given that this is the oath that all Spartans will make for generations to come, I wanted something truly magnificent, but let me know how I did.

In the next chapter, we see how Sparta does in its first battle. Will they run? Or will they fight? Let's find out!

Chapter Text

Daario Naharis smirked lustfully as he lounged lazily in his chair; in front of him, two half-naked slave girls were wrestling, sweat glistening off their light brown skin as they pushed and struggled to gain an advantage over the other.

Taking a deep drink from his goblet of wine, Daario turned to the two men seated beside him, likewise enjoying the night's entertainment, with full goblets of wine held in their hands.

"At our current pace, we should reach Myr in three days…"

"Good," Mero, the captain of the Second Sons, replied, "I'm looking forward to reminding those slaves of their place."

"We need to keep some of them alive…" Prendal na Ghezn, Mero's second-in-command, replied before taking a deep drink from his goblet, "The Triarchy won't be pleased if we kill them all. They will expect a return on their investment for the amount they're paying."

"You needn't worry," Mero sneered, "I'm sure there will be enough slaves left over to satisfy the Triarchy once we've put the troublemakers to the sword. Can't say they'll be in the best shape once our men are finished having their fun with them, but I doubt that will matter to the Triarchy…"

"Indeed," Daario replied, emptying his cup and reaching for the nearby pitcher to refill it, "They only care about putting down this 'slave rebellion' as they called it. Before the slaves in their own cities start getting dangerous ideas."

"And what of the rumors that our scouts have brought us?" Prendal na Ghezn inquired, "About the new king of Myr being a 'supposed' god?"

"Pfft, you don't honestly believe that, do you, you old whoreson?" Mero sneered, turning to his fellow captain, "This 'king' is no more god than you are. He's probably just some skilled warrior who managed to convince the slaves in Myr to rebel against their masters. You'll see when we confront this 'army' they've assembled. And when we confront this king of theirs, I will personally cut the fucker's head off and nail it to the gates of Myr as a warning for all his followers to see!"

Darrio smirked at that before turning back to the two wrestling slaves, his mind already on the riches that would come from the upcoming battle. The Triarchy was sparing no expense in suppressing the slave revolt of Myr which had been caused by the 'supposed god,' named Kratos. For over a year, the Triarchy had summoned every available mercenary to the city of Tyrosh and outfitted them with the best weapons and armor that could be provided, all for the singular purpose of subjugating the rebellious slaves of Myr, who thought that they could kill their betters and not be punished for it.

Nearly every mercenary company in the Free Cities had answered the call; The Company of the Cat, The Company of the Rose, The Second Sons, The Golden Company, and dozens more had come at the behest of the Triarchy, driven by their shared greed, as well as the promise of 'free reign' that the Triarchy had given to the mercenaries in exchange for their service. When the order finally came to march, the assembled army reached over twenty-five thousand.

Daario had found himself staring in awe from the back of his horse as he watched the long line of men march out of the gates of Tyrosh; no army this massive had been seen in Essos since the days of the Valerian Freehold. At least not one that wasn't made up of Dothraki screamers, anyway. Truthfully, Daario almost felt sorry for the fate that awaited the former slaves of Myr once the army took the city; by order of the Triarchy, every male slave over the age of ten was to be put to the sword, all children were to be returned to Tyrosh to be resold, as were the women, once the mercenaries were done 'playing with them,' of course.

The riches of the city would be split in half, with half going to the Triarchy and the other half going to the assembled mercenaries as payment for services rendered; that alone had ensured the army's loyalty to the Triarchy, with this single battle, the men would have enough wealth to retire as rich men, never needing to fight in any battle ever again. Of course, given the type of men who became mercenaries, Daario knew that many of them would burn through their share of Myr's riches in a matter of years and be right back where they started from.

Taking another deep drink from his goblet, Daario laughed as one of the slave girls finally managed to put her opponent in a chokehold before tightening her grip, causing the other girl's eyes to widen in sudden panic as her supply of oxygen was halted.

Three days… Three days until Daario's all-consuming lust for blood and riches was sated… Good thing for him, his time as a mercenary had taught him patience, and given what was to be won, he could afford plenty of it.

XXXX

Kratos stared imperiously at the twelve thousand men and women who were standing in formation in front of him before the gates of Sparta, each wearing the silver armor that had been given to them the day before, which blazed with an almost blinding light as the rays of the sun reflected off of it while their red cloak hung loose behind them, gently ruffling with the wind.

Each was equipped with a hoplon, the Spartan shield, which had been given to them this very morning along with their weapons; approximately three feet in diameter and made from the same steel that made up the warrior's armor, the rounded shape was designed precisely to Kratos' specifications to not only cover the warrior but also to offer protection to the soldier on their left, a crucial element of the Spartan phalanx formation. Currently, the surface of their shield was bare, but Kratos had informed the men and women that at the end of this battle, they would be free to paint whatever they wanted on their shield to make it their own.

In the hand opposite the one which held their shields, each man and woman held a seven-foot-long wooden spear, atop which sat a glinting steel tip; at the bottom of their spear, a second steel spike was embedded into the earth as the soldiers stood at attention and waited for the order to move out.

On their hip rested their xiphos sword, the final piece of their equipment, which, along with the spear and shield, had been given to them mere hours ago; measuring a mere eighteen inches long, the blade was leaf-shaped and double-edged with a short leather and steel grip and simple guard.

Thanks to the year-long training of hell that Kratos had put the men and women through, in which he'd had them train with a wooden sword that was twice as heavy as the real thing, many found their new weapon almost weightless. They had been amazed at how agile they could move with it, which was precisely what Kratos had intended.

Looking up at the walls of Sparta, Kratos could see hundreds of people watching the silent army, each whispering a silent prayer for the safe return of their loved one, which created an unending buzz in Kratos' head, which made him growl slightly before he shook his head and willed the whispers away. The men and women before him had already said their goodbyes to their loved ones the night before, and though Kratos knew that he had trained them well and pushed them to the very edge of what their bodies could do, the pragmatic side of his being knew that many would not return to Sparta.

While he had every intention of fighting alongside his people, he would not be their babysitter; this was their test, their challenge, and they would either meet it and become true Spartans or fail and lie forgotten. Those who survived this battle would return to Sparta stronger from what they experienced, hardened by it, and ready to defend their new city and their people to death alongside their fellow warriors. Through that commitment, Kratos' people would give birth to something the world had never seen before.

As his gaze swept through the assembled army, Kratos' eyes narrowed as he focused on the men standing in front of the formations, the ones he had chosen to act as the Generals and lead the men and women through their first battle. Given that they were the only ones with actual combat experience, it had been obvious that Kratos would elevate the former members of the Unsullied to the officer class. Yet, to Kratos' confusion, when he had made his choice known, nearly every member he had selected stared at him in shock as though not believing his words. Each Unsullied General was outfitted in the same armor as the other Spartans, with the only difference being that their helmet had an added feature: a long crest of red horsehair running down the middle. When this battle was over, Kratos planned to have a school made that would train warriors into officers and thereby give anyone intelligent enough the chance to lead, but for now, he was forced to rely on those who already had experience.

The army had been carefully split into six, two-thousand warrior units, each under the command of an Unsullied; under him was what Kratos had called 'platoon leaders,' which consisted of another Unsullied, this one wearing a crest of black horsehair, who was in command of five hundred. Under the platoon leader, were men and women handpicked by Kratos, who had shown initiative, drive, and capability, acted as what he called 'squad leaders.'

These warriors all wore crests of gold horsehair and were given command of one hundred of their fellow warriors, but only after Kratos had made sure to impart to them the importance of the responsibility that he was entrusting them with; the lives of their brothers and sisters were now totally in their hands, and if they made a mistake, their squads could be massacred as a result. After that lengthy speech, more than one of the newly promoted men and women had gone pale as the weight of leadership seemed to crash upon their shoulders.

At first, the men and women had been confused about how such an organization could possibly act as one, but after a year and a half in which Kratos had drilled them repeatedly until they would not only follow their officer's orders but do so as one, the warriors knew that when they finally saw battle, they would be an unstoppable force of shields and spears. And now that day was finally here.

Finally, Kratos finished his inspection and turned toward the General of the first unit, the man directly under Kratos in terms of command. Once, the Unsullied had been named Brownflea but after being healed by Kratos, the man had come and asked his god to give him a new name to celebrate his new life. Kratos had finally settled on 'Neos,' meaning 'new' or 'fresh start,' and Neos had embraced his new name with a smile as bright as the sun.

"General Neos, are your men ready to march?" Kratos rumbled, stopping a few feet from the man and staring down at him imperiously.

"They are, my lord," Neos replied at once,

"Then, sound the call to march. We do not stop until nightfall. If we are to meet the army of the Triarchy before they reach the city, we will need to cover ground quickly."

"Yes, sir!" Neos replied smartly before turning to his second in command and ordering, "Signal right face!"

Instantly, the man rested his spear against his shoulder before reaching to a horn at his side, raising it to his lips, and issuing a long bellow that echoed across the open field; a moment later, the entire army swung to the right in one fluid motion that made Kratos nod in satisfaction.

Stepping in front of Neos, Kratos cast one final look at Sparta before releasing a tired sigh and taking the first step to war; a moment later, Kratos heard the horn behind him blow out again, signaling the army to march. Ordinarily, no horn would be capable of reaching the ears of such a large host, but Kratos had used his new powers to make sure that when the horn was blown, every single warrior in his army would be able to hear it as clearly as though it was right next to them.

As the army marched away from the city, Kara stood on the wall and watched alongside the others who had been left behind as the largest army that her old eyes, or any of them for that matter, had ever seen strode away toward their destiny in a long silver line that seemed to go on forever.

Per Kratos' orders, the gates of Sparta had been closed and would remain closed until he and the Spartan army returned victorious, something that she had no doubt would occur. As she continued to stare at the army, Kara felt her heart race; her granddaughter was somewhere amongst that interminable number of soldiers marching to destroy the ones who would see them all returned to bondage. As a solitary tear ran down her face, Kara whispered a silent prayer to her god that her granddaughter would return alive; a moment later, the wind blew across Kara's face as though someone was gently wiping away her tear, and Kara smiled. Her god had heard her.

XXXX

Two Days Later:

Daario stared in silent shock from his horse as he looked down at the large camp that sat nearly five miles from his army's and seemed to stretch out toward the horizon with hundreds of tents. They were still a day's march from Myr, and according to the scouts, nothing was standing between the army of the Triarchy and the City of Myr; yet when Daario and the others woke this morning, it was to find that an enemy encampment had sprung up dangerously close to their own seemingly overnight.

"How the fuck did they move so fast!" Mero raged from where he sat next to Daario, "Our scouts said this area was clear only yesterday!"

"Perhaps this will work in our favor…" Prendal na Ghezn replied thoughtfully from Daario's other side.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Mero demanded,

"We're still over a hundred miles from Myr," Prendal na Ghezn said, turning to his co-captain with a look of impatience at his lack of understanding, "To cover so much ground this quickly, the leader would have had to run his army nearly to the ground. They will no doubt be exhausted and, therefore, easier to defeat. Adding to that, our scouts have reported that we outnumber the slave's army by nearly two-to-one."

"We should attack now, then." Mero growled, a cruel smile coming over his face as he realized the truth in his companion's words, "Once these pathetic fuckers are all dead, the city will be defenseless."

"A messenger arrived not long ago," Darrio said softly, "Perhaps we should hear what they have to say before we rush to any rash decision…"

"Why the fuck would we do that?" Harry Strickland, the leader of the Golden Company, demanded, from where he sat beside Mero, "We were hired to slaughter these fuckers, not speak to them as if they were our equals. They're slaves, after all. We should not pretend otherwise."

"I agree with Daario," Captain Bloodbeard, the leader of the Company of the Cat, growled, causing the others to glare at him, "I am curious what the leader of this slave army will offer us to save themselves from destruction."

"Anything they can offer, we can take once we destroy them!" Mero spat back, "There's no point in entertaining this farce!"

"Perhaps not, but I still say we should do so," Daario shrugged, "We can always slaughter them afterward. After all, like Prendal na Ghezn said, we outnumber them, and they're most likely exhausted from their long march. We hold the winning hand here."

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Mero snarled before looking back at the enemy camp with contempt, "Fine! We'll meet with their messenger and see what the little shit wants! Whether we kill these fuckers now or later matters little to me…"

Pulling hard on his reigns, Mero turned his horse back to camp and began to trot away, grumbling under his breath as he did so; as the others started to follow Mero, Daario stared back down at the enemy's camp. One did not survive long as a mercenary if they didn't listen to their instincts, and right now his were screaming at him to flee, that he was going to die here, yet he couldn't understand why. The army of the Triarchy outnumbered the army of Myr more than two-to-one, and they were no doubt better equipped, given how much the masters of Tyrosh and Lys had spent getting the army prepared; yet there it was, an abnormal chill was racing up and down Daario's spine.

As he turned his horse to follow after the others, Daario swallowed nervously before angrily shaking away the feeling; he would listen to the messenger first and make his decision on what to do afterward.

XXXX

Ten minutes later, Daario stared silently at the man before him, alongside the other leaders of the army of the Triarchy; loathe though he was to admit it, Daario was impressed by what he was seeing.

The armor that the man wore was unlike any Daario had ever seen before, but what was more impressive was the way the man held himself, standing with his hands held firmly to his side and his eyes facing forward with absolutely no fear in them, despite the large group of men who wanted nothing more than to slit his throat. The thing that caught his eye, however, was the symbol that was branded into the center of the man's helmet. As Daario continued to stare, he was reminded of an amulet that his mother had worn long ago before she was killed.

"Alright, slave," Mero sneered, "Say your piece before I decided to have that pretty armor of yours removed from you, followed soon after by your head."

"I am not a slave," the messenger replied at once, "I am a Spartan and a follower of the god of Sparta, Kratos. I am here to deliver his words to you."

"You might have changed the name of your city and freed yourself from your chains, but that doesn't mean you've removed what you are, slave…" Harry Strickland sneered, causing the messenger's brow to tick with anger. Yet, he remained at attention despite the apparent rage coursing through the man.

"And despite how easily he's managed to fool you fuckers, I can assure you that your leader is no fucking god," Mero spat, "He's just a man who started a slave rebellion, a rebellion which we are here to quash."

"What is your message?" Daario spoke, already growing bored with the hostility in the tent and eager to get this over with.

"Lord Kratos wishes to hold a meeting tomorrow at dawn in order to find favorable terms that will stop this battle before it begins."

"Seriously?" Mero laughed, "What kind of fucking coward are you slaves following? Did the sight of our great army cause his balls to fall off?"

"You would do well to watch your tongue…" The messenger hissed, "Lord Kratos is not as forgiving as I am when it comes to insults. He could very easily destroy this entire army you've assembled with a wave of his hand. However, he does not wish to spill such blood without at least trying to offer peace. And he's twice the man you'll ever be…"

"Is that a fact…?" Mero sneered, "And what's to stop me from cutting your fucking head off and sending it back to him as my answer to his summons?"

"Nothing," the messenger replied, "My lord already told me that there was a high possibility that you would kill me, but I do not fear that end, for I know that my soul will go on to Elysium. But if you do kill me, Lord Kratos will consider all negotiations between your army and his as null and void. And then he'll just slaughter you all."

The silence that followed those words was all-consuming as every man in the tent stared at the messenger in shock; it wasn't his words that shocked them, rather it was the man's complete lack of fear as well as the certainty in his voice that every word he was speaking was a complete truth.

"What is Elysium?" Daario asked at last, causing the other to turn to him momentarily before returning to the messenger.

"It is the beautiful afterlife," the messenger replied softly, "The place where all warriors of honor reside. A place of peace, the reward for a lifetime of war…"

Again, the messenger's words caused silence throughout the tent as the group heard the true belief in the man's voice; there was no fanaticism or chicanery there, just pure belief.

"To hell with this…" Mero finally sneered before turning to Prendal na Ghezn, "Cut this fucker's throat."

"No…" Prendal na Ghezn replied, causing Mero to turn to him with shock,

"What the fuck do you mean 'no'?"

"Their leader interests me," Prendal na Ghezn replied, "As he should you. I wish to meet him and see what kind of man he is for myself. And I do not think cutting his messenger's throat would be a good way to start such a meeting."

"You've got to be shitting me…" Mero sneered before standing up, walking to the nearby table, grabbing a cup of wine, and taking a deep drink.

After several deep gulps, Mero threw the empty cup to the floor before returning to the messenger.

"Tell your fucking god that we'll see him tomorrow at dawn, now get out before I change my mind."

The messenger nodded once before spinning on his heel and quickly striding away while the others glared at his back.

"Why are we agreeing to meet?" Harry demanded, "We were hired to take back Myr, and that army is the only thing standing in our way! Once we destroy them, the city will be ours!"

"As I said, this 'Kratos' interests me…" Prendal na Ghezn replied as he rubbed his chin, "Did you not see the look in that messenger's eyes? The look of pure devotion? Anyone who could gain that type of respect is someone I should very much like to meet…"

"And what's to stop him from having us all killed when we meet with him?" Harry retorted, "We could very well be walking into a trap!"

"He's right," Bloodbeard said, running his hand down the red beard that had earned him his name, "Without leadership, this army will implode into infighting as everyone tries to take the role. If that happens, the slaves might actually be able to win…"

"So, what do you suggest then?" Daario replied sarcastically, "Shall I call the man back?"

"Should have just let me kill the fucker…" Mero spat as he filled another cup,

"Only a few should go," Prendal na Ghezn replied, "The rest should remain with the army, just in case."

"So, who goes, then?" Harry spat, "I'll be staying here, of course. The rest of you might be inclined to entertain this farce, but I'm not interested, I can assure you."

"We three will go," Mero replied, indicating himself, Daario, and Prendal na Ghezn, "The rest of you can stay here and guard the camp."

"Hang on a minute; why the fuck do you get to go?" Another mercenary leader, with an eyepatch snapped, "You may think you're the boss here, but that don't mean you are!"

"You want to challenge me for the role, then?" Mero smirked, his hand dropping to the sword on his hip and causing the man's eye to drop to it momentarily before he stepped back with a dark look.

"Didn't think so…" Mero smirked before emptying his cup and throwing it to the floor, "Well, since we're not set to meet this fucker who thinks himself a god, until tomorrow, I'm going to go find myself a whore to fuck."

Without another word, Mero sped out of the tent, followed moments later by the others, many of whom were grumbling at what had just occurred; Daario was the last to leave, and as he stepped out into the open, he couldn't help but look up at the quickly darkening sky above him. Mere moments ago, the sky had been clear and peaceful, yet now, dark clouds filled with violent flashes of lightning were beginning to form over his camp.

Again, his instincts flared with a feeling of danger, yet the reason behind it was lost to him; he could only hope that his sudden nervousness would become clear tomorrow after the meeting.

XXXX

Meera groaned as she pulled her boots off her feet and laid down in her tent; beside her, six others were likewise groaning in misery as they removed their armor and tried to get a few blessed hours of sleep. Despite the incredible amount of stamina that the training and drill had given Meera and her fellow Spartans, marching over a hundred miles in under two days had still been a task that had left her in more pain than she could ever remember enduring since first she began her training. Kratos had driven them like a muleteer, pushing them ever onward and forcing those who fell out back into the line.

Only when night had fallen did he allow them to stop and rest for a few short hours before forcing them all on their feet to begin again. Many had been so exhausted by the first day's march that they had fallen asleep in their armor, using their red cloaks as a pillow.

As Meera pulled the last of her armor from her tired body, she fell backward and was asleep before her head hit her pillow, unaware of the violent storm that was beginning outside her tent. Unknown to Meera and the others, when they awoke the following day, all their pain and exhaustion would be gone, and they would wake up refreshed as though the previous two days had never even happened.

XXXX

The following day, shortly after dawn, Daario and the others rode together with six other men from the Second Sons who were to act as their guard; they weren't needed, of course, but a small show of force went a long way in terms of negotiation, Daario found.

As they approached the large red tent that had been built between the army of the Triarchy and the army of Sparta, Daario could see three warriors in silver armor waiting for them, each carrying a large shield and a long spear.

Quickly dismounting and throwing his reins to one of his guards, Mero approached the glaring men with a swagger as he grinned at their angry eyes.

"You were told to be here at dawn," one of the warriors growled, "You are late."

"Yeah, sorry about that…" Mero chuckled, "There was this pretty slave girl I was fucking and couldn't pull myself away. I'm sure you understand."

The warriors tensed at that, and their anger seemed to become a physical thing as the tension grew while Mero smiled uncaringly.

"Lord Kratos is waiting…" One of the warriors finally spat, turning and leading the men to the tent's entrance.

As he walked past the other two warriors, Mero winked and flashed a cruel smile at them, causing the warrior's hands to grip their spears so tight that their knuckles turned white; trailing behind, Daario couldn't help but shake his head in annoyance, this meeting was not off to a good start.

As they entered the tent, all three men suddenly froze in shock as they gazed at the man who had caused the Triarchy such trouble in the last year; even Mero's former swagger disappeared as he stared at the giant who was seated in a chair opposite him, and gazing at the three with an imperious eye that all but demanded obedience.

"Holy fuck!" Mero finally cried, "No wonder the other slaves follow you!"

Kratos' eyes narrowed at that, and his glare seemed to intensify, making all three men shift nervously for a moment before Kratos turned his eye to the man who had led them inside.

"Leave us."

Nodding quickly, the warrior turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent, to the confusion of the three men, who watched the warrior go before turning back to Kratos,

"You sure it's wise to meet with us alone?" Mero sneered, "What's to stop us from killing you and ending this battle before it can begin?"

"You would fail," Kratos growled simply, making Mero color with rage as Kratos indicated the three chairs before him, "Sit. We have much to discuss."

As he took his seat, Daario cast an appraising eye around the tent as Mero glared at their host with barely controlled anger. At the same time, Prendal na Ghezn simply stared with curiosity.

The interior was bare of any of the comforts that would typically be present during a negotiation such as this, which surprised Daario somewhat; in fact, the only thing present inside the tent was Kratos' chair and that of Daario and his companions.

"Do they not have wine where you're from, giant?" Mero sneered as he looked around at the bare interior of the tent, "Or is insulting your guests by denying them refreshment how you plan to start our little chat?"

"My people do not drink before battle," Kratos rumbled, surprising the three men before him, "It clouds the mind and is more trouble than it is worth."

"What a sad bunch of fuckers you are, then…" Mero replied scornfully.

"You said you wanted to negotiate," Daario said, quickly cutting off his leader before Mero made things worse, "So, let's talk."

"The Triarchy has offered us half of the riches in the city of Myr as payment for reconquering the city," Prendal na Ghezn said softly, "What do you offer?"

"Nothing," Kratos stated, surprising the three men, "Only your lives."

"You're not very good at negotiating, are you…?" Mero said after a moment, "Ordinarily, you're supposed to offer MORE than we've already been offered in order to stop us from killing you all…"

"The Triarchy has hired you to conquer Myr and return its slave population to bondage," Kratos rumbled, "That is something I will not allow."

"Allow?" Mero snorted, "And who are you to 'allow' us to do anything? You may be a big bastard, but you obviously have no brain to go with those big muscles. We outnumber your pathetic army of slaves by over two-to-one. On top of that, our army is made up of men who have spent decades honing their skills as seasoned killers. Tell me, giant, how many of those slaves you've set free can say the same? You really think a year of training will save them?"

Daario winced at his companion's harsh words before adding, in a much softer tone,

"My companion speaks true, giant. You have no hope of victory here… The wisest course of action would be for you to surrender and save the lives of those who follow you. True, they will be slaves again, but they will survive. Isn't that the only thing that matters?"

"Have you ever been a slave…?" Kratos asked, his eyes blazing with fury and making Daario swallow for a moment, "I didn't think so… To be a slave is to be nothing, to have no control over any part of your life. To be dead would be a far kinder fate than the one that my people have suffered thus far. And it is not a life they will ever return to. I am giving you this opportunity to save yourselves from destruction. I advise you to take it. The weak 'slaves' you imagine yourselves fighting are not here, only warriors who will not hesitate to kill every last one of you if you force my hand."

"Pfft, is that supposed to scare me?" Mero sneered, "Do you have any idea how many times I have heard those same exact words, only for the one who spoke them to die by my blade? Am I supposed to be afraid of you? I know that you've somehow conned the slaves following you into thinking you're a god and judging by your size, it's easy to see how. But do you know what I see? I see a mortal man who is completely outmatched and will soon be just another corpse on the battlefield once my army is finished."

"Last chance…" Kratos growled, his eyes filling with fury, "Leave and never come back, or you will all die here…"

A sudden explosion of thunder boomed overhead, making the three men jump slightly before returning their attention to the giant seated before them.

"I guess we have nothing further to discuss, then…" Mero sneered as he rose to his feet, "Enjoy your last day on earth, you giant cunt. Because tomorrow, my army is going to show yours just how mortal you are, and I am personally gonna cut your fucking head off!"

Without another word, Mero jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over as he did so, and stormed out of the tent; Prendal na Ghezn rose more slowly, giving Kratos a curious glance before he followed, leaving only Daario behind with Kratos.

For a moment, Daario simply stared at the giant, his bulging arms crossed over his chest as he glared imperiously down at the mercenary.

"I've noticed your warriors wear a symbol on their helm…" Daario finally spoke, "My mother wore such a symbol. What does it mean?"

"It is my symbol…" Kratos rumbled back, causing Daario's eyes to widen, "If she wore it, then she was one of mine. Are you?"

"Are you really a god…?" Daario asked in a low voice, "Or just some giant who's managed to con an entire city?"

"Tomorrow… You will discover the answer to that question yourself," Kratos replied as he slowly rose to his feet, making Daario's eyes widen as he saw just how large Kratos truly was.

"You seem wiser than your companions…" Kratos continued, "You should take my offer and go. Make no mistake, all who stand against me tomorrow will die."

Daario swallowed as he rose to his feet, the sheer belief that was echoing from Kratos' words seemed to rob him of any sarcastic reply Daario could have made; nodding simply, he turned and strode out of the tent, his eyes widening as he saw the violent storm that had suddenly appeared.

"Daario! Get on your fucking horse and let's get out of here!" Mero roared from the saddle, where he was becoming soaked due to the heavy rain.

Rushing forward, Daario leaped into his saddle and kicked his heels into his horse side as he and the others sped away; casting one last look behind him, Daario had to shake his head to clear his vision, sure that he was seeing things, for it looked as though the silver warriors who were glaring at the fleeing riders were completely dry despite the deluge coming from the heavens. As another explosion of thunder sounded overhead, Daario put the hallucination out of his head and kicked harder, trying to reach the safety of his tent before the storm drowned him.

XXXX

As the sun rose over the hills the following day, Kratos stared at the army that sat just half a mile from his own, who were currently screaming and hurling obscenities; turning away from the noise, Kratos looked at the silent ranks of his army, all standing at attention and staring ahead with narrowed eyes. Through the link, Kratos could fear the fear that was coursing through them, screaming at them to run, yet not a single one so much as twitched. Nodding in satisfaction at the iron discipline his Spartans were displaying, Kratos looked at General Neos and motioned for him to approach.

"Are they ready, general?"

"They are, my lord," Neos nodded at once,

"And they know the plan?" Kratos demanded, "They know what they must do?"

"They do, my lord," Neos responded again, "I made sure that the orders were passed down and understood. They won't fail you…"

Kratos nodded at that before returning to stare at the screaming army across from him; behind him, Neos stared at Kratos' back with a new level of respect due to the incredible battle plan that Kratos had devised the previous night.

Knowing that his army was vastly outnumbered and having no wish to reveal himself to the world just yet, Kratos had created something truly spectacular that would allow him and the Spartan army to completely destroy the army of the Triarchy, and by the time the mercenary army figured out how much danger they were in, it would be too late for them to save themselves.

"It is time…" Kratos said to himself before slowly closing his eyes as he turned back to face his army; a moment later, Kratos opened his eyes, and every single Spartan heard him speak as though he were standing right next to them.

"Spartans, three days from now, I plan to be back in Sparta to continue the repairs to the city. Imagine where you will be, and it will be so. Hold the line, stay with me! If you find yourself alone, standing in green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled… For you are in Elysium, and you're already dead!"

Laughter echoed from his army as thousands smiled at Kratos' joke; Kratos himself smiled as he felt his soldiers' fear ebb a little.

"Remember this day, my Spartans!" Kratos' voice thundered as the laughter began to stop, "For it will be yours for all time…"

Through the link Kratos felt his words settle on his people for a moment before a will of pure steel seemed to seep into the bones of every warrior present; they began to stand straighter, glare harder, and Kratos nodded in approval before turning back to the army facing him and slowly pull his axe from his back. Overhead, the clear blue sky began to darken.

It was time…

XXXX

"I was sure they'd be gone by morning…" Mero sneered as he stared at the silent army, "They know they can't possibly win…. Are they suicidal?"

"Perhaps they would rather die than return to bondage," Harry replied, "If that's the case, then I suppose one could respect their courage if not their intelligence…"

"Courage or no, we were hired to kill them all and subjugate Myr, so how about we get to work…?" Bloodbeard growled already a steady headache was beginning to grow within his skull at the unending noise that was going on around him.

Turning to Daario, who was watching with a strange expression on his face, Mero growled out,

"Daario, take your cavalry and do as we agreed. When I give the signal, I want you to hit their rear with everything you got."

With a nod, Darrio turned his horse and kicked in his heels, quickly disappearing in a trail of dust.

Turning to the others, Mero ripped his sword free of his sheathe with a cruel smile before resting the blade against his shoulder,

"Gentlemen, shall we?"

With a roar of fury, Bloodbeard raised his double-bladed axe and pointed at the silver warriors still standing silently across from them; as he brought his axe down and pointed toward the Spartans, the mercenaries roared happily before charging forward.

XXXX

Author's note:

I know how unhappy most of you were about the last chapter, so I decided to release one more that would make up for it. I was going to add the battle to this chapter, but seeing as I've now been typing for over twelve hours, and my fingers are killing me, you'll have to wait.

If you liked this chapter, I'd love to hear what about it you liked. If you didn't like it, I would still like to hear what you thought about it, as it will help me make the next one even better.

To those wondering what plan Kratos has come up with to destroy the army of the Triarchy, I will offer this simple hint: Cannae.

Chapter Text

Thunder boomed.

Lightning flashed.

Men died.

Meera had lost track of time since the battle had begun, too focused on holding the line as she had been taught and keeping the phalanx intact as the horde of mercenaries screamed and climbed over the dead bodies of their comrades to get to her.

Ducking under a wide swing that would have decapitated her, Meera growled low in her throat before stabbing her Xiphos blade upwards into her opponent's neck, smiling as she watched the man's eyes widen for a moment before he fell back and clutched at the wound in some ineffectual attempt to stop the massive blood flow. Her spear had long since been lost in the chaos of this battle, left in the chest of some nameless mercenary who had tried to use the corpse of one of his allies as a springboard to launch himself over the wall of shields, only for Meera's thrown spear to meet him in the air and send him back to the earth with a cry of agony.

As she raised her shield to ward off another blow, Meera felt herself grinning uncontrollably; anyone who saw her right now might justifiably think her mad. She should have been terrified; a battlefield was no place for the daughter of a trader, after all. Let alone one as young as her, she'd yet to even see her fifteenth year, for gods sake! Yet despite everything going on around her, Meera had never felt more alive in her entire life; it was as if she was born to be here, alongside her brothers and sisters, defending her new home against the scum who dared to try and defile it.

As she sliced through another nameless mercenary's throat, causing a spurt of blood to flash across her helmet, a wolf-like smile spread across Meera's face. All her life, Meera had felt as if she didn't belong. Though she did her best to learn the life expected of a trader, Meera had truly begun to dread the day when she would be forced to become one herself, like every member of her family had been for countless generations. But here? Here on this battlefield, filled with images of slaughter, the likes of which should have horrified her beyond all words, Meera finally felt as though she belonged and that all her many years of life had led her to this place.

Despite her initial worries that her courage would fail her and that she would flee, Meera had stood strong alongside her fellow warriors, determined not to fail her new god or her new city. Meera remembered Kratos' words about how her armor would never truly be hers until she had baptized it in the fire of combat; here and now, in this hellscape of war, Meera knew she had done exactly what her god had demanded. She was a Spartan. The pride that came from those four simple words seemed to fill Meera almost to bursting, as though she had consumed an entire barrel of the best wine that Essos could offer, leaving her flushed and indescribably happy.

"Die, you bitch!" A mercenary screamed as he gripped the top of Meera's shield with one hand and pulled down as he raised a small axe with the other, intent on burying it in Meera's skull.

"Fuck you!" Meera shouted back as she shoved her Xiphos blade through the man's open mouth and out the back of his head, causing the man's eyes to widen in horror for a moment as he gagged and gurgled before going silent as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

With a savage snarl, Meera ripped the blade free of the man's mouth and flicked the gore off of it as she shoved him off of her shield, only to duck behind it as another mercenary jumped forward and tried to kill her. Ducking beneath her shield, Meera felt her arm jolt with the impact of her newest opponent's attack. With a hiss of anger, Meera swung her shield out, knocking the man off balance and allowing her to plunge her sword into his chest before ripping it free and ducking back behind her shield.

The sudden shrill 'tweet' of a nearby whistle nearly made Meera groan in relief as she sheathed her sword, turned sideways, and allowed the warrior behind her to take Meera's place as she made her way toward the back, slipping easily past the long row of warriors. This was another innovation that Kratos had created and implemented during the course of his training, and it truly showed just how capable Kratos was as a leader, as far as Meera was concerned. Every twenty minutes, the platoon leader would blow their whistle, signaling the Spartans in front to disengage and move to the rear. At the same time, the warrior behind them took their place.

This monumental way of fighting not only allowed the Spartans in the front a chance to rest, something their opponents were denied, but also helped to defeat the mercenaries on a psychological level as they were forced to face an unending line of fresh warriors while their own strength faded, and they were eventually killed. In the interminable number of hours, since this battle had begun, many Spartans had been killed, it was true, but the Spartan dead was a paltry number when compared to the scores of corpses that the mercenaries had left behind them as they pushed forward, completely unaware that they were walking into a trap.

As Meera continued past the row after row of waiting warriors, she felt her wolf-like smile return; the mercenaries had no idea what was about to happen, and by the time they finally did, it would be too late…

XXXX

"Why won't they fucking break!" Mero snarled with fury, his armor covered in gore as he stared across the battlefield at the silver-armored warriors that he had begun to hate more than any opponent he had ever faced, "They're just fucking slaves!"

"I must admit, I would never have thought them capable of withstanding us for so long…" Prendal na Ghezn replied as he dabbed at a cut across his cheek where a lucky-thrown spear had nearly ended him.

Mero glared at his co-captain for a moment. His hand tightened around the sword held in his grip as though he was contemplating cutting the man down in fury; after several tense seconds, Mero's rage ebbed, and he turned back to the battle, his eyes narrowing as he watched.

Hours had passed since the start of this battle, hours longer than Mero had anticipated the battle to last if he was being perfectly honest. When the army first charged those so-called 'Spartans,' Mero had expected them to break the moment the two armies met, scattered by the strength and power of his army. Instead, to his shock, the Spartans had held firm, and Mero's army had been stalled, creating a chaotic entanglement of men who were quickly and easily cut down.

Worse still, when the mercenary army finally managed to form proper ranks and reengage, they found they couldn't even get close due to the overlong spears that the Spartans favored. Everything seemed to be going wrong in this battle, and the longer it went on, the angrier Mero became. A sudden violent storm had appeared at the start of the battle, creating an unending deluge that had made the ground muddy and slick; that, added to the innumerable number of bodies that littered the battlefield, had made advancement difficult as his men slipped in the mud, or tripped over the bodies of their allies. While his men had managed to kill hundreds of those Spartan fuckers, the numbers of those slain were still heavily in the Spartan's favor, another thing that made Mero want to rage. Thankfully, the rain had ended some time ago, but the skies above were still black, save for the occasional flash of lightning that ripped through them, followed by the violent rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the ground.

"Mero! Mero!" Harry Strickland called out as he raced toward the pair, his armor covered in blood and his thinning hair soaked to his skull from the rain.

"What is it?" Mero demanded, "There better be a good reason why you've left your post!"

"There is," Harry snapped back, "We've found a weak point!"

"What?" Mero demanded, "Where!"

"The center!" Harry replied, spinning around and pointing back toward the battle, making Mero and Prendal na Ghezn narrow their eyes as they tried to see where Harry was pointing.

"How do you know?" Mero demanded,

"I have sent my troops to try and punch through every inch of this formation of theirs, and they've been rebuffed every time, save for the center! My men managed to punch these Spartan fuckers back quite a distance before reinforcements arrived, and my men were forced back. If we concentrate our full might on the center, I believe it will give, and these fuckers will be routed!"

"And then we can kill every last fucking one of them…" Mero grinned cruelly as Prendal na Ghezn frowned beside him.

"It seems foolish to concentrate our full might like that… How do we know this isn't a trap?"

"Oh please, pull your head out of your ass!" Mero snapped, rolling his eyes in derision, "They're slaves! They don't have the capacity to think of something like that! Obviously, they concentrated most of their forces on their flanks, thinking that is where they would be most vulnerable. It's the wisest choice, but the stupid bastards have left their center weak as a result, and I plan to capitalize on their stupidity!"

"Mero, I think…" Prendal na Ghezn began before Mero cut him off,

"I don't give a fuck what you think! I will not have the honor and reputation of the Second Sons destroyed because of an army of fucking slaves! We will hit their center with everything we have and show these fuckers, who think themselves warriors, what true warriors look like!"

Prendal na Ghezn said nothing at that, simply biting his lip and leveling a hard stare at his co-captain as Mero turned back to Harry, who had been watching the confrontation with trepidation.

"What about their so-called 'god'?" Mero demanded, "Any sign of that giant fucker?"

"Only sporadic ones…" Harry growled, "For a giant, he moves faster than anyone I've ever seen! One minute he's slicing men to ribbons with that giant fucking axe of his, and the next, he's disappeared to a different part of the battlefield! But I'm willing to bet that if we press the center…"

"He'll also be forced to go there to help bolster the defenses…" Mero reasoned, a cruel grin spreading across his face, "Then that is what we shall do. Order your men to begin pressing the center at once! And if you see that giant fucker, inform me at once! I want the privilege of killing him myself!"

Harry nodded at once before spinning on his heel and sprinting back toward the battle, while Mero was smiling like a child who had just been promised his favorite sweet.

"I have a bad feeling about this…" Prendal na Ghezn said softly, "We should hold some of our men back in reserve… Concentrating our full might against a single target leaves us open to flanking."

"You overestimate their capabilities, old friend," Mero chuckled darkly, "As I said, they're just slaves."

"Just slaves…" Prendal na Ghezn replied with a frown, "Then how do you explain their incredible strategies so far? Of continuously rotating their troops so as to keep fresh ones in the front? Or how about their foresight in using such long spears in order to keep our men from being able to get close enough to attack? 'Just slaves' couldn't have thought of such things… But warriors could…"

"Those fuckers are NOT warriors!" Mero snarled, getting right into his co-captain's face, "And these tactics, while impressive, I will grant you, were obviously created by that giant bastard! There is simply no way that Myr's slaves could have thought of such things! And I promise you this! When I find that 'god' of theirs, I'm going to rip his fucking head off myself! And when those slave fuckers see their precious king dead at my feet, it will rip the heart out of them and remind them of what they are! Now, get to your post and get the men ready. Once we break their center, I'll signal Daario and have his cavalry slam into those bastards' flank. After that, it'll be a nice, easy slaughter…"

For a moment, Prendal na Ghezn looked as though he wanted to argue further, but the look in Mero's eyes silenced him in an instant; there was madness there, a dark fire that threatened to consume anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

With a curt nod, Prendal na Ghezn turned and walked away, angrily throwing the rag he'd been using on himself away.

As he watched his co-captain stride angrily away, Mero smiled cruelly. It might have taken longer than expected, but this battle would still end in his victory, just as he always knew it would…

XXXX

Kratos growled low in his throat as his axe flew back into his hand, leaving a trail of devastation behind as it cut anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its path to pieces.

In a time long ago, Kratos would have reveled in such a battle; every death would have strengthened him, and every scream would have been as music to his ear as he urged the combatants ever onward to further death and destruction. But that time had long since passed; now, he only saw senseless waste. Kratos knew that the mercenaries would never willingly give up the prospect of more wealth than they had ever even dreamed of; he also knew that for his people to be forever safe from any further like-minded armies marching on Sparta, he would need to be as brutal as possible, in order to send a message.

But that didn't mean he enjoyed any of it, not anymore. He could have easily wiped out the entire army with his new powers, but that would have achieved nothing. If Kratos used his new godly powers, the Triarchy and any other kingdom aspiring to conquer Sparta would just write it off as mad ramblings and send another army. It might take years to assemble, but it would no doubt happen, and Kratos would be right back to square one.

No, the only way to ensure Sparta's reputation as great warriors was carved into stone for all to remember was to let his people fight this on their own, using the skills he had given them. That being said, Kratos had no interest in repeatedly fighting the same war throughout the next few decades or, heaven forbid, centuries.

Already, his mind was planning the next step once this battle was over to truly send a message to the rest of the world that Sparta was to be left alone, and that any who tried to challenge her might would find only death as their reward. As Kratos let his mind wander, a mercenary ran forward and stabbed his blade into Kratos' stomach, only for the blade to shatter into pieces as the tip met Kratos' skin, causing the mercenary to stop and stare in shock at his now useless weapon.

"Wha?" The man said before Kratos delivered an overpowered uppercut to the man's jaw, literally ripping the man's head off with a single punch as his allies watched in horror.

"Monster! He's a monster!" A mercenary screamed before throwing down his weapon and turning to run; a moment, a dozen more followed suit, all dropping their weapons and running for their lives, making Kratos sneer at them.

"Cowards…" Kratos growled before bringing his arm back and hurling his axe as hard as he could; in less than a moment, his axe swept through the fleeing men like a scythe through wheat, dropping them all to the ground with screams of agony as their bodies were separated at the waist and their entrails littered the mud. One man, despite his horrific wound, tried to claw his way through the mud, still determined to escape, only for Kratos' boot to come down on his head, showering the ground with gore.

As his axe flew back into his hand, Kratos felt the twin dagger-like swords on his back shift, causing him to frown slightly. The time to use them, the Blades of Chaos, was approaching, but it was not here yet; already, he could feel them calling out to him for blood, slaughter, and brutality. It was like a dark whisper in his head, and Kratos anxiously shook it away, bringing a sense of calm to his being, despite the battle going on all around him.

"Soon enough, you will have your fill of blood…" Kratos murmured to the blades on his back, "But not yet…"

Kratos knew that when he finally used these weapons, they would be remembered for a long time to come; they would grow a legend all their own, and their very appearance would bring a wave of awe and terror to those he encountered. This was why he hadn't used them yet; they would be his stamp on the pages of this battle, the final declaration that this battle was over, and his Spartans were the victors. Casting his eyes back to the phalanx, Kratos saw the mercenary's pullback and begin to reorganize into a large mass before moving toward the center.

"It is time…" Kratos growled as he made his way toward the center where he knew the mercenary army was headed, exactly as he had planned.

XXXX

General Neos smiled as he saw the mercenary army grouping en mass to attack his center, just as his god had predicted they would; truly, Neos had chosen well when he had sworn his eternal service to Kratos, for Neos knew, he believed, that the entire world would change forever now that Kratos was in it. Sparta would one day rise to be the greatest empire the world had ever known, greater even than the Valerian Freehold and the dragon riders who had ruled there, and ruling over it forever more would be Kratos, the god who had come to earth. General Neos only hoped that one day his own name would be remembered as one of the original Spartans who had helped to build such a mighty empire.

"General!" The primus platoon leader (the leader of the first platoon) called out, running up to General Neos as fast as they could, "They come!"

"Calm yourself, Daxos," Neos replied. "We knew this was what would occur, so panic is unnecessary. Is everything prepared?"

"Yes, sir!" Daxos replied, snapping to attention, "Our warriors know what is expected of them."

"Good," Neos nodded. "Make sure they don't make it too obvious. Tell them they must hold for a bit. Make it seem as though they will not break, then steadily do so. Draw the mercenaries in, foot by foot, until the trap is ready."

"Yes, sir!" Daxos replied, a cruel grin beginning to spread across his face, "This will be a day long remembered, sir."

"Indeed, it will…" Neos replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Today is the day the entire world learns of Sparta and the god who rules over her."

As Daxos ran off to carry out his orders, Neos turned his attention to the large host of horsemen who sat atop the nearby hill and frowned; the mercenaries calvary had positioned themselves on that hill hours ago and had not moved since, standing almost eerily still as they watched the ongoing battle and waited for the signal to attack.

It was unlikely that those horsemen could make much of a difference, but only a fool would dismiss a mounted horde of nearly three hundred men. To be honest, Neos was surprised that they hadn't already charged. It had been hours, after all; what were they waiting for?

Casting one last glance at the horsemen, Neos turned his attention back to the center of the Spartan phalanx where the mercenary army was charging; as the two armies met, the air echoed with an overpowering crash that seemed to shake the ground beneath Neos' feet. Despite the strength of the charge, the Spartan phalanx held, and Neos smiled at the sight; his people had been trained well. Now, all they had to do was put on a show, and after being denied for several hours, Neos knew that the mercenaries would be too consumed with their own anger and desire for wealth and vengeance to realize that they were walking into a trap.

XXXX

Daario softly groaned as he shifted into a more comfortable position in his saddle; for the last few hours, he and the three hundred men who made up the cavalry of the Second Sons had been perched atop this hill, gazing down at the ongoing battle, and not moving an inch as they waited for the signal to charge. Due to this, Daario had long since lost feeling in his backside, which was probably a good thing, because he suspected that if he could feel it, it would probably feel like he had spent an entire night in one of the more exclusive brothels of Tyrosh, but on the receiving end rather than the giving one.

Despite the pain that was steadily making itself known throughout his lower extremities, Daario watched the battle like a hawk, his eyes narrowed as they shifted from one end of the battlefield to the other. Since the battle's beginning, Daario's respect for Kratos had only seemed to grow as he watched the tactical proficiency of the so-called 'Spartans.'

If they could achieve this after only a year of training, Daario could scarcely imagine what they would do if they were the victors of this battle and allowed to hone their military abilities further. For several hours now, Daario had watched in sick fascination as his army gutted themselves, trying to break through the wall of silver shields, only for them to fail at every turn; there were several times when Daario thought they had finally done it, only to watch in disappointment as the mercenary army was rebuffed, and the holes in the wall of shields filled.

Finally, something seemed to be happening, and Daario leaned forward as he watched. The army seemed to have grouped into one large force and was charging toward the Spartans' center. As the two armies met, an almighty crash echoed from the battlefield, causing the ground to shake and his horse to shuffle nervously.

"Easy girl," Darrio whispered gently, running a calming hand down his horse's side as he continued to watch his people's newest attempt to breach the Spartans' defenses.

Suddenly, to Daario's shock, the center appeared to give, and the Spartans began to slowly fall back; a great cheer erupted from the mercenary army as they pressed forward, eager to make the slaves of Myr pay for every drop of blood they had spilled this day.

"About fucking time…" A man to Daario's left remarked as they watched the Spartans continue to fall back, "Do we move now, Daario? I don't know about you, but my ass is numb from sitting for so long."

Daario said nothing as he continued to watch. His eyes narrowed as the Spartans continued to fall back, step by step, leaving several of their own behind.

This made no sense. Why would they fall back when they had held the mercenaries back for the last few hours with seemingly no effort? The center should have been the strongest spot, and even if it wasn't, the Spartans should have had no trouble bringing in reinforcements to stop the mercenaries' advance. It was almost as though they had willingly left the center weak in order to….

Daario's eyes widened in horror as the full scope of the Spartans' plan hit him like a stampede. Looking down at his army, He could see that he was apparently the only one who understood what was about to happen, as the rest of the army continued to press forward, driving the Spartans back.

For a moment, Daario was tempted to call out to the man next to him and order him to ride to Mero and warn him of what he was about to stupidly walk into; the order was on the tip of his tongue when Daario froze as a voice echoed inside his head.

"Your mother was one of mine, boy… Are you…?"

Daario froze instantly, a cold chill running up his spine as the voice echoed around him. Looking around, He frowned as he saw that no one had apparently heard the voice but him, judging by their lack of movement.

"Daario?" The man next to him asked again, "Do we charge?"

Daario anxiously licked his lips as he looked back at the battle below him, indecision wreaking havoc on his mind; he could very easily send a warning to Mero and the other captains and have them pull back before they met with disaster, but there was still time. But if Kratos actually was what he claimed to be, if that pale giant actually WAS a god, what would be the point?

There was no way that mere mortals could defeat an actual living, breathing god! For whatever reason, Kratos had chosen not to use any of his godly powers, no doubt because he wanted to test his Spartans and have them win this battle on their own merit, but what if Daario impeded those plans? What would be the penalty for provoking a god to anger? Daario had never been religious; his mother had been, but he? He saw no point in whispering empty words to the open air, hoping that one of the multitudes of different gods would hear and offer aid. No, what Daario believed in was gold. Gold and his own strength had proven themselves a hundred times more dependable than any so-called god.

If he had chosen to rely on a deity to save him, as his mother had, Daario would have ended up dead in a gutter long before now…. Just like his mother had. She'd believed in the 'pale one,' the supposed god who would one day come and free the world from the evils that had for far too long consumed it. But where had that god been when some random thief had tried to steal her begging bowl? When Daario's mother had been gutted like a pig and left to bleed out in the street as if she were nothing? As the memory of the last time he had seen his mother came to Daario, he felt tears spring in the corner of his eyes as he remembered the warm smile on her face as her life's blood flowed freely into the street.

"He will come, Daario…" His mother had whispered, "And he will free us all…"

Was his mother right? Was Kratos the god she had always believed in, come to set the world free? And if so, what chance did Daario have if he chose to set himself against such a being?

"No…" Daario said, at last, steeling his resolve, "We were ordered to wait, so that is what we shall do…"

"Seriously?" The man on Daario's left asked, "Our men have broken through! Why wait? All the good slaughtering will be over if we do!"

Without warning, Daario ripped the sword free from his sheath and swung in the saddle, decapitating the man in an instant and making the others go silent with horror as the man's body slid sideways out of the saddle and fell to the ground.

"Anyone else want to argue with me?" Daario asked as he flicked his sword, sending droplets of gore to the ground as the others watched in sick fascination. "I didn't think so…"

Sheathing his sword, Daario turned back to the battle and watched. Whatever happened now was out of his hands; he had made his choice, the die was cast, and only fate now knew where it would land.

XXXX

"That's it, lads!" Mero cried happily as he urged his men forward, "Push these fuckers back! Kill them all, and Myr is ours!"

A great cheer went up at that, and Mero smiled at his men's exuberance; it was to be expected considering how many of their friends these 'Spartans' had killed in the hours since this battle had first begun.

As he swung his sword in a wide arc, decapitating some nameless woman, Mero released a laugh as though all the pent-up anxiety and rage of the day was slowly being released from his body.

"Mero! Mero, we must stop!" Prendal na Ghezn shouted into his ear, grabbing his shoulder for emphasis, "We're too far in!"

"Stop? Are you mad!" Mero sneered, shrugging off his co-captains arm, and pointed toward the wall of shields that were even now falling back, "Open your eyes, you old whoreson, we're winning! Now, we only need to finish the bastards! One last push, and they'll break!"

"Look around you, you daft bastard!" Prendal na Ghezn retorted, "We're surrounded on three sides. Can't you see what's right in front of you? It's a trap, and we've walked right into it!"

XXXX

General Neos smiled as he watched the mercenaries push further and further into the Spartan ranks, seemingly oblivious to their danger as the Spartan army began to encompass them on three sides. Now, it was time to spring the trap and ensure that no one left this battlefield alive.

"Sound the call to close ranks," Neos said to the trumpeter standing next to him; a moment later, the man raised the brass instrument to his lips and released a long note that echoed across the battlefield.

Turning back to the battle, Neos felt a cruel smile spread across his face as the retreating Spartans immediately stopped. This caused confusion among the army of mercenaries, as their once unstoppable push ended immediately.

Unseen, behind the mercenaries, the Spartans began to close ranks, sealing off any chance of escape.

"And now…" Neos smiled, "They die."

XXXX

Mero's eyes widened in horror as he saw the truth of his co-captain's words; a moment later, a loud note from some instrument blared across the battlefield, and all movement ceased. Once falling back foot-by-foot, the Spartans suddenly came to an abrupt stop, causing the mercenaries to stumble as they pushed against the wall of shields, only to be rebuffed, whereas before they had met with almost no resistance.

"We're too late…" Prendal na Ghezn said, his face falling in horror as he looked back at the way the army had come from. The wings were bending, curving inward like the jaws of a trap, completely sealing any chance of escape.

"No…" Mero whispered in horror as he saw the trap that he had stupidly led his men into, so sure of victory that he had ignored any other voice but his own, "No!"

"We're trapped!" Prendal na Ghezn demanded as he looked around at the troops surrounding him; none of them appeared to have noticed the danger they were in yet, but the co-captain knew that once the mercenaries did, there would be panic, and any sense of discipline would vanish in an instant as the men fought to save themselves.

"What do we do?" Prendal na Ghezn asked, turning back to his co-captain, who looked stunned at how quickly the fortunes of his army had changed; releasing a growl of anger, Prendal na Ghezn grabbed Mero's shoulder and shook him hard, "Mero! Focus, you son of a whore! You got us into this fucking mess, so now you need to get us out of it! So, pull your head out of your ass and think of something!"

As Prendal na Ghezn glared, Mero licked his lip anxiously before looking around, his eyes wild as he sought some way to fix the horrific mess he had gotten them all into; a moment later, however, the thing that both men were dreading came to pass as the mercenaries began to scream in panic.

"We're trapped!" A voice called out,

"What do we do?" Another shouted.

Panic crackled through the ranks like wildfire. Men twisted in place, the formation unraveling as the terrible realization settled in like a winter's frost.

They were completely surrounded.

From all sides came the press of enemies, not like waves but like the tide itself-unstoppable, inevitable. Spears pierced from behind, swords hacked from the flanks. There was no retreat, no space to maneuver, no breath to be drawn that wasn't filled with sweat, and the iron taste of death.

"F-form a square!" Mero screamed out at last, "Form a defensive square!"

But there was no room. Crushed between their own comrades and the enemy, the mercenaries could barely raise their arms, let alone swing a blade. The shrieking became animal, men driven mad by fear, suffocating under the weight of flesh and armor.

Mero felt the blood run from his face as he realized a horrifying truth settled upon him; this was not a battle, not any longer. This was a slaughter, penned in by geometry and inevitability.

"Signal Daario!" Mero snarled, turning back to the shocked Prendal na Ghezn, "We need him to smash a hole in the slave's flank so that we can escape! It's our only chance!"

Nodding in understanding, Prendal na Ghezn pulled the horn from his belt and blew three short blasts into the open air, hoping beyond hope that Daario would be able to hear it over the ungodly noise coming from the battlefield.

"What do we do until Daario arrives?" Prendal na Ghezn demanded as he placed the horn back on his belt and drew his sword.

"Fight!" Mero snarled as he swiftly decapitated an attacking Spartan before kicking the body away from him, "Fight as you've never fought before!"

XXXX

Meera smiled as she plunged her xiphos blade into the face of a panicking mercenary, his cries of 'mercy' silenced in an instant as Meera looked for her next target. The trap had closed minutes ago- if time still had mattered. The earth groaned beneath the weight of death. The army of the Triarchy- gods, there were so many- had been so certain. So loud. So armored. Now, their screams sounded like the howls of cattle in a burning pen. A man grabbed her wrist, his grip like iron, his face contorted not with rage but pure animal desperation; with a snarl of fury, Meera rammed her blade into the man's throat, feeling it catch on cartilage. He died staring at her as though she had stolen something from him.

She had.

He wouldn't go home; none of them would. This battlefield would be their graveyard, and their bones would lie here forever as a warning to all those throughout the years who would try to return Sparta to slavery.

Meera looked around, taking a moment to pause before seeking out her next opponent. The ring was so tight now that even movement had become a kind of violence; from all sides, her people pressed in, roaring like wild beasts as they slaughtered anyone they came across. The net was drawn. The trap sprung. What remained was mindless slaughter.

But not for Meera.

She stepped back for a moment, boots slipping in the filth as her breath came out ragged and harsh like she was back in the days of her training, struggling to learn how to fight like a Spartan. She had survived that; she would survive this, too. She had to. Because somewhere beyond this massacre, there was a future. A different world, one not trembling under the lash of cruel masters who would see everything she was, torn away from her just because they could. Kratos had promised them that. Mera turned back to the press and saw the standard for the Second Sons fall as its bearer was ripped to pieces before being buried under a heap of bodies. Gritting her teeth, Meera lifted her shield and stepped forward again into the roar.

She was a Spartan, had earned that fucking title with the sweat of her brow and the strength of her back alone, and these men would see her reduced to nothing more than a whore, mindlessly spreading her legs for any man with coin in his purse, and for that, she would kill every last one of them.

XXXX

Daario scowled as he heard the three horn blasts from somewhere on the battlefield, signaling him to attack. Behind him, his men were staring at the massacre in abject horror, their brains unable to comprehend just what they were seeing.

"That's the signal!" Someone from behind Daario called out, "Come on! We've got to help them!"

"No!" Daario snarled at once, pulling hard on the reins and turning to face the stunned cavalrymen.

"No?" Another man asked, "What the fuck do you mean 'no'?"

"Are you not seeing the same thing that I am?" Daario asked, waving his arm behind him, "This battle is over! Our men are being slaughtered, and the only thing we will accomplish by going down there is joining them!"

"You fucking coward!" Someone shouted, "Our friends are being massacred, and you would have us leave them to their fates!"

"I would have us live!" Daario shouted back, "Going down there is a death sentence! But if any of you wish to commit suicide, by all means… Be my guest."

The men looked at each other at that, each weighing the odds of surviving if they chose to ride down the hill to try to save their friends.

"You're all a bunch of fucking cowards!" The same voice as before bellowed before a young man with sandy blonde hair rode out from the mass of horses, a look of rage on his face. "I'm going to save my dad! You can choose to follow me or not, but I am going down there!"

With a final look of hatred aimed at Daario, the man kicked hard into his horse's side and sped down the hill toward the battle; a moment later, he was joined by more men, each shooting Daario a look of contempt as they rode past.

As the last man rode past him, Daario did a quick head count, shaking his head at how few had chosen to heed his words and stay with him; only fifty men remained, the other two hundred-and-fifty riding down to certain death.

Gently pulling on his reins, Daario turned his horse around and watched as the horde of horsemen rode hard toward the Spartan army's rear, only for a horn to bellow out, causing the rear to spin on their heel and take immediate position with their spears pointed straight at the charging cavalrymen. The horsemen only had time to scream in horror and desperately pull in their reins before their animals slammed into the wall of spears, spending dozens flying over their mounts into the throng of warriors as others screamed in pain and their horses fell onto them.

Like watching bees defending their hive, the Spartans swarmed over the fallen cavalrymen, and in a matter of minutes, it was over as the screams vanished almost instantly.

As the Spartans pulled back and returned to their places in the ring, Daario saw the bodies of what were once his men, left forgotten to rot on the battlefield.

"Dear gods…" A dark-skinned man on Daario's left whispered in horror, "They killed them effortlessly… How is this possible?"

"What do we do, Daario?" A red-haired man, more a boy really, asked from Daario's right, unable to mask the tremor of fear in his voice.

"Steady on, lad," Daario replied softly. "We stay here, watch what happens next, and then make our plans."

"We're not going to help?" The boy asked, looking at Daario with surprise,

"Lad, did you not just watch the same thing I did? There is no helping our boys… All we can do is watch and decide what to do after."

Turning back to the slaughter happening below him, Daario felt a sense of dread well up inside him; no matter who won this battle, chances were he would end the day with his head on a spike.

XXXX

Captain Bloodbeard spat blood onto the trampled earth and adjusted his grip on his double-bladed axe. His arm was numb from the save fighting he had endured, and his shield was cracked; around him, his men were dying.

He had lost track of how long it had been since the ring closed, sealing them all inside this circle of unending death. Had it been hours? Days? He really couldn't tell anymore. There was no more battle line, flanks, or order, just a knot of bloodied men packed so tightly they could hardly raise their blades.

But they stood.

By the gods, they stood.

Bloodbeard had fought all over the world, from Essos to Westeros and everywhere in between. He had seen ambushes, routs, near defeats, but never this- never annihilation wrapped in silence. The men no longer screamed; their throats were raw at this point, their souls already half gone as they all came to the horrifying realization that they were going to die. Every. Last. One.

Bloodbeard looked to the men nearest him; one was leaning heavily on an impaled spear, his leg bleeding profusely from some long-taken wound on his thigh. Another had no weapon at all, just a broken helmet in his hands like it would be enough; this one couldn't have been more than twenty, if that.

"Stand with me," Bloodbeard rasped, his voice raw and thick with dust from lack of water. "If we die, let's make the bastards earn it."

A few looked up and nodded, a sort of deathly courage overtaking them as they realized this was it.

Then the slaves of Myr charged again.

Bloodbeard stepped forward, shield held high, and slammed into the first attacker; the jolt rattled his bones, making him grunt with pain. Roaring in defiance, Bloodbeard brought his axe down, his weapon finding an opening between the warrior's armor and neck and bringing them down with a cry as he wrenched the axe free. Another came. Another. Always another.

Steel rang. Blood sprayed. A man beside Bloodbeard went down, throat opened, yet Bloodbeard didn't flinch. He stepped over the body and kept swinging.

He didn't fight to win, for he knew that was impossible; these slaves had beaten them good and proper, and Bloodbeard could respect them for that. No, he fought to deny.

To deny the slaves of Myr the last easy kill.

To deny fear the final word.

To deny fate its smug clean ending.

A blade slid between his ribs, he felt the fire of it as his legs buckled; dropping onto one knee, Bloodbeard gasped with pain as around him, his men were falling- one by one, two by two, like a crumbling wall.

He forced himself to his feet again, blood pouring down his side; his sword arm was heavier now, or maybe his arm was just done. It didn't matter. He raised it anyway, shouting the last words he would ever speak.

"Well fought, you fucking bastards!"

Then the tide took him.

XXXX

Author's note:

How's that for a cliffhanger, my lovelies! Before you start getting your pitchforks and torches out, I promise you won't have to wait for the next part of the battle; I'll start working on it tomorrow so you can have it asap, cross me heart. In the next chapter, I plan to close this battle with Kratos having a one-on-one against…. Someone. I haven't really decided who yet, to be honest. I might choose Harry Strickland since he's the current owner of the Valerian steel sword Blackfyre, or I might have him fight Mero. Either way, I promise it will be epic! I hope you enjoyed this, and if not, let me know how I can improve it in the next chapter.

Chapter Text

Though the battle was all but lost for the mercenaries, a knot of desperate fighters still raged at its heart, the final remnant of the once-proud Second Sons. In the swirling mud and blood, Mero bellowed orders and swung his sword wildly, drunk on terror and rage in equal measure. Beside him, Prendal na Ghezn fought like a cornered wolf, parrying blows with broken rhythm, eyes flickering left and right for a way out that did not exist.

Both men had long since realized that Daario had betrayed them, driven by fear or practicality, and had chosen not to ride his cavalry to their aid. The rain had returned a light drizzle against the savage fury of the lightning overhead, which made the already muddy ground even worse, trapping warriors' limbs into a quagmire of filth that caused more than one warrior on both sides to die as they suddenly found themselves unable to move out of the way of an attack.

Far beyond their press, Kratos stood unmoving, the Leviathan Axe now forgotten at his side as another weapon- older, crueler- uncoiled from his back, whispering dark thoughts into Kratos's ear, begging to be used to inflict slaughter upon the helpless mercenaries. But he would not use the Blades. Not yet.

Instead, Kratos raised his arm to his side and willed a different weapon into his hand, a much less savage but no less destructive weapon. A moment later, the Draupnir Spear shimmered into existence, humming with raw kinetic promise. Kratos weighed it in his hand once, feeling its balance, then turned his gaze on the knot of dying mercenaries. More precisely, on Mero.

Mero, bloodied and cursing, hacking at a Spartan who refused to die, even with a blade buried in her chest, spittle and blood flying from her mouth as she roared in defiance and tried with the last of her strength to get at her killer.

Pulling his arm back, Kratos zeroed in on his target, causing the battlefield to disappear until the only thing left was Kratos and Mero.

Mero never saw the throw nor the beam of golden light racing toward him, but his co-captain did.

"Mero!" Prendal na Ghezn roared, eyes wide in horror, "Move!"

Too late.

Kratos hurled the spear with all the disdain that a god can muster for a worm, and it crossed the battlefield in a blink, ripping through every mercenary in its path, yet impossibly skidding around every Spartan it came close to.

Prendal na Ghezn, loyal even in doom, rushed forward and shoved his fool captain out of the way at the very last moment.

The spear punched through breastplate, bone, and heart, pining Prendal to the muddy ground like a moth to parchment. His mouth worked soundlessly as blood bubbled over his lips; Mero turned, too stunned at how close he had come to dying to even curse as he watched his old friend and captain die in the mud.

Kratos stepped forward, the Draupnir Spear dissolving into mist, and leaving Prendal with just a gaping hole in his chest as those who had seen the attack stared between Kratos and the unmoving body with shock and awe. Only the Spartans were unaffected as though they expected nothing less from their leader, many bowing their heads for a moment in respect as such a devastating, yet impossible attack before continuing to hack at the mercenaries who had let their shock freeze them in place and thus make them easy targets for more slaughter.

A moment later, the Draupnir Spear reappeared in Kratos' hand, causing the mercenary's eyes to widen in shock as they saw something that should have been impossible.

Kratos stepped forward again, the spear in his hand radiating power that all nearby could feel like a sudden gust of wind blowing across their faces, calling for more, for another target.

Instead, Kratos willed the spear away, causing it to dissolve into mist as he strode toward his next victim, the man whom Kratos had warned would find only death here if he chose to fight. Slowly reaching both arms over his head, Kratos grabbed hold of the hilts of his most savage weapon. It was time.

Before the mud had cooled around Prendal's corpse, there came another roar, a last defiance beneath the bruised sky.

Harry Strickland, captain of the Golden Company, heir to a lineage of mercenaries and old Valyrian ambition, forced his way through the ring of slaughtered men. His armor was battered, his face streaked with sweat and filth, but in his hands gleamed a weapon that drew the eyes of every living soul who still dared look.

A Valyrian steel sword- dark as a starless night, rippling with an oily sheen that caught each flash of lightning overhead. But this was not just any Valyrian sword. No, this one had a legend all its own. Blackfyre, once the legendary sword of Aegon Targaryen, who used it to conquer the seven kingdoms of Westeros, had long thought to have been lost after Ser Aegor Rivers' rebellion and subsequent exile to Essos, had, in fact, belonged to the Golden Company since that the day that the man had created the mercenary guild, passing from commander to commander, and eventually coming to Harry Strickland. The sword of a dragonlord. Unbreakable. Unstoppable.

Kratos raised a brow at the sight of the weapon, not in fear, but with the mild curiosity of a predator who sees a prey animal wielding a stick tipped with poison.

Harry pointed the blade at Kratos, breath ragged but eyes blazing with conviction as Mero stood behind Harry, staring lifelessly at the body of his friend and co-captain.

"You're no god!" Harry spat, voice carrying over the corpse-strewn silence as all around the two, the fighting seemed to stop, both Spartan and mercenaries seemingly coming to an agreement to cease hostilities and watch what would happen next, a wide circle opening up and creating a barrier for both fighters. "You're just a man! And this blade kills all! Even monsters like you!"

Kratos tilted his head. For a heartbeat, the rain alone spoke. Then the Blades of Chaos flared to life at his sides, crackling embers coiling up the cursed chains as both Spartans and mercenaries watched in awe. From around him, Kratos suddenly heard one of his Spartans whisper,

"Lord Kratos has unleashed his blades… The mercenary scum has no chance, now…"

"Are you certain? He carries a Valyrian blade," another Spartan replied. "And, I have never seen our lord use those blades before. I was beginning to think them merely for show."

"Use your eyes, fool!" The first voice sneered. "Valyrian blades are made by men, but those? Those blades were not made by men… And as to why you've never seen him use them… Well, that should be obvious. You do not use blades like that unless you wish to send a message."

Turning his attention back to the snarling man in front of him, Kratos raised his blades defensively.

"Come then…" Kratos rumbled. "Let us test your faith in that sword of yours…"

Harry attacked first, reckless speed driving him into Kratos' guard, Blackfyre slicing at Kratos' exposed stomach, only for Kratos to throw one of his blades behind his back and flick his wrist. A second later, the two armies bore witness to another piece of Kratos' arsenal as his Guardian Shield suddenly sprang into existence, blocking the blow in a shower of sparks. Harry's eyes widened comically at the sudden appearance of the shield, unable to come up with any explanation as to how the shield could have suddenly appeared from out of nowhere.

"Impossible…" Harry whispered, his arms beginning to shake not just from weariness but also from fear. "You're not a god! You're not!"

Kratos pushed Harry back with a savage shield-bash, then willed the shield away before grabbing the second blade from over his shoulder and beginning his counterattack.

With a growl, Kratos unleashed the blades in a sweeping arc- the Cyclone of Chaos.

The chains whirled around him in a widening storm of red-hot steel, forcing Harry to leap aside, armor nicked, and cloak shredded.

Harry's boots skidded through the mud and blood, but he steadied himself with the sure poise of a man who had seen every battlefield Essos could offer. He roared and came again and again, determined to make Kratos bleed and prove that the giant wasn't a god, but a mortal man. One who could bleed. One who could die.

High cut, low feint, spinning pivot. Blackfyre danced like a serpent, striking faster than a mortal could follow; each attack showing Harry's years of experience as a warrior.

One stroke bit deep into Kratos' side, and Harry smirked in victory, sure that his attack had been fatal. Mortal flesh would have spilled, but Kratos was no mortal. Instead, the blade found only the immovable resistance of godflesh. The force of the impact jolted Harry's arm to the bone, and he staggered back, his eyes wide in shock.

Kratos answered Harry's attack not with words, but with the Plume of Prometheus. The blades hammered down in a three-part combo: an upward slash that lifted Harry clear off of his feet, a spinning midair strike that ripped fresh rents in his armor, then a final brutal overhead smash that drove him into the churned earth with a sickening 'crunch.'

Mud and blood exploded outward. Harry lay sprawled, gasping, one arm limp at his side; yet still- impossibly- he forced himself to stand, dragging Blackfyre upright as the crowd watched with wide eyes.

XXXX

Meera thought she had seen everything that a battlefield could show her. The blood. The panic. The desperate courage that flickered in a man's eyes just before she opened his throat. She thought she knew what it meant to stand beside a god.

She had been wrong.

As the hush fell over her fellow Spartans, Meera limped forward, forcing her way through the crowd until she finally made her way to the front and saw him standing there alone.

Kratos.

Her king.

Her god.

And facing him- the last spear of mercenary pride- stood Harry Strickland, armor cracked but his eyes burning with something wild. In his hands was the only the only thing that seemed to rival Kratos' presence: a Valyrian steel sword, black as spilled oil, whispering death in every shimmer.

"Valyrian steel…" Someone whispered beside her. "The king's metal…"

Meera barely heard them. She could feel the moment Kratos turned his full attention on this single man, the air seemed to tighten around her ribs, making it hard to breathe, as though the very air itself was pausing to watch what was coming.

As Harry screamed out his denial of Kratos' divinity, Meera found herself leaning against a warrior at her side, her hand pressed to the gash in her thigh as if she might forget her own blood in the presence of what she was about to witness.

A moment later, Kratos pulled the twin dagger-like swords from his shoulders, and she watched, wide-eyed, alongside the others as the weapons were suddenly bathed in fire, causing Meera's breath to hitch in her throat as she gazed at weapons that even she could tell were older than half the gods that the men surrounding her still prayed to.

Since the moment that Kratos had come and saved Meera and her people from the Dothraki, Meera had never seen her god use those twin blades. Often, she had thought to ask why, yet something in her had always seemed to whisper not to ask. Now, she finally understood. These were not weapons made by man. No blacksmith could ever hope to replicate such savage weaponry. Whoever had created those twin dagger-like blades had made them for a singular purpose: to end the life of every person unfortunate enough to be on the opposite side of them.

Beside Meera, someone whispered a prayer. Another wept in awe at such a spectacle. Meera felt neither pity nor fear. She felt only something vast and fierce coiling under her ribs.

'Mine,' her blood seemed to say, 'My god.'

As the battle commenced, Meera watched with awe alongside her fellow Spartans as Harry moved like a dancer, showcasing his years of experience as a swordsman.

As the Cyclone of Chaos roared to life, a ring of burning death that forced Harry back step by scrambling step, Meera felt the heat brush her skin even from yards away, and she tasted ashes on her tongue.

Harry did not run. He pressed in, teeth bared, a hero from some doomed saga who would not bow. He cut high, low, high again, a storm of black steel that would have killed any mortal a hundred times over.

Kratos let it wash over him. The shield blocked, and the blades answered. Then came the Kratos' counterattack, and Meera's heart stuttered as she saw it: an upward slash that hurled Harry into the air like a doll, a midair whirl that shredded Harry's battered breastplate, and then a final brutal hammering blow that smashed him back into the churned muck of the battlefield.

Harry lay there, gasping for a moment before he slowly rose back to his feet, dragging that black cursed steel upright with shaking hands.

Kratos advanced like a glacier made flesh while Meera and the other Spartans watched with bated breath.

Meera realized she was smiling —bloodied teeth bared, breath rattling with something between laughter and a sob. Her god had not needed this show of power. He had done it for them to see. For the world to fear.

Harry swung desperately- the Valyrian edge scraped along Kratos' side, yet it did nothing, only causing Kratos to growl low in his throat.

The blades snapped forward a moment later. One chain coiled around Harry's sword arm, the other around his leg. Kratos yanked, and Harry's scream broke the hush like a bone snapping. Harry smashed into the ground once. Twice. Then Kratos spun, chains dragging the captain like carrion in a predator's jaws, before flinging him through the broken ranks of his own dead.

Harry lay sprawled across a literal pile of dead bodies, coughing blood that steamed in the cold rain as both his arm and leg held to his body uselessly by a few strands of muscle. Yet, despite the savagery of Kratos' final attack, Harry still held onto his sword, like a lie he refused to let go.

Despite the pain in her thigh, Meera forced herself to stand beside her brothers and sisters. She wanted to see. She needed to see. For she knew this duel would be remembered long after the dust from her bones blew away. Long after, her soul joined her family in Elysium. And she wanted to be able to say that she bore witness to it.

Kratos stood over Harry's ruin. The blades dripping black gore and ember alike.

"You bear a king's weapon…" Kratos rumbled, staring down at the broken man before him, "But you are no king."

Harry tried. Gods help him, he tried. The sword lifted an inch before Kratos's boot pinned the wrist to the mud.

The blades plunged down- twin serpents striking at once. Harry Strickland- captain, kingbreaker, heir to old Valyria's pride- died nailed to the wet earth by chains forged in a realm of endless torment.

Blackfyre fell from limp fingers as Harry breathed his last, its sheen forever dulled by futility.

As Meera exhaled, she realized she was shaking, not in fear, in something fiercer: in understanding.

This was her king.

This was the hammer that would break the chains of every city that dared enslave the free.

And when Mero's ragged howl rose from somewhere beyond the circle of fallen men, Meera only smiled as she lifted her sword in blood-soaked fingers and whispered for no one but herself:

"He will free us all…"

And woe to any fool who still thought a god could be killed by mere steel.

XXXX

From the far side of the battlefield, Mero saw Harry fall. Saw the god standing above his corpse. Saw Blackfyre, the unbreakable Valyrian steel blade, lying forgotten in the mud like a child's broken toy.

For a heartbeat, terror crackled through Mero's veins like lightning. Then fury drowned it out old pride, old cruelty.

"Come on, then!" He bellowed then, voice ragged, eyes bloodshot. "Come and die like a man!"

Kratos heard. Of course, he did. He turned, slow as judgement itself. In his grip, the Blades of Chaos hissed back to life, embers drifting on the rain-chilled wind. The Guardian Shield locked tight on his arm, not because he needed it, but because war deserved ritual.

Mero charged- sword raised high, mud sucking his boots, spit flying from cracked lips. He never saw the spear until it struck.

Kratos hurled the Draupnir Spear without a word, and were it not for one of Mero's men stepping in front of him, the captain would have died on the spot. Mero skidded to a halt, wild-eyed, stumbling backward over the corpse of one of his fallen men as he watched the man who had saved his life slide into the mud with a cry of agony; before he could spit a curse, Kratos was on him.

The Blades of Chaos flared, and Mero swung wildly, iron ringing against the Guardian Shield. Sparks danced in the rain. Kratos drove the shield forward, smashing Mero's jaw with a crunch that split skin to bone. Before Mero could choke on his own teeth, Kratos' blades lashed him- one chain looping around his sword arm, the other chain coiling around Mero's throat.

Kratos yanked, and Mero sprawled into the mud, choking, clawing at the chain that burned his skin.

The blades snapped and struck- a flurry of strikes, faster than breath: cut, cut, cut. Flesh split, armor shredded.

On-and-on Kratos swung his blades, shredding Mero's body to ribbons until the man was left barely conscious, only held so because of the unbearable amount of agony that his body was in.

Kratos bent low, one massive hand locking around Mero's throat as Kratos pulled the captain out of the mud and held him above the ground, the man so weak from his assault that he could only hang there, limp.

"You reveled in the suffering of others…" Kratos rumbled, his voice coming out like a mountain grinding its teeth. "You fed on the weak…"

Mero's eyes bulged as his feet kicked helplessly above the churned ground; the last bit of strength Mero had seemed to pour into him as his body realized the danger he was in.

"Now, learn what it means to be broken…" Kratos growled as Mero's anger filled him with one last bit of strength.

"Fuck you! I am Mero! I am the…"

He never finished his rant.

Kratos choke slammed the man into the mud, causing the air to leave his lungs in a gasp. A moment later, Kratos slammed his boot onto the man's face once. Twice. A third time, bone cracking wetly with each blow until Mero's scream was nothing but a gurgle of ruin.

Standing over what remained of a man who had once believed coin and cruelty would rule the world forever, Kratos could only stare in contempt for a moment before finally deciding to put the man out of his misery by plunging the twin blades into the man's chest before ripping them free, showering the mud with gore.

Silence fell. Rain hissed against steel as the watchers stared at the aftermath of Kratos' duel with shock and awe. The only sound left was thunder, and the chanting of a single word rising from thousands of Spartan throats:

"Sparta!"

Then, as though a referee had sounded a bell, the battle resumed as those who were once simply observers began to hack at each other again.

XXXX

The rain ended the moment the last mercenary fell, a seemingly visible sign that the battle was over and that the fighting was done.

Meera leaned on her shield, her breath ragged, her shoulders trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion and triumph alike. Around her, the Spartans moved with calm efficiency, not with the mindless pillaging of victors but with the solemn ritual of warriors ensuring the dead would remain dead.

Knives found throats that still gurgled, shields pushed aside limp arms that grasped even in death. There was no malice in it. Only certainty.

She lifted her helmet, letting the cold drops strike her sweat-matted hair; the taste of iron still coating her tongue, but beneath it was something sweeter: vindication. She had lived. She was not broken. She was Spartan.

General Neos walked among his people like a ghost made flesh, his armor dark with gore, his eyes alight with a zeal that even death could not quench. He paused before Meera, appraising her with a grim nod that said more than any speech could have.

"Well fought, girl," he said, voice hoarse but steady. "Rest while you can. This victory must be sealed before the day is done."

Meera almost laughed at that. Rest? After today, sleep would feel like a betrayal; yet she saluted smartly, all the same.

"Yes sir," she responded with a grin, the white of her teeth flashing against the gore that seemed to coat her face.

Beyond them, Kratos strode through the ruin as though the slaughter were but a momentary annoyance in his eternity. Warriors bowed their heads in respect as he passed. Not in fear, not even in worship, but in recognition. This was theirs now: a city reborn in the image of a god who did not sit on a distant throne but bled and killed beside them.

XXXX

Daario watched the aftermath of the battle from the hilltop, his eyes narrowed as he watched the battle end in an overwhelming victory for the slaves of Myr.

He had not moved, had not spoken again since he ordered his men to stay. Of the fifty who remained, none dared challenge him- not after seeing the fate of those who charged the Spartan line.

One of his lieutenants, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes sunken from sleepless nights, shifted uneasily beside him.

"What now, Daario? Do we ride for Tyrosh? Volantis?"

Daario did not answer immediately, his eyes locked on Kratos, who Daario could see, even from here, wrenching his axe from the corpse of some fool brave enough to stand against him in the final moments of the battle.

"Flee?" Daario echoed at last, spitting to the side, rain mingling with the taste of bile in his throat. "You think we'll ever outrun him?"

The man said nothing more, falling back amongst his fellows with a broken expression.

With a sigh that sounded more tired than defeated, Daario adjusted the reins in his hand, staring at the battlefield for one final moment before turning to his men.

"We ride down. Slow and calm. Keep weapons sheathed, heads lowered and pray that that the god that these 'Spartans' follow have a use for whoresons like us."

You would have us serve them?" The lieutenant asked, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Daario's lips twitched in something almost like a smile. "No, old friend. We survive them. You saw what those bastards are capable of. We outnumbered them more than two-to-one, and they still won! Do you really think any army stands a chance against something like that? The best we can do is try and ingratiate ourselves with these 'Spartans' while we still have a chance.

For a moment, the fifty other men shared a look of disbelief before their shoulders slumped in defeat as they realized that there really was no other choice. They could either bow and beg for mercy, hoping that this so-called 'god' would have a place for them, or they could try and run, never truly knowing if they would ever be safe.

Slowly, with an air of defeat, the cavalry began to make their way down the hill toward the army, hoping beyond hope that they wouldn't all be killed on the spot.

XXXX

The Spartans were already at work forming lines of the captured; those mercenaries who had thrown down their arms before the final ring closed were herded like cattle into the center of the killing field. Most wept openly, begging for mercy; others stared at the dirt, hollow-eyed, their minds already gone where no blade could follow.

Kratos ignored them for now. He stood at the very heart of the battlefield; the Blades of Chaos were now strapped to his back. The Leviathan Axe, slick with the blood of men who would never speak his name in fear again, was held loose in his left hand.

Neos approached him, bowing his head respectfully without hesitation; behind him, captains and platoon leaders did the same. Even the wounded, those who could still stand, forced themselves upright to honor what they had done- what he had made them do.

"My king," Neos said, voice ringing out despite the quiet hiss of rain as it began to sprinkle again. "The field is ours… Sparta is secure. What are your orders?"

Kratos did not answer immediately. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the dead, the dying, the trembling prisoners. His mind, however, was far away, back through centuries of conquest and betrayal. He knew men like these. They would not stop. The Triarchy would not stop. So long as the gold flowed and pride demanded revenge, more mercenaries would come. More innocents would die. Sparta would bleed again and again.

No.

Not while he drew breath.

"Neos," Kratos said, voice a deep rumble that silenced even the wounded groans around him. "Have the captains raid the mercenary's camp. I want all spoils, including any slaves they find, brought to me. Then, I want you to ready the army. We march at first light."

"March, my king? Do we return to Sparta?" Neos replied, his eyes blinking in confusion.

Kratos turned away from his general at that, turning his eyes east, where beyond the rolling plains lay Tyrosh and Lys, the last fangs of the Triarchy.

"No…" Kratos growled, "Before we return to Sparta, we must finish this war. Sparta is free, but while the Triarchy lives, she will never know peace. We will strike Lys first, then Tyrosh. We will tear their walls down, stone by stone, if we must. We will free every slave they hold, break every chain they have forged, and drown their armies in their own blood."

A ripple of shock ran through the surrounding captains at Kratos' words, even the prisoners lifted their heads in dread and awe.

"And when we are done," Kratos continued, voice like the tolling of a funeral bell, "The Triarchy will be no more. Sparta will be feared, but more important than that, she will be free…"

Neos pressed his fist to his chest, bowing his head lower than before, "It shall be done, my king."

Kratos lifted his axe one final time, rain dripping from its edge; in that quiet, the exhausted warriors found strength for one more cry, and their voices boomed loud as thunder across the battlefield:

"SPARTA!"

The wind carried it eastward, a promise and a threat to every city that would dare chain free men and women again.

High atop the hill, Daario shivered, not from the cold but from the truth that settled in his bones.

The age of the old kings and coin-bought armies was coming to an end. The age of Sparta had begun.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope this chapter is everything you expected it to be. I really put everything I had into making it as epic as I could; I actually had to delete and rewrite the chapter four times before I was satisfied with it.

If anyone is interested, I have made a Discord where I've uploaded images for this story, with more to follow in the future. If you'd like to check it out, you can find it under the name MandoVet.

However, if you're unable to find it, please send me a message, and I'll send you the direct link.

Until next time, peace!

Chapter Text

The rain had returned by the time the Spartans reached the heart of the mercenary camp — a sprawl of torn silk, broken wagons, and hidden suffering.

At their head marched General Neos, spear lifted high to part the hanging canvas that stank of sweat and unwashed bodies. Just behind him strode Rhosene, a broad-shouldered warrior with skin as black as coal, whose nose had been broken so many times it sat crooked across her face, giving her a perpetual sneer she rarely bothered to hide. Her shield arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow — a fresh wound from the battle that hadn't slowed her a step.

Trailing her by a few paces came Pindaros, youngest in the company that night, not more than sixteen summers and all elbows and nerves. His silver helm seemed a size too large, the cheek guards bumping awkwardly when he turned his head too quickly. Yet his eyes were sharp, and he gripped his spear tight enough to bleach his knuckles white.

They found no gold at first. No treasure worth dying for. Only the sound of misery: muffled sobs behind bolted wagon doors, low cries echoing from cages hidden under torn awnings.

Pindaros was the first to stumble across the truth. He tugged aside a shredded tarp and peered into the shadows — and his spear slipped from numb fingers.

"General! Here!" Pindaros shouted, voice cracking with horror as he scrambled to pull open the nailed crate. Inside, three children shrank back, eyes wide and milk-pale in the torchlight.

Rhosene elbowed him aside with a grunt. She slammed her shield down, wedged her dagger into the crate's seam, and snarled through her teeth as she pried it open with a savage twist. When the wood splintered free, she dropped to her knees and lifted one terrified child bodily into her cloak.

"Easy, little one," she rasped, her voice far kinder than her battered face suggested. "No more cages tonight. No more."

Neos's growl cut through the rain:

"Break all of them. Every cage, every chain. If you see iron, smash it. If you see rope, cut it. No soul stays bound while Spartans stand guard."

The camp erupted in a frenzy of cracking locks, curses, and the groan of wagon doors torn from their hinges. Cries rose — first in terror, then in disbelieving gasps as pale limbs crawled free into the rain.

Leon, another warrior — older, bearded, built like a bull — heaved a nailed pen upright and smashed it against a cart wheel until the wood fell apart. Inside, a trembling old man lay shackled by the throat. Leon dropped to a knee, sliced the collar free with his belt knife, and clapped the man's bony shoulder.

"On your feet, grandfather. Sparta stands — so do you."

By the time the last tent flap fell, a flood of the newly freed crowded the camp's churned center. Some clutched at their wrists, staring at broken shackles. Some simply stared at the rain as if waiting for it to carry them away.

Through that hush came the tread of something heavier than iron.

Kratos stepped between torch shadows like a storm in the flesh. The Leviathan Axe rested against his back; the twin Blades of Chaos lay strapped at his hips, steaming faintly where rain hissed off blood-caked edges.

Neos saw him first. He did not kneel — for Spartans bowed to no man. Instead, Neos jammed the butt of his spear into the earth, broad shoulders squared in the torchlight. Beside him, Rhosene propped the half-conscious child on her hip without so much as dipping her head. Pindaros puffed out his narrow chest, trying hard not to shiver in Kratos' shadow.

"My king," Neos called, voice calm but iron. "As you commanded — all are free."

Kratos did not answer him. He strode forward until he stood before a boy barely reaching his hip, ribs jutting under a torn tunic, eyes hollow as moon craters.

"You fear me," Kratos rumbled — not a question. A truth.

The boy shook, fists clenched. But he did not run.

Kratos bent — huge fingers brushing the grime and rain from the boy's hair. Then he rose to full height, voice rolling like distant thunder across every battered tent and freed soul.

"Fear me if you must. But fear me for your enemies — never for yourselves."

A sound rippled through the massed bodies: a hush first, then a raw noise halfway between sobs and prayers. Someone whispered his name like an oath broken free of iron lungs.

Kratos lifted a hand and quietly fell again.

"No crown claims you now. No gold buys your back. No whip breaks your spine. No chain binds you ever again. You stand in Sparta's shadow — and you stand free."

He pointed east, past the shattered gates of Myr, past the dark horizon where distant walls still bristled with the Triarchy's guards and whips.

"Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you march beside my warriors. And in time, you will earn your place amongst them, for Sparta is not just an army. Sparta is all of you now."

Rhosene bared her crooked teeth in something that might have been a smile, even as she shifted the boy in her arms to a gentler hold. Pindaros nodded to himself, lips whispering the words silently: All of you. Sparta.

No Spartan bowed. No Spartan knelt. But each one squared their shoulders and lifted their spears high above the heads of the freed.

One by one, the broken began to stand as well.

XXXX

Hours later, the freed lay swaddled under stolen blankets and Spartan cloaks, huddled near watchfires where shields gleamed like sentries in the rain.

After ensuring that the freed slaves were properly cared for, the Spartans tore the mercenary's camp apart as they searched every tent for spoils, as well as more slaves that needed to be freed. The raid on the mercenary's camp had resulted in a wealth of not just gold and precious gems but also more wine than any in the Spartan army had seen before, and Kratos had given his warriors permission to use it that night to celebrate their victory; with the express warning that at first light the army would march and that any Spartan too drunk to do so would be punished. Yet even this threat had done little to stem the Spartan's celebratory mood.

Pots of looted wine passed hand to hand as men and women leaned into the warmth they'd carved from the corpse of a would-be empire.

Around one such fire, Meera sat cross-legged on an overturned helmet, a fresh bandage tight around her thigh. She cradled a dented iron cup in both hands, savoring the sting of watered wine as her muscles, bone-weary and trembling, slowly remembered how to be still.

A dozen Spartans crowded the circle with her — warriors older than her father would have been and others no older than she was when Kratos had first found her in chains. None seemed strangers now. Not after what they had done together in the mud.

A broad-shouldered man named Theolen — who had a voice like gravel and an arm wrapped tight in linen — broke the soft murmur first.

"Did you see him?" He asked no one in particular, staring into the flames as if they might flicker back with the answer. "Lord Kratos, when he threw that spear? It bent around our shields. Killed only them. Not a one of us scratched."

Rhosene snorted a laugh, low and raw, from shouting orders all day.

"Of course, I saw," she rasped. "I was half a step from that worm Prendal. Thought our lord had hurled a bolt of lightning. I've never seen any spear move that fast in all my years." She raised her cup and winked at Meera. "Didn't so much as ruffle your pretty hair, eh, sister?"

Meera laughed — a sharp bark that turned into a wince when her ribs reminded her how they'd met a mercenary's boot earlier. She leaned back on one palm, eyes flicking from one face to the next, feeling the same heat rise in her chest that the wine warmed in her gut.

"He threw more than a spear today," she said softly, voice finding its strength as the circle stilled to listen. "He threw fear right back at them. They thought us slaves still. Thought we'd kneel again if they yelled loud enough. And now?"

She gestured at the battered armor piled beyond the ring of firelight. Rusted swords. Broken axes. Helmets still dented by Spartan spears. "Now they know. Chains break in Sparta."

A murmur of approval rolled through the circle, low and dangerous.

Young Aeson, only a few months younger than Meera, and missing two teeth thanks to a mercenary club, puffed out his chest. "Did you see me hold the line beside old Pano? Three times, they tried to push past me. Three times I spat 'em back. Even killed a knight. A real one — with a horse and fancy saddle and all!"

Theolen laughed so hard his bandaged arm jostled his cup, spilling wine into the dust. "A knight? By the sea, Aeson — if you brag much louder, we'll have to name you hero of the siege too, eh?"

Aeson flushed crimson but grinned wide, flashing that gap in his teeth with pride. Meera reached across the circle and cuffed his shoulder gently.

"You did well," she told him. Then, glancing at Rhosene, she added with a grin, "Though I think Rhosene here killed three knights and drank the last one's wine before the poor bastard hit the ground."

"True enough," Rhosene agreed shamelessly, raising her half-empty cup in mock toast. "And if our king had left any alive for us by the end, I'd have killed more yet."

That earned a round of laughter. Tired, hoarse, but real — the kind that stitched wounds only steel could make.

For a while, the circle fell into easy stories: who had held the longest on the right flank, who had watched Kratos cut Mero down like wheat, who still dreamed of the day they would see Sparta rise not just here, but across every city wall that dared stand.

Meera leaned back at last, her cup empty, her eyelids heavy. But her mind drifted far from the fire, back to that moment when the Blades of Chaos had first burned awake — when a god had moved among mortals not as ruler, but as sword and shield, blood and wrath incarnate.

As her brothers and sisters continued to swap stories of their prowess in battle, Meera's eyes drifted from face to face, catching that they all wore the same thing tonight: the loose, stunned grin of warriors still half-drunk on the fact they were alive.

Leon, old and wide as a boar, sat cross-legged on a fallen Triarchy banner. Beside him, Aeson passed around a battered wineskin, gesturing wildly as he re-enacted with clumsy swings how Kratos had fought.

Pindaros perched just beyond the firelight, knees hugged to his chest. His eyes — too wide for his boyish face — gleamed with feverish memory.

Leon's deep voice boomed over the crackle:

"I swear on my own mother's bones, when Strickland charged, I thought 'Hah! Here at last is a man mad enough to kill our king.' But then—" He thumped a meaty fist into his palm. "Then I saw them. The blades."

Aeson nearly dropped the wineskin in his excitement. "Chains on fire! Snakes made of steel and flame! Strickland's pretty Valyrian toy might as well have been a wooden spoon!"

Rhosene barked a laugh, her nose wrinkling in the crooked grin she rarely spared for anything. "Strickland fought like ten men rolled into one — I'll grant him that. Fast hands. Faster feet. But when our king spun those blades…" She whistled low, shaking her head. "Not even the storms knew where to run."

Pindaros hugged his knees tighter, voice breaking the moment he spoke:

"I'd heard rumors… when we trained, the old instructors said he carried weapons older than the cities we would fight. But I thought they were just stories to make us stand straighter." He shivered despite the warmth. "Now I know. They're alive, those chains. Hungry. Like wolves on fire."

Theolen jabbed a finger at him, face flushed with wine and pride. "And did you see how Strickland knew he'd lose? His precious Valyrian blade — Blackfyre, they called it — even that thing bounced off our king like a sparrow pecking stone."

Meera's voice cut softly through their roar, steady and rich as a drumbeat:

"He tried, though. Strickland." Her gaze drifted to the dancing flames, seeing not fire but memory: rain hissing off blazing steel, the hum of chains whipping air into a storm. "He struck true. A lesser man — any man — would've fallen. But Lord Kratos is not any man."

Pindaros nodded eagerly. "He cut him! We all saw! And the wound just... did nothing. He might as well have stabbed a boulder."

Leon chuckled. "If a boulder could bleed you dry a heartbeat later. I thought Strickland's head would pop clean off when Lord Kratos spun him through the muck like a rag."

A few chuckles rose at that, quick and raw. Yet under the laughter, awe lingered like incense.

Rhosene tossed her spear point-first into the dirt and leaned forward, voice lower now, all the grin gone from her scarred face.

"When I took the oath, I thought the spear was the greatest weapon. A wall of iron. Unbreakable. But those blades?" She made a fist, knuckles white. "They are ruin given shape. A promise: cross Sparta, and your chains will choke you in flame."

Pindaros whispered, half to himself:

"Do you think he forged them here? Before he found us? Or… were they always his?"

Silence gathered. Even the rain quieted against the warmth.

Meera's eyes glimmered with a fierce pride. She reached for her cup, lifting it to each grim, loyal face in the fire's flicker.

"It doesn't matter where they came from. They are his. And because they are his… they are ours."

One by one, they lifted tin cups, battered mugs, stolen goblets — whatever wine or broth they held — and clinked them together above the flame.

"To the Blades of Chaos," Leon rumbled.

"To our king," Aeson added, voice thick with wine and worship.

And Pindaros — voice trembling but sure — finished for them all:

"To Sparta."

The word rolled out into the dark, past the huddled freed souls, past the weeping rain, carrying a truth none who heard would forget:

So long as Kratos carried those blades, no chain could hold them. And no enemy would dare forge new ones.

XXXX

The fires had burned low by the time Daario and the last of his cavalry found themselves penned behind a crude barricade of overturned wagons and spears. Fifty men — once horse-lords who boasted that no line could hold them — now crouched on damp earth, armor stripped, swords stacked in a pile guarded by unblinking Spartans.

Daario sat cross-legged against a broken barrel, cloak pulled tight around shoulders that still smelled faintly of horse sweat. His eyes never left the ring of shields that hemmed them in, nor the larger fires beyond where Spartan laughter sometimes rose, harsh but unafraid.

Around him, the mutters crawled like rats.

One of his lieutenants — Tregar, broad-backed and always hungry for coin more than blood — spat in the dirt, glaring at the same shield wall Daario watched.

"Look at them," Tregar snarled, his voice cutting the hush. "They whisper 'god' as if that brute is more than meat and rage. He bleeds like we do. He dies like we do."

Across the pen, a half-naked sellsword with bruises blooming under both eyes barked a bitter laugh. "Aye! Strickland had him! You saw it — Blackfyre bit him, and the giant flinched. He bled!"

"That is NOT what happened!" Another man, more a boy really, whispered softly, his eyes wide with awe and fear, "I was there, I saw it. Strickland's sword struck the giant's side and did nothing. As if the giant's skin was stronger than Valyrian armor…"

Tregar waved a hand dismissively, voice rising enough that a nearby Spartan shifted, spear tilting toward him. Tregar ignored it.

"Tricks! Parlor magic and big talk. I say that fucker's a slave like the rest, just too dumb to bow. You'll see — tomorrow they'll poison him, or shoot him while he sleeps, and then what? Back to gold and whores in Tyrosh for the likes of us."

His words found a few nods, more out of desperation than conviction. Daario said nothing for a long while, fingers drumming the rim of his knee. Finally, he spoke — calm, quiet, but sharp enough to silence even Tregar's bluster.

"You think a man did this?" Daario gestured with a lazy flick of his hand — to the broken line of the battlefield beyond, the towering mounds of corpses half-hidden in the rain, the silent, unwavering Spartan sentries whose eyes seemed to gleam whenever firelight brushed their cheek guards.

Tregar sneered. "He's flesh and blood. A big man, sure. A savage. But not a god. Not like the priests rant about."

Daario's laugh came soft, half-amused, half-exhausted. "A man? Did you see the Blades?" He leaned forward, blue eyes bright under the tangled hair falling over his brow. "Did you watch them, Tregar? Strickland's precious Valyrian steel — Blackfyre! The blade kings bled for, the blade dragonlords murdered over — bounced off that thing's hide like a butter knife."

A few men shifted uncomfortably. One muttered under his breath, "Valyrian steel kills anything... anything mortal."

Daario leaned his head back against the barrel, letting the drizzle tap softly at his cheek.

"I rode with Mero. I drank with him. I watched him cut throats for half the gold Kratos now uses to build Sparta. Mero thought the same — 'big man, big fool, easy to kill.' And now? Mero's a smear in the mud, and the big fool breathes."

Tregar looked like he wanted to argue, but another horseman near him, younger, spoke first — voice cracking around a raw, horrified certainty.

"I saw him swing a man through another man. Gods help me, I saw it."

A brittle hush settled, broken only by the shuffle of feet and the hiss of spears tapping the ground as the Spartan guards adjusted their watch.

Tregar spat again but did not find more words.

Daario chuckled low — a sound too bitter to be mirth. "Believe what you want. Keep telling yourself tomorrow, he bleeds like you. But when dawn comes, and he walks among us... you look him in the eye and say so. Not me."

No one answered him.

Some turned away, curling against the drizzle. A few stared out at the faint glow of the Spartan fires beyond, where talk of blades and gods still crackled in the night.

Above them all, the shield line never moved, never flinched — a wall of iron forged not by fear, but by the surety that behind it waited a being who made mortal kings look like children rattling tin swords.

And Daario, wrapped in his stained cloak, felt something like old prayers crawl back through his veins. Not belief. Not yet. But a bone-deep truth:

If Kratos was not a god — then he was worse.

He was proof that no chain, no crown, no blade could ever truly hold Sparta again.

A one-eared sellsword, face a map of fresh bruises, leaned forward and spat toward Daario's boots. "Don't you dare squeak fear now, Naharis. You and your fancy saddle-lickers sat on that hill like pampered whores while we died in the mud. You had horses. You had steel. And you watched."

His voice rose — high enough that a few Spartans glanced his way, brows furrowing under battered helmets.

"You watched! My brother's throat was ripped out while you bastards polished your saddles!"

Tregar curled his lip, about to fire back, but Daario held up a hand — not to comfort him, but to keep him silent.

The one-eared man jabbed a filthy finger, fury trembling in his spit-choked throat. "Cowards! That's all you are. Cowards dressed like knights. You should hang beside us tomorrow. If that thing you call a 'god' has any sense, he'll feed you to the crows first for cowardice."

A ripple of bitter laughter from the ragged mercenaries behind him, broken only by the coughs of the wounded and the sniffle of a lad too young to have swung a blade but old enough to see his father's head stuck on a pike hours ago.

Daario's eyes stayed calm, pinned like ice to the spitter. His voice came soft — dangerous only because it was soft.

"Call it cowardice. Call it sense. Call it surviving. It changes nothing, friend. You're in this pen. I'm in this pen. The only difference is I chose it — and you bled for someone else's gold because you were too blind to see when to stop."

He leaned forward, voice low enough to make the one-eared man stiffen as though touched by cold iron.

"Keep barking your curses, if they soothe your fear. But tomorrow, when he comes, you look him in the eye and tell him you think he's just a man."

The man spat again, this time too far to hit anything but mud. He sank back among the others, glaring daggers that couldn't pierce the truth: they were chained by more than spear points now. They were chained by shame — and by the thunder of a god, they still refused to name.

Tregar muttered near Daario's ear, low but savage: "Let them whine. We live. That's what matters."

Daario didn't answer. His blue eyes drifted past the ring of Spartans, to where the biggest fire still burned high — the fire around which the warriors who didn't flinch spoke of the duel, the storm of chains and flame, the god that Strickland's royal blade could not scratch.

Above him, the rain softened to a hush. The captured murmured hate and denial, but in the hush, Daario found no prayers. Only the grim truth:

When dawn came, it would not be gold or blood that decided his fate.

It would be the will of the monster in the firelight — the god he had chosen not to cross.

XXXX

Dawn came soft and gray, dragging mists over the churned battlefield. Where once the roar of steel and screams had shattered the air, now only the crackle of flame rose, steady and clean.

A line of pyres burned bright beyond the Spartan camp, hundreds of them stacked high with wood stolen from the wrecked mercenary camp. Upon them lay Spartans clad in armor they would wear forever: breastplates polished, helmets set atop cold brows, shields resting across still chests like loyal dogs on a warrior's grave.

They did not burn in rags or unmarked pits like so many mercenaries scattered beyond the fires. They burned as they had lived: unbroken.

Kratos stood at the head of it all — unmoving, axe strapped across his broad back, the Blades of Chaos coiled silently at his hips. Rain threatened, drifting on the wind in fine mist, but the fires would not die until every warrior's last breath of smoke climbed free into the morning sky.

At his side, General Neos kept a silent count, voice just above a whisper as he read from a strip of blood-smeared parchment.

"Twelve thousand stood at dawn, my king," Neos said. His voice carried no sorrow — only a pride too fierce to break. "Two thousand paid the price. Ten thousand stand ready to march again."

Beyond them, the field that once crawled with thirty thousand mercenaries lay littered with carrion and wet banners. Of that vast host, fewer than five hundred were now huddled in chains near the camp's walls — the last ragged proof that gold could not buy discipline nor break a wall of armor and faith.

Kratos stepped forward, boots sinking a thumb deep in the wet ash at the pyres' feet. His eyes traced each flame, from the smallest flicker to the raging towers that roared when an updraft caught the wind.

When he spoke, every Spartan who yet lived straightened where they stood. Every freed soul, huddled close to share warmth and fear alike, lifted tearful eyes toward the monster that had freed them.

"They stand where heroes stand," Kratos said, his voice rolling like distant thunder — quiet but heavy enough that even the wind seemed to pause to listen. "They came from chains, from fields, from the gutters of Myr — and rose as warriors worthy of Elysium."

The flames popped, scattering sparks that danced in the morning air like fleeting souls freed of mortal flesh.

"They died as Spartans. They died with shield in hand, back unbroken, phalanx unbroken. So long as the spear wall held, death could not shame them."

He lifted one gauntleted fist, fingers curling tight around empty air.

"This field was not given to us by fortune. It was earned. Twenty-eight thousand against twelve — yet only two thousand of ours fell, and twenty-seven thousand of theirs fed the crows."

Murmurs rippled behind him. Some wept freely now — Spartans did not bow, but they did not hide tears for brothers and sisters earned in iron and blood.

Kratos turned slowly, gaze sweeping over the thousands who yet stood: Leon, Aeson, Rhosene with her nose still crooked, young Pindaros gripping his spear so hard the shaft shuddered. Meera, watching the bodies burn with pride in her eyes, even as tears ran freely down her cheeks. Faces grim but heads unbowed.

"These fires do not mourn the dead. They light the path for the living."

His arm dropped, heavy as an axe stroke.

"Remember them. Speak their names when you stand shield to shield. Remember this day — when free men and women proved to the Triarchy that Sparta bows to no crown, no gold, no whip."

He let the silence breathe, let the flames answer for him in tongues no mortal voice could shape.

Then, lower but heard by every soul:

"They stand now where the worthy stand. They feast where pain does not reach. And when your own day comes, you will find them waiting — to greet you in the halls of heroes."

A low chant began, soft at first. It moved through the lines like wind gathering fire: "Sparta. Sparta. Sparta."

Freed slaves joined it, voices trembling, new and unsteady but growing stronger as the warmth of the pyres wrapped around them like armor.

Kratos stood silent at the front, letting their words wash over the dawn. He did not chant. He did not smile. He only watched the last of the smoke twist toward the gray sky — and knew every flame carried a promise eastward.

Lys. Tyrosh. And beyond.

Chains broken once would never be forged again.

XXXX

Daario Naharis crouched on his haunches behind the crude wooden bars the Spartans had driven into the mud — a pen for men who had once called themselves kings of the saddle and princes of coin.

Now, they were just fifty trembling survivors, wrapped in cloaks that still stank of horse sweat and old fear.

Beyond the bars, the pyres still burned in defiance of the dawn drizzle. The wind shifted just enough to carry smoke and the sweet rot of burning flesh into the prisoners' pen. Some gagged; others wept without shame.

Daario only watched. There was a question gnawing behind his teeth, one that would not die no matter how many times he reminded himself that nothing about this new Sparta made sense.

He spotted them at once: two Spartans standing guard at the edge of the pen, spears braced in the churned earth. Both were young — younger than Daario himself by a decade at least — but there was something in their posture that spoke of iron more than flesh.

One was built lean as a hunting dog, eyes pale as river stones. The other was broader, shoulders wrapped in a ragged cloak that did little to hide the chain scars peeking above the collar of his breastplate.

Daario called out, voice calm but loud enough that every man in the pen turned to listen, hoping for a scrap of insight that might tell them whether tomorrow they'd swing from a tree or fight under the red cloak.

"You two," Daario said, gesturing with a lazy flick of his fingers that made more than one mercenary wince, as if Kratos himself might appear from the shadows to punish insolence. "Tell me something."

The lean Spartan shifted his weight but did not break stance. "Speak, horse-lord."

Daario leaned forward, gripping the bars so the smoke swirled past his eyes. "You burn them in armor. You say they go to some... Elysium?" He spat the word like it tasted false. "You fight and die for a man who claims no crown, wears no throne, and calls himself a god. Why? Why trust his word that these fires mean more than ashes?"

The lean one looked to his broader companion. A silent understanding passed between them — as if one question about faith could be answered only by the man who once had none.

The broader Spartan stepped closer so Daario could see the chain scars clear as a brand. His voice came deep, calm — calm in a way Daario found more unsettling than any sword at his throat.

"My name is Niketas," the Spartan said. "Once, they called me 'Number Twenty-Three.' That was the brand on my back when I was a stable boy in Myr. My mother died with chains on her wrists. My father... if I had one, he died before I knew him. I never thought of any afterlife. Never thought of tomorrow."

He raised a calloused hand and turned it so Daario could see the faint white ring where an iron cuff had dug into his wrist all his boyhood.

"Then he came — our king. He broke my chains with his own hands. Gave me a spear. And a name. I chose Niketas. It means 'Victory.'"

Daario frowned, voice softer now but laced with incredulity. "And that's enough? One man frees you, and suddenly you fight armies for him and die smiling because you believe in some ghost paradise?"

The lean Spartan — fresh-faced but eyes far older than his youth — chuckled under his breath. "You think faith is about crowns and gold, horse-lord? We don't follow a priest. We don't kneel for prayers. We fight because he fights beside us. He eats our bread. He swings an axe harder than any three men combined."

The boy thumped the haft of his spear into the mud for emphasis. "And when the enemy is bigger than us, stronger than us, crueler than the whip ever was — he stands in front, not behind."

Niketas added, voice like a steady drum, "Elysium is not a promise, Naharis. It is proof that if we stand as Spartans — as free folk who bow to none but him — our lives mean more than shackles. If we die with shield in hand, we live forever in song. That is enough."

A mutter rolled behind Daario. Some of the chained mercenaries spat or scoffed — one older brute with a missing ear hissed, "Slaves worship anything that cracks their collar first."

Niketas turned his head, and the quiet fury in his eyes made the one-eared man shrink back until his back pressed the bars behind him.

"Once, I was chained. Now, I carry a spear by my own will. I kneel to none, not even him — by his own decree." Niketas pointed toward the pyres where the last sparks leaped free into the dawn. "See them? They are not slaves. They are free men and women who fought for each other. For a Sparta built by freed hands. They stand in Elysium now because they chose how to die. You will choose too. Or the crows will feast on you where you kneel in your own filth."

Daario laughed — but there was no mockery left in it. Only the hollow echo of a man who had run out of good lies to tell himself.

"You believe it. Gods help me, you really believe it."

The boy Spartan gave him a crooked grin, boyish and grim all at once. "We don't need gods to believe. We have him."

Daario's eyes drifted to the flicker of the pyres, the shape of the man who stood alone before them, unmoved by smoke or sorrow.

Kratos.

Not a king. Not a god.

Something worse.

XXXX

Author's Note:

One of my readers suggested an interesting idea, and I wanted to explore it. In the last few chapters, I've been telling instead of showing. I wanted to increase the interaction between my characters. To show WHY they follow Kratos. I hope this chapter has done that, but if you think I could have done better, let me know. Every review provides me with more information on how to improve my stories even further.

If you would like to view images based on my story, you can join my Discord channel; just look up 'MandoVet.'

Chapter Text

Despite Kratos' command that they would march at dawn, the burning of the fallen consumed the sun itself. Hour upon hour, the pyres devoured flesh and bone alike, and Kratos did not permit a single Spartan to take the road until the last wisp of ash was free upon the wind.

Thus, the army rested where they stood victorious, a brief mercy for battered bodies and weary minds. Squads rotated guard on the captured spoils: crates of gold, silks, armor, the wealth of the mercenary horde now feeding the hoard of Sparta's rebirth. Around scattered fires, the warriors tended wounds, retold the battle blow by blow, and raised cups of rough wine to the doom of the Triarchy that they now spoke of as certain.

Through it all — dawn to dusk — Kratos stood.

He had not shifted a foot since the first torch touched the wood. The haft of the Leviathan Axe rooted to the earth before him, his great hands folded upon its crown, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the flames as they danced and died.

Not far off, behind a rough palisade of sharpened stakes and watchful spears, Daario Naharis and his disarmed cavalry watched him in turn. They had been corralled apart from the other mercenary prisoners — safer that way, less risk of attack in the dark from old comrades who now dreamed of revenge against those they viewed as traitors.

"He hasn't moved…" Daario murmured under his breath, shifting the bit of rope that bound his wrists. His eyes, so quick to mock or charm, were tonight just sharp and puzzled. "Not a single bloody step. All day."

"Aye," Tregar grunted, old scars crisscrossing his arms like barbed wire under his torn sleeve. "I don't know if he's a god. But that's no mortal man's spine to stand so still in the rain and wind."

A boy at Daario's elbow — barely sprouted whiskers, wide-eyed with hunger and fear — whispered, "Why? Why does he watch them burn? It's just ash now…"

He shrank back fast when the Spartan guard nearest the fence turned on him with a voice like flint on iron.

"How would you know what it means, whelp? All you sell is your sword, not your soul."

Daario barked a quiet laugh, wiping the drizzle off his mouth with his bound hands. "Then enlighten us, soldier. Tell me why your king stands there, locked like a statue among ghosts and cinders."

The guard stalked closer until the torchlight caught the faint brands of an old slave collar burned long ago into his neck. His spear butt struck the earth once, an oath without words.

"Because they died for him," the Spartan said, voice thick with something dangerously close to tears and fury. "And he would stand the rest of his life in that mud if it meant they'd know it. We were nothing, beasts in chains. He broke our chains. He made us Spartans. And Spartans do not kneel. Not in life. Not in death. He watches to see them honored. He stands so that the gods themselves remember who carried his name into the black. Not that we need them. Not anymore. Now, there is only one god that the Spartan people follow."

He spun on his heel and stalked back to his post. His armor rattled softly like distant thunder.

Behind the palisade, Daario's men fell silent, shame and sullen fear thick on their breath. Only Daario's low chuckle broke it. He watched Kratos still, tiny in the distance yet dwarfing every thought Daario had ever held about men and kings.

As the last pyres guttered, the wind dragged sparks high into the sky, until they were lost among cold stars. In that dying light, Daario — quick of tongue, sharp of wit, and sworn to no master — for the first time felt small. And beneath that smallness, a sliver of something alien to him: respect.

Kratos did not see him. Kratos saw only the fire and the promise that in Sparta, no warrior would ever burn alone.

XXXX

The dawn of the following morning was gray and hard as iron. Rain from the night before had turned the ground into sucking mud that clung to the sandals of the assembled Spartans. Beyond their perfect ranks, lines of captured wagons were loaded with spoils stripped from the mercenary camp; food, armor, coin, and the chains that once bound slaves, now tossed aside like rotted ropes.

At the very front, before the entire army, Kratos stood, vast and silent, the red tattoo stark against the pale of his skin, the dawn wind tugging at the edge of his cloak. Behind him, General Neos stood rigid, eyes fixed ahead. And behind Neos, ten thousand Spartans stood at attention, shields at their feet, spears grounded like a forest of resolve.

Yet, despite the silence, small whispers threaded through the ranks like startled birds:

"He'll kill them all, you'll see."

"No. The young ones, perhaps not. Lord Kratos values youth for the phalanx."

"Hush, you fool! The General will have our hides if he hears us wagging our tongues when we're supposed to stand silent!"

Among them, Meera shifted on aching feet. She kept her chin up, but her lips barely moved as she muttered to Rhosene at her side, "What do you think, sister?"

Rhosene's eyes were locked on a knot of prisoners being prodded forward through the mud by ten Spartan guards — Daario and his cavalrymen, their hands still bound, armor gone, only ragged tunics left to protect them from the chill. Rhosene's lip curled as she saw Daario lift his chin with that same arrogant smirk.

"They should be killed first," she growled low, voice vibrating with restrained hatred. "That bastard is no better than Ephialtes, the traitor who sold out King Leonidas and the 300 at Thermopylae in our Lord's homeland. Lord Kratos told us of him, so we'd remember: Sparta has no mercy for cowards who sell brothers for their own skin."

Meera swallowed hard, eyes flicking nervously to where an officer glanced back at their squad; the whispers stopped dead like a blade cut them, and they snapped back to stiff silence.

At the front, Kratos lifted one hand. The guards halted Daario before him and shoved him down into the mud. With a grunt, Daario shifted, planted a knee, and pushed himself upright, mud dripping off his face as he raised his bound hands mockingly, wiping a fleck from his cheek with the back of a wrist.

"Lord of Sparta," he drawled, voice edged with mock civility. "You summoned me. I assume you wish to ask if I enjoyed my bath in your beautiful swamp?"

General Neos stiffened behind Kratos, jaw tightening. Rhosene practically vibrated, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on Daario's throat like a wolf considering the best place to sink her teeth.

Kratos did not blink. His eyes swept slowly over the kneeling cavalrymen behind Daario, then back to the man himself, and the contempt in his silence was heavier than a Warhammer.

At that moment, from the line of other captured mercenaries — muddy, bleeding, defeated — a voice cracked out, ragged with hate and despair:

"Spare that coward?"

A bony, beaten mercenary rose to his knees, face twisted with spittle and tears. He jabbed a finger at Daario.

"He and his horse sons watched us die! Watched us drown in the mud! Our brothers! And when we bled, they ran like dogs! Kill them first. Hang them higher than us! They deserve worse than death! They deserve to be flayed alive!"

A ripple of agreement rolled through the other prisoners, accompanied by a few choked sobs and some snarled curses hurled at Daario and his men.

Daario's sneer turned on the man like a dagger.

"Careful, cur," he shot back, voice suddenly cold, a killer's edge under the mocking tone. "Better to die standing than squeal on your belly for a master you never truly served. At least I pick my battles wisely; you didn't even pick yours at all."

Kratos' jaw tensed. The Leviathan Axe rested heavily on his back. Slowly, his hand flexed at his side, but he did not reach for the weapon — not yet. His eyes locked on Daario, voice dropping to a growl that rumbled through the ranks like distant thunder:

"You stand here now, unarmed, bound, alive only because I permit it. You ask for mercy yet show none for the brotherhood you abandoned. Tell me, Daario Naharis, why should Sparta spare a man who hides his blade when the field runs red?"

Behind him, Rhosene's snarl curled into a whisper that only Meera could hear, tight with fury yet caged by discipline:

"Let him hang beside Ephialtes' ghost. Let him hang until the sun bleaches his bones white as the lies in his mouth."

The entire army waited, breath frozen in their chests, for the traitor's answer, and for the judgement of a god made flesh.

Daario tilted his head just slightly, rain dripping from the ends of his hair, a thin trickle of mud running down his cheekbone. The smirk flickered, not gone, but tempered by a shadow in his eyes. He spat to the side, ignoring the wet slap of it in the mud, and drew in a breath as if steadying himself.

He looked past Kratos for a heartbeat to the perfect lines of Spartans behind Neos. To the carts piled high with captured plunder and freedom's spoils. To the endless forest of spears that could drink his blood before he could even think to run.

Then he looked back at the god who owned this field, and for once, Daario Naharis did not smirk. He spoke.

"I have never bent the knee to a king or priest in my life, Lord Kratos. Because I believed every crown and every altar was built to chain men like me. But I stand here now, and…"

He flicked his chin toward the insult-hissing captives behind him, a ragged chorus of hate and betrayal:

"Snake!"

"Coward!"

"Cut his tongue out and nail it to his chest!"

"I hope your whoreson mother sees you squeal!"

Their curses crashed around him like a wave, but Daario's shoulders did not slump. He faced Kratos fully, the ghost of that insolent grin curling again at the corner of his mouth, even as something tight flickered behind his eyes.

"I do not beg. I will not kneel. But I will say this: only a fool draws steel when the war is already lost. I weighed my odds; I chose life over pointless death for my men as well as myself."

He flexed his bound wrists slightly, the rope biting deep enough to show the tremor in his veins he could not hide.

"If you want the truth, I have no faith in gods. I never have. But… you've made me question if perhaps my mother was right about you. So here I stand. No sword, no lies. Spare me, and you will have one less knife at your back when you turn to burn Lys to ash. Kill me… and the crows get fatter. Either way, I die knowing I did not grovel like these dogs behind me."

A savage laugh cracked out from the line of mercenaries, one of them rasping:

"Let him choke on his pride! He wants to live? He can hang like the rest of us; proud men make the sweetest meat for the crows!"

Another man, half-starved and with a bloody bandage around his skull, hawked phlegm at Daario's boots and spat through broken teeth:

"You ride for gold, horse boy. Now, you talk of honor? May that pale bastard rip your spine out and feed it to the wolves."

Daario ignored them. Even as a Spartan stepped forward and kicked the mercenary who had just insulted Kratos, sending the man sprawling with a cry. Daario's eyes stayed locked on the war god towering before him. A tiny muscle flickered in his jaw, betraying the fear he refused to voice.

Behind Kratos, Neos leaned closer to whisper so that none but the god could hear:

"See how pretty pride looks right before the rope takes the neck. Let me silence him, my king. One swing, that's all I need."

For a long heartbeat, the only sound between the gathered lines of Spartans and the whimpering mercenaries was the distant groan of wagon wheels and the faint hiss of the drizzle as it began to sprinkle again, as if the weather itself could feel the god's mind and was making a physical display.

Kratos' eyes, dark as a storm in winter, bored into Daario's, as if weighing every lie he had ever told, every throat he had ever cut for coin. For a man who feared no king or priest, Daario Naharis found that he did fear silence when it came from this god.

Behind him, a few of Daario's men dared to lift their eyes from the mud. Hope flickered there. Hope and dread, twinned like a two-headed snake.

At last, Kratos' jaw flexed beneath his beard. He did not roar. He did not gesture wildly. His voice cut through the rain, calm and cold as iron drawn at dawn:

"You were wise enough to see the battle was lost, Daario Naharis. That is not cowardice… It is survival. And survival can be useful."

He turned slightly, sweeping his gaze over the line of filthy horsemen, the once-proud Second Sons who now shivered like curs in the mire.

"You and yours will live. For now. You will march at the rear, bound and watched. You will eat Spartan rations and drink Spartan water. No more, no less. When I decide your lives have worth beyond your own hides, I will unbind you. But if I ever see your loyalty stray…"

The Blades of Chaos hissed faintly on his hips as if growling in agreement.

"…I will not waste rope on your necks. I will feed you to the crows with my own hands. Do not mistake mercy for trust. Sparta does not trust snakes. It chains them — until they are taught to bite only when commanded."

At this, a roar of outrage broke from the line of surviving mercenaries behind Daario. One gaunt man lurched forward on raw knees, spitting bloody phlegm onto the ground:

"Spare him?! The whoremonger who left us to rot?! You would hang us like dogs but keep him on a leash?! Burn him with us! Burn him with us!"

Another hurled himself forward until a Spartan spear haft cracked across his jaw, silencing him with a splatter of teeth into the mud.

"Traitor! Better to die a man than live a worm! May the crows shit your bones, Daario Naharis!"

Daario did not look back at them. His chin lifted, defiance and a shadow of something almost like gratitude warring behind the wry tilt of his mouth.

Before them, the rain washed clean the blood, but not the promise that rang silent on this field: Sparta would waste no blade, no muscle, no cunning mind, but it would own them utterly or break them where they knelt.

Kratos let Daario's defiant eyes meet his for a final heartbeat — then flicked his fingers once in dismissal.

"Take them."

At the signal, a dozen Spartan warriors stepped forward. Their shields clattered softly as they advanced. Without word or ceremony, they grabbed Daario's men by the arms, dragging them to their feet one by one. The men went; silent in the deep, ragged calm of the defeated. Daario himself did not resist, though he shrugged off the rough hands, choosing to walk under his own power, head high as they shoved him back toward the rear lines, where Spartan guards waited with binding rope and the watchful eyes of wolves.

The rain slicked their tunics, and the dark hair matted on their necks. Not a single Spartan glanced at the beaten men behind them; they were already nothing, already forgotten.

Kratos did not watch them go. He turned instead, slow as a mountain turning, to the ragged assembly of the remaining mercenaries kneeling in the mud before him. His shadow fell over them like nightfall swallowing candles. As his gaze slid down the line, Kratos didn't see men. He saw murderers. Thieves. Men who fought for coin and would have sold children for the weight of gold. But scattered among them — huddled close to older men they'd called 'Father' or 'Captain' — he saw thin shoulders trembling under oversized leather hauberks. Faces that still bore the bloom of youth, not the scars of battle.

A boy in the front — no more than twelve summers — lifted tearful eyes to the god. A man beside him — gaunt, filthy, but still unbowed — suddenly stepped forward, causing the guards to raise their spears threateningly. A moment later, the man knelt in the mud and pushed his own forehead into the dirt before croaking through broken teeth:

"Lord Kratos... take me. Spare him. He knows nothing but the stable. He never swung a blade until his fool father dragged him into this madness for a handful of coins."

Kratos' brow furrowed, the old iron lines of a general's thoughtfulness creasing through

godlike certainty. He looked along the line and saw more boys. More lost cubs dragged to war behind their fathers' greed.

He lifted his hand — once — and the murmuring Spartan ranks behind Neos fell to utter silence.

His voice cracked the hush like thunder rolling off granite:

"The young will live. They will remember this field — and why they walk away breathing. The rest—"

He let his eyes sweep the filth kneeling at the front, those old enough to choose, old enough to revel in blood bought with coin.

"—will feed the crows. As your bones bleach beneath the sun, all who pass here will know: Sparta bows to no chain."

A groan of despair rippled through the condemned. Some wept. Some tore at their hair and spat curses at the giant who had condemned them. One man threw himself forward, clawing at Kratos' greaves until a Spartan spear cracked across his spine, driving him face-first into the sucking mud.

General Neos lifted a hand in crisp command. Instantly, a detail of Spartans broke formation, stepping forward with heavy iron nails and the crossbeams ready for grim labor. Another detachment moved among the line, hauling away the trembling boys and shoving them toward the supply wagons. They would live; they would carry Sparta's warning in their frightened eyes until their own dying days.

The rest would hang from crosses until all that was left was their bones. A reminder and warning to anyone foolish enough to try and challenge Sparta.

XXXX

The night after the long march toward Lys was still but for the soft hiss of the campfires and the faint clink of armor being adjusted by weary hands. Beyond the main line of tents, far at the edge of the Spartan encampment, Daario and his cavalry huddled under harsh watch, still bound like livestock. They were close enough that if the wind shifted, a word here and there might drift back to the fires where real Spartans rested.

One such fire flickered brighter than most. Around it crouched Meera, Rhosene, Leon, and half a dozen others, all stripped of their helmets but still in harness and greaves, their spears resting within arm's reach. Their young faces, drawn by exhaustion, were lit in orange and shadow.

Leon scowled toward the darkness where Daario's men waited like wolves behind iron. "If our king had sense, he'd gut those bastards and hang their heads on the road to Lys. Better than leaving them breathing behind our backs."

Rhosene, her eyes reflecting the flame's bite, growled agreement as she ran a whetstone along her blade's edge. "Better yet, nail them to the same crosses their brothers swing from. Daario is no better than Ephialtes, the traitor who sold King Leonidas to the Persians."

At the name, even the youngest present clenched their jaws. They all knew the story; Meera and a few special others had learned it on the road to Myr. But the rest had heard it from Kratos in their first winter under his training: three hundred Spartans against a sea of enemies, betrayed by one man's weakness.

Meera tucked her cloak tighter around her narrow shoulders. Her voice trembled despite her effort to sound like the warrior she had become. "I don't understand why Lord Kratos

spares them. We've fought; we've earned the right to call ourselves Spartans. They… they followed coin. They turned on their own."

Theolen spat into the dirt. "A wolf's belly always remembers the scent of blood. They'll bite the hand the moment our backs are turned."

No one argued. The fire cracked; the embers hissed in the hush. Each knew they risked a beating if caught speaking out of turn, yet none could stop.

Then a shape appeared in the circle's edge; silent, vast. A giant cloaked in shadows until the flames danced up his pale skin. Kratos. The murmurs died like a choked breath.

Meera straightened so fast her knee armor clanged. "Lord Kratos, forgive us. We—"

He raised a palm. Silence obeyed him, as always.

He stepped into the ring of warmth, General Neos just behind him in the night, like a shadow's loyal hound. Kratos's gaze drifted past Meera's stricken eyes, past Leon's clenched jaw, and settled on Rhosene, who did not bow her head but stared back for a moment before her eyes dropped.

His voice was quiet, a hammer wrapped in cloth. "You hate them."

Again, not a question.

Rhosene's eyes flashed like cold iron. "Yes. I do. Men like Daario bound me, sold me, and laughed when I bled. They would chain every free throat if they could. If I had my wish, Lord, they'd join Ephialtes in history's dung heap."

A muscle ticked in Kratos's jaw. He sank to a knee before the fire, its warmth painting ancient scars in flickers of gold and red.

"Hatred," he said, looking into the flame, "Can feed you when your belly is empty. It can keep your hand strong when your body breaks. But left unchecked, it devours all you are — until there is nothing but the hate."

The warriors watched him in a hush so complete that even the distant murmur of guards faded from mind.

Kratos did not look at them as he began.

"Long before you drew breath, there was a man born to Sparta. The finest warrior his people had forged in generations. A boy born in war. A captain of Sparta's warriors before most men grow beards. He led every charge. Never from the rear, always at the front — first to kill, first to bleed."

The fire snapped. Leon swallowed audibly. Even Rhosene's breathing quieted.

"They sang his victories from the mountains to the islands. Cities trembled at his banner. He thought himself invincible. He called every battle a gift to his homeland, every slaughter another stone laid on Sparta's glory."

Kratos's hand twitched as if remembering a grip long abandoned. His eyes stayed locked on the flame.

"Then came an enemy he could not crush: a barbarian horde greater than all he had faced. When defeat clawed at his throat, he turned not to his men, not to his own iron. He begged a god — dark, cruel, false — for power. In exchange, he gave his soul."

The wind stirred the fire, making the coals whisper like bones in a grave.

Rhosene exhaled through her nose, low and vicious as the horror of what this Spartan had done, rolled through her. "A fool."

Kratos nodded slightly. "He won that battle. He won a thousand more. But each victory chained him tighter to the god's will. He stopped fighting for Sparta and bled for blood alone. They called him a hero once. They called him monster after."

Pindaros' voice trembled. "What… what happened to him?"

Kratos did not flinch. "One day, the god commanded him to raze a village — enemies of Sparta, he was told. He butchered them all. Man, woman, child. Only when the blood dried did he see their faces — his wife. His daughter."

A hiss broke from Meera's lips. Her hands trembled against her knees.

"As punishment, the gods bound the ashes of the man's family to his skin. So that every man who looked upon him would know what hate and arrogance had wrought. He became a walking curse, a ghost wearing the bones of his sins. Forever after, he was known as the Ghost of Sparta."

Silence. The wind moved among them, and even General Neos, stern as carved marble, lowered his eyes.

Kratos finally looked up; at Rhosene, at Meera, at Pindaros' young face, lit by fear and a dawning, deeper understanding.

"Remember this: a warrior may wield hate like a sword, but if they let it guide their hand, they become the very beast they swore to fight. Sparta does not breed beasts. It breeds men and women who stand together. Who fight for each other, not for rage."

He rose, the firelight flickering over the red tattoo that marked a ghost hidden in plain sight.

"Rest now. We march at dawn."

No one spoke as he walked away into the black, Neos falling in behind him like a loyal shadow. The fire crackled, and for a moment, Meera thought she saw the shape of a skull dancing in the flame before it vanished into drifting ash.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you're enjoying these updates because I don't know how much longer they are going to keep coming with such frequency. Lately, my brain has been churning out ideas faster than I can write them down, which is excellent for all my stories, but I know it will stop sooner or later. However, until then, I'll continue to update.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter; if not, please let me know how I can improve for the following chapters.

As always, if you'd like to view some images that I've crafted for this story, check out my Discord. It's under the username 'MandoVet.'

Chapter Text

Dawn spread slow fingers of cold gold across the open plain. Under its light, ten thousand Spartans moved like the bones of a single beast; silver helms gleaming, spears bobbing above disciplined shoulders.

Dust curled beneath sandals and greaves. The only voices were the wind and the creak of leather straps tightening on shields.

Near the center rank, Meera caught the subtle drag of Pindaros' feet, the boy's thoughts heavier than his pack. She hissed low, sharp enough that Rhosene beside her flicked an amused glance:

"Pindaros, mind your feet. Or do you fancy greeting Lys barefoot and bleeding?"

The boy flinched, words stumbling out before his courage could betray him:

"I'm sorry, Meera, it's just… the story Lord Kratos told. The Ghost of Sparta. He was… pale. Wore his family's ashes. Our lord… he too— I mean—could he—?"

The words fell like an unclean stone into still water.

Around them, armored heads turned. A few older warriors stiffened, jaws tight. Someone behind them spat through his teeth, "Blasphemy. The boy should taste the whip for such filth—"

But the threat cut off like a severed rope. Leon's voice crashed through the tension, deep and iron-heavy:

"No."

He turned as he marched, his silver breastplate catching dawnfire, his broad hand lifted not in threat, but as law:

"No man or woman here will lift a whip to another Spartan back. Ever again. You speak of lashes? That is the tool of the masters we broke, the same scum who thought us cattle, fit only to kneel or bleed."

He planted his spear butt to the earth so hard the vibration traveled through the column. His eyes swept from Pindaros' bowed head to the bristling warriors around him:

"Look at yourselves, wolves growling at a cub's question! A free Spartan's tongue is his own. He wondered aloud — foolishly, yes — but he spoke. And we do not beat each other for words. That is their way."

Leon's voice softened just a fraction as he faced Pindaros:

"You did not mean insult, boy. Remember that words can wound more than spears when loosed carelessly, but Sparta does not silence her children with iron and lash. We silence doubt with truth."

Rhosene's growl cut in like a dagger drawn beside the warmth of Leon's fire. She leaned near Pindaros, her braids brushing his arm, her teeth bared in something half-smile, half-snarl:

"Listen well, cub: that ghost from our lord's tale was a monster. A dog sold to a cruel god for a taste of power. He drowned Sparta's honor in blood. But our king? He lifted me from the filth they threw me in. He gave me steel, a name, and a purpose worth dying for. There is no ghost in him. Only a king. Only a god who walks among us because he chooses to."

Another warrior nodded fiercely. "I'd march to hell and back for him. And not because he commands it, because he earned it."

Pindaros' voice quivered, but he managed, "I understand. I meant no harm—"

Meera elbowed him lightly. "Keep your head high, brother. You asked like a fool, now stand like a Spartan. No one here will bind your tongue or your wrists. Not anymore."

A ripple of quiet assent moved through the file. A few even murmured old prayers, not to the gods of chains, but to the towering figure far ahead, a silhouette against the rising sun.

Pindaros' face relaxed finally as he looked at the girl who had grown as close as a sister to him.

"I swear you talk far older than any thirteen-year-old I've ever spoken with."

"I'm fourteen, I'll have you know!" Meera grinned back, "My name day was yesterday."

"What?" Pindaros gasped, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"We had just survived a battle," Meera mumbled, "What present could be worth more than that?"

Well said, sister!" Rhosene chuckled, slapping Meera heartily on the back as, around her, other Spartans wished her congratulations.

Ahead of them, Leon resumed his stride, spear swinging in easy rhythm, his voice a low promise for all to hear:

"Remember this: we do not flay our own to keep order. We hold our shields tight enough to make whips useless forever. That is the new Sparta. Ours."

And so they marched — ten thousand strong, ten thousand free — toward a jeweled city trembling behind stone walls, while behind them, the memory of chains lay buried deep beneath their iron-shod feet.

XXXX

The towers of Lys glimmered like the teeth of a jeweled crown in the waning sun, but within the marble walls of the city, there was no regality left. Panic was a fever running through its streets, infecting both nobles and commoners alike.

Rumors flew faster than pigeons. The Spartan army, they said, marched like a silver tide over the land. Ten thousand strong, they had crushed the mercenary army sent by the Triarchy and had slaughtered men who once thought themselves conquerors. The tales were impossible. They spoke of a god leading men and women in silver armor. Of discipline that shattered larger armies. Of fire, of crucifixions. Of an army that had not come merely to fight, but to change the world.

In the Hall of Judgement, the Council of Lys had argued. As they had been for nearly the entire day.

Men in silk and gold shouted across the marble floors of the city's highest chamber. Servants had long since fled, the usual civility of protocol cast aside like broken glass. The mood teetered between fury and terror.

"We are an island! Let them come!" One Magister shouted. "The Spartans cannot walk on water!"

"They don't need to! Haven't you heard?" Another retorted. "Half the mercenaries we hired are either dead or crucified. There is nothing between us and them!"

"We have ships!" A third supplied. "We can escape!"

"And leave the city? Let those savages torch Lys to the ground? Never!"

The loudest voice of all came from Lord Parqes, a merchant prince grown fat on slave flesh. He slammed his ringed hand on the table. "We have another threat to worry about, one inside our walls!"

The room silenced.

Parqes unfurled a scroll brought by a breathless clerk. His voice turned to a whisper as he read, but it was no less loud in its horror:

"One hundred thousand freeborn. Three hundred thousand slaves."

Silence descended like a shroud.

"Three slaves for every citizen," another councilor breathed. "Gods help us."

A third, pale and trembling, stammered, "We can't possibly guard the walls and watch them at our backs. Not if they turn."

"Then they must not be allowed to turn," Parqes snapped.

"What are you suggesting?"

"A culling."

A scream of protest erupted from one of the younger nobles. "You would slaughter children? Women? House slaves who have never raised a hand against their masters?"

"They are slaves, not citizens!" Parqes snapped. "And if we don't act now, they will slit our throats in our sleep. No matter how powerful, an army cannot fight a battle of two fronts! And make no mistake, we are currently nowhere near a position of strength.

That is why we must cull the chattel before the siege. Slaughter enough slaves to break their spirit and leave the rest too terrified to ever lift a blade when the Spartans come knocking."

More shouting. More accusations. And outside the hall, in the great city that had once served as a pleasure capital of Essos, a different kind of storm began to rise as one unseen servant quietly made his way out of the hall to tell all he could just what the masters of Lys were planning.

XXXX

In the lower quarters, in the sculleries and the barracks, in the bathhouses and the brothels — whispers passed from tongue to tongue.

"They say the Spartans are coming."

"They say their king is a god."

"They say he was once a slave like us."

Faces once hollow with despair now gleamed with something dangerous — hope.

In one corner of the city, a group of gladiators, all scars and muscle, listened as a freedman from Myr recounted what he had seen. He was another of Kratos' weapons. Another ingenious strategy. After consolidating his power in Sparta, Kratos had sent dozens of newly freed men and women out into Essos with one purpose: To tell all they encountered what they had seen during the conquest of Myr. In this way, Kratos hoped to destroy the other 'slave' cities he marched on from within, long before they saw his banner on the horizon.

"He came like fire through the gates. Didn't even raise his voice. Just looked at the slavers — and they started dying. Not one man ran. The Spartans fight as one. Like a wall of blades."

A woman, skin marked with the brands of three households, whispered, "What if he comes here? Would he free us?"

"He doesn't have to," said the Myrish man. "You have the numbers. You could do it yourselves. If we rise when the Spartans arrive..."

Soon after, another rumor began to circulate through the city. One more horrifying than anything the slaves could have imagined. From street to street, house to house, word spread about what the masters of Lys were planning to do in order to keep the slaves from rebelling, and soon that horror gave way to rage…

XXXX

Just before sunset, the doors to the Hall of Judgement slammed open again.

A clerk ran in, breathless, thrusting another scroll into Parqes' hands.

The fat man read it, went white, and collapsed into his seat.

"The rumors are true," he said. "There are hundreds of whispers across the slave quarters. The guards are reporting unrest. Small fights. Vanished overseers."

"They're going to rise."

A cold voice answered, "We are trapped on this island with them. An army marches toward us, and another waits within our very walls."

One noble whispered what they were all beginning to understand: "We have built our palace atop dry tinder. And the match is in the wind."

Dread settled.

Soon, it would burn.

Moments later, a weary scout stepped into the chamber and gazed at the master with dead eyes. None needed to hear his words to know what had happened.

Sparta had arrived.

XXXX

Ten thousand Spartans sat around several hundred campfires, each wearing a varying expression of puzzlement, awe, or determination as they gazed at the jeweled city that lay just beyond them. They had arrived just an hour before, with plenty of daylight left to plan how to capture the city. Yet, to the surprise of all, Kratos had ordered them to make camp and bed down for the night.

None could understand their god's mind, yet they did as instructed. Even General Neos seemed perplexed by his king's order. Yet, the iron discipline of the man had kept him from asking just why they were not making plans to take the city, especially when a great ocean lay between the army and the city of Lys. Kratos had not moved since issuing the order to his warriors, save to cross his arms over his chest as he gazed out at the city, as though expecting something. What that something was, however, none could say.

XXXX

The city of Lys, jewel of the Summer Sea, began to die as the sun bled over the horizon.

Within the alabaster walls, the guards moved like jackals, storming through the narrow alleys and opulent courtyards of the noble estates. Down winding stone staircases, through rusted gates, into darkness. Their torches cast snarling shadows across the cracked walls of the slave pens. Orders were barked. Chains were readied. Blades drawn.

"The culling begins now," snarled one commander, his voice thick with wine and cruelty. "Kill every third. Start with the strongest."

But when they raised their whips, the slaves did not cower.

A silence stretched.

Then—

The first guard screamed as his torch was shoved into his mouth, fire and flesh hissing into one sound. His comrades barely had time to react before the slaves—those who had once bowed their heads and averted their eyes—descended on them in a fury.

It was not an orderly rebellion. It was a dam bursting.

A gladiator shattered his cage with the rusted chain he'd once been tethered to. A whorehouse girl garroted her master with the golden necklace he'd once used to lead her through the city like a prize hound. Kitchen boys hacked their overseers to pieces with cleavers. Smiths crushed skulls with hammers. The dye vats of the silk district overflowed red as slaves drowned their former owners where they once labored.

The guard tried to rally. Horns blew. Bells rang.

But it was too late.

The fire spread faster than any orders could be shouted. Slaves who had waited a lifetime for even a whisper of hope now moved like a tidal wave. Doors were kicked in. Keys stolen. Chains shattered. No quarter was given.

Outside, the screams became a symphony.

XXXX

Across the water, along the rocky shore, the Spartan army had begun to settle for the night. Silver armor gleamed beneath the deepening dusk as warriors clustered around fires. Bread was broken. Armor was repaired. Stories traded in quiet tones. Despite the long march, none strayed far from their discipline. Even at rest, Spartans sat with straight backs and blades within reach.

Meera, bundled in her cloak, sat near Rhosene and Leon. They had been joking just moments earlier, talking about the wild goats they'd passed near the cliffs.

Then, the sound reached them.

Not the wind.

Not thunder.

Screams.

Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Faint but growing louder, carried across the waves.

The conversation ceased.

One Spartan tilted his head. "...Is that the city?"

Another, older warrior, rose slowly to his feet, his eyes narrowing.

The city burns," he whispered.

Pindaros shivered beside Meera. "Are… are they being attacked?"

"No," Rhosene said grimly, rising to her full height. Her voice was low, reverent. "They're devouring themselves. And our lord knew it was going to happen… That's why he told us to bed down for the night."

The other Spartans within hearing range all gaped in shock at that, before the reality seemed to slam into them, leaving them pale as a fresh wave of respect and awe rolled through them all.

XXXX

A little ways from the fires, atop a rise near the surf, Kratos stood alone. His axe, Leviathan, was planted in the black sand. His gauntleted hands rested atop its pommel. The wind tugged at his red cloak. His gaze never left the city.

He had known.

Even before they'd reached the shore, he had felt it. The swelling tide of rage within

Lys, like a mad buzzing in his skull. The powder keg awaiting a single spark. His awareness—as a god, as a general—had shown him the thin line between order and annihilation.

He could have prevented this. Could have stormed the gates before the sun sunk behind the horizon. Led his Spartans through street and sewer, claiming every stone with blood and steel.

But he would have lost more of his people. Too many.

So he had waited. And now the screams told him his choice had been correct.

And yet…

Kratos did not move. Did not blink. The flames in his soul burned cold.

He did not enjoy this.

There was no joy in slaughter. No pride in chaos. No victory in the death of children or the madness of vengeance unrestrained.

But he had made a promise.

'Never again.'

And sometimes, promises came at the cost of mercy.

Behind him, the campfires flickered. The murmurs of his warriors faded into silence.

They too were listening. And Lys was screaming.

XXXX

Lys was dying.

Not from disease. Not from siege. But from something born in the shadow of its own cruelty, something long nurtured and now unshackled.

It began in the slave pens, and spread like wildfire.

In the noble quarter, a highborn woman screamed as a slave she had once made walk naked through the halls for her amusement now dragged her by the hair through those same corridors, her jewels trailing behind like shed scales.

"Do you remember my son?" the man snarled as the woman shrieked. "You fed him to dogs for stealing your daughter's bread!"

Without waiting for an answer, he hurled her down the stairs and followed with a cleaver.

XXXX

In the bathhouses, steam rose like ghosts from the tiles. Attendants, once forced to scrub backs with their hands chained, now turned those same chains into whips. The pools ran red. A nobleman tried to beg for mercy, but the girl who once warmed his wine poured boiling water into his mouth, silencing him forever.

XXXX

At the fighting pits, gladiators stood in a circle around the pitmaster who had fed them scraps and broken their bones for sport. He stammered, stumbling backward as they advanced.

"You liked blood," one said, tightening the grip on his trident. "Let us show you what you made of us."

He tried to run. He didn't make it three steps.

XXXX

In the Grand Temple of Lys, where slaves had once been sacrificed to bless voyages or ensure a bountiful harvest, the high priestess lay sprawled across the altar, her fine robes torn, her jeweled scepter shattered.

A woman with burn scars knelt beside her, whispering into her ear.

"Where were your gods when I begged for my daughter to be spared? Where were they when your guards laughed as they dragged her from my arms?"

The priestess whimpered something — a prayer, a plea.

The blade that answered her was silent.

XXXX

The old city bell rang. Not to summon order. But because someone had tied a noble's severed head to its clapper. It thudded against the brass with every sway, painting a grim rhythm across the chaos.

XXXX

In the spice market, one slave lifted a noble's head high and shouted to the masses.

"They tried to cull us like animals!"

A cheer.

"Then let them learn what animals can do!"

A roar.

XXXX

In a quiet corner of the city, a slave ripped open a closet and found two little girls hiding inside, clutching one another. Trembling.

He looked down at them, at the terrified blue eyes that reminded him of the daughters he'd never seen again.

Behind him, another man barked, "What are you doing? Kill them before they grow into their mother!"

The slave turned.

"No."

"They'll turn on us!"

"They're children. Innocent."

"There are no innocent freeborn!"

He stepped in front of the closet, lifting his bloodied axe as he gazed at the men and women before him.

"If killing babes is your vengeance, then strike. But you'll have to strike me first."

None moved for a moment; then, as one, they turned and stalked out, looking for softer targets in which to vent their rage.

Once the crowd was gone, the man closed the door behind him and sat down in front of it, axe across his lap. Silent. Watching.

XXXX

Elsewhere, Lys' famed silk quarter burned — not from flames, but from rage. Slaves smashed looms, shattered dyes, and ripped fine garments from shelves. One slave, her mouth stitched shut for talking back years ago, finally tore the thread loose and screamed, not in pain, but in fury. And in freedom.

XXXX

In the Grand Hall, where the oligarchs once sipped wine and debated taxes over meat roasted on golden spits, the doors thundered.

They had tried to cull the slaves first. Had sent the guards. Had given the orders.

But now, the gates of their palace shook with the fury of a city they thought they owned.

Inside, nobles wept. Some cursed. One woman drew a knife from her sleeve and screamed, "They won't take me!" before slashing her own throat, blood spraying across the marble like spilled paint.

The doors shattered a moment later.

The last of Lys' rulers screamed.

And still, the bells rang. And still, the fires continued to climb higher.

A city of perfumed chains and painted lies now bathed in truth — in red, in smoke, in screams.

XXXX

Across the water, from where he stood on the shoreline, Kratos had not moved since the sun began to fall.

The butt of the Leviathan Axe rested in the dark earth. His hands atop the pommel. His silhouette unmoving, cut from obsidian, outlined only by the dying light.

He had heard the first scream before any of them. Not with his ears, but with something deeper.

The moment the first door opened. The first blade was drawn. The first slave raised a hand and struck back.

He had seen it.

He could see it still.

Every death. Every fire. Every plea. He could feel the dying hearts of those who once thought themselves untouchable. And beneath that… he could feel the hope. Glowing like embers in the darkness. Hope from the ones who had once called themselves nothing. Behind him, General Neos stood still as a statue, his silver armor catching sparks from the closest fire.

"We could have done it ourselves," Neos said, his voice quiet.

"We would have paid dearly," Kratos replied without turning. "Streets… alleys… stairwells. Every home is a fortress. Every doorway a grave."

Neos said nothing more. There was nothing to say.

This had been a bloodletting — not by Spartan blades, but by justice long deferred.

Back near the fires, Meera sat hugging her knees to her chest.

Pindaros hadn't spoken in some time. Not since the second hour of screams. Even Leon was quiet now, his usual smile gone, replaced with a hard-set jaw.

Meera turned to Rhosene, whose face was turned toward the sea.

"Does it ever stop hurting?" she asked softly.

Rhosene didn't answer for a moment.

Then, "No. But it hardens. Like bone around a break. You carry it… until you need it."

A new noise rang out across the water — not a scream.

A horn.

One long blast.

Then another.

Then fire — real fire, rising into the night like a dragon's breath. Not kindled by torchlight or festival bonfires, but by rage.

"The palaces are burning," someone said.

"Lys is falling," someone else whispered.

A hush settled again.

And Kratos turned from the sea.

He looked back upon the warriors he had forged from nothing. Freedmen and women, children of chains, now armored in silver, gazes sharp as drawn spears.

He saw warriors.

And he saw what waited beyond the shore: a city that had reigned since the fall of Valyria, now humbled without a single Spartan setting foot on its stones.

Kratos walked past the nearest fire, where Meera, Rhosene, Pindaros, and Leon sat.

The flames flickered across his pale skin. His red tattoo. His empty, weary eyes.

"Rest," he said simply. "We enter the city at dawn."

He did not wait for questions.

Only turned and disappeared again into the dark.

And behind him, Lys burned.

XXXX

As the sun crested the eastern horizon, its golden rays struck the white towers of Lys, gilding them in fire. And there, between the shoreline and the city, the water stirred with motion — dozens of ships, sleek and heavy-bellied, drifting toward the beach like offerings to a god.

Spartans stirred at the sight, rising from their campfires, their silver armor shining like glass beneath the newborn sun. Neos stepped forward to Kratos' side, his jaw set, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Kratos said nothing. His eyes were fixed forward.

The ships did not halt. With a purpose born of unity and discipline never taught to them, the former ship-slaves — the galley rowers of Lys' once-proud navy — began steering the vessels side by side. Ropes were cast. Planks laid. One after another, the ships aligned, forming a bridge of hulls and decks that spanned the distance between land and city.

A road of ships. A bridge built not of wood and stone, but of rebellion.

Kratos stepped forward first, the handle of the Leviathan Axe resting across his back. His crimson tattoo caught the sunlight like a wound that refused to fade. He stepped onto the first deck without hesitation, and the ship beneath him did not sway.

Dozens of slaves — men and women who had spent their lives shackled to oars and lashes — stood along the path. Many were still streaked in blood. Some bore the weapons of their former masters. And all, as one, fell to their knees as he passed.

Kratos stopped.

His voice, when it came, was low, yet it carried like thunder across the morning sea.

"Stand."

The slaves hesitated. They looked up, confused. A few obeyed, uncertain. Kratos turned to them; his face calm, unreadable, his eyes fathomless.

"You have spilled blood for your freedom. You have bled for your brothers and sisters. You are no one's property. Not now. Not ever again. You are mine… because you choose to be. And mine alone. You will not kneel to me. I will not allow it."

Silence reigned. The wind rippled across the water, rustling torn sails and bloodied tunics. One by one, the kneeling men and women rose, uncertain, unsteady, as if standing for the first time in their lives.

Behind Kratos, the Spartans followed, crossing from ship to ship in gleaming lines, shields on backs, spears in hand, the red of their cloaks snapping behind them like banners of war. Each passed the blood-streaked slaves without so much as a glance downward. Equal footing. Always.

Then came Rhosene, flanked by Meera and Leon.

She stopped beside a small cluster of bewildered men, their expressions a mixture of awe and confusion. One opened his mouth to speak, but Rhosene raised a hand.

"Spartans do not kneel," she said simply. "That is what it means to be one of us. Not armor. Not blades. That. We bow to no tyrant. We serve no master but our own honor."

One man swallowed, voice cracking. "And he… he is your king?"

Rhosene's eyes followed Kratos' back as he led his army forward.

"No, he is our god. And if he ordered me to walk into fire, I would obey… not because I am afraid, but because he freed me. Because he taught me to stand. That is why we follow him."

The man nodded slowly, the others watching with wide eyes as Rhosene continued on her way, joining the Spartan phalanx as it passed. A bridge of ships beneath their feet. A god of war at their head. And the gates of Lys waiting beyond; silent now, but trembling on the horizon.

And in the wake of such an impressive host of warriors, the blood-stained slaves of Lys stood tall; for the first time in their lives… they did not kneel.

XXXX

The Spartan army stepped from ship to stone with measured tread, not into a battle, but into the ruins of one.

Lys stood before them, not as the shining jewel of the Triarchy, but as a blackened carcass, gutted by fire, choked with smoke, and painted with the blood of its own people.

Silence met them first.

No drums. No horns. No cries of defiance or surrender. Only the distant crackle of flames and the flutter of ash like snow upon the wind.

Then came the bodies.

Strewn in the streets like discarded offerings; nobles in silk robes, slaves in chains, city guards slumped in bloodied armor. No house had been spared. No alley untouched. Entire fountains ran red, and columns of black smoke curled upward like the breath of dying gods.

Spartans moved through the streets in wary formation; shields raised, eyes sharp, spears held in ready grips. Every window was a potential ambush. Every doorway a possible last defiant strike.

But none came.

Only the dead remained behind the doors of Lys.

Behind the ranks, a crowd began to form; the freed slaves who had met the Spartans at the bridge of ships, and others emerging from ruins and shattered homes. Blood still streaked many of their faces. Some bore crude weapons, others dragged wounded family behind them. And all followed.

Like pilgrims. Like shadows reborn.

At the center of the city, past butchered noble villas and gutted pleasure halls, rose the once-grand marble stairs of the Lysene Hall of Masters. Its bronze doors lay broken, hanging on twisted hinges. Dozens of city guards — those who hadn't fled or fallen elsewhere — now lay still on the steps, their blood smeared like paint across the white stone.

Kratos stood before it, the Leviathan Axe heavy on his back. His face, impassive. His eyes, ancient.

General Neos stepped forward beside him, silver armor darkened with soot.

"Orders, my king?"

Kratos answered without looking away.

"Secure the city. No one is to be harmed unless they offer violence first. This city has bled enough."

Neos saluted and turned to begin barking orders to the captains. Formations split off down branching streets, each squad moving with swift precision, fanning through the ruins to secure supply houses, garrisons, and surviving households. Wherever they passed, the people stared in silence, too exhausted or stunned to resist. Not one sword was drawn.

Kratos closed his eyes.

He reached into the storm within himself — that divine well deepened now by worship, by reverence, by belief. His people in Myr, now Sparta, prayed to him. His warriors gave their loyalty. His freedmen whispered his name like a blessing.

He called upon that power.

Above, the sky darkened. Clouds gathered where none had been. Thunder cracked like a whip across the heavens, and the winds began to howl — not with violence, but with purpose.

Then came the rain.

First a whisper, then a downpour, drenching fire-blackened rooftops, quenching flames, drowning the last embers of rebellion. The fires hissed, smoke began to die, and the city exhaled.

A gasp rippled through the freedmen in the streets.

Kratos opened his eyes, and where once was firelight, now rain danced upon ash.

To the shocked survivors of Lys, it was a miracle of divine mercy.

To the Spartans, it was merely Kratos — their king, their general, their god — doing what was needed.

He turned to Neos as the last crack of thunder faded.

"Find any living freedmen. Bring them before me. All coin, all art, all treasure; secure it for transport back to Sparta. Leave nothing."

Neos nodded and moved to obey.

As Kratos stood at the foot of the hall, surrounded by the silence of a fallen empire and the reverence of a people reborn, the rain washed clean the blood from the streets… but not from memory.

The city of Lys had fallen — not to siege, not to fire, not to sword. But to fear.

And the god who watched over its ruin had not lifted a hand.

XXXX

It took seven days to strip Lys of its soul.

The once-glittering jewel of the Triarchy now lay empty, a shell of marble and ash. Her silver domes reflected only ruin. Her harbors, once brimming with merchants and pleasure barges, now moaned under the weight of a new fleet — a fleet not of trade, but of exodus.

Kratos had ordered the city gutted.

No coin, no child, no chain was to remain.

At dawn on the seventh day, the last cart of treasure was sealed, and the grand docks of Lys groaned with the strain of cargo far beyond their builders' intent. The city's own fleet — the might of the southern seas — now served a new master.

Every ship was swollen to bursting.

The children of Lys' noble families, nearly ten thousand strong, were spared by Kratos' command; taken not for ransom, but to be raised anew in a city far from the sins of their birth. All adults found, however, were put to the sword at Kratos' order. Lys wasn't just being conquered. It was being erased.

The slave-born children, numbering over one hundred thousand, were taken as well; many had never known a single day of freedom until now.

And it wasn't just the children.

Every freed slave — man and woman alike — boarded the ships. Kratos would not leave them to scavenge among the bones of a dead empire. They were not scavengers. They were now Spartans. Not yet warriors, but that would come in time.

Even Daario and his men, still under watchful guard, were ordered aboard.

One thousand Spartans, selected by General Neos himself, stood ready to guard the great fleet on its return to Sparta. Many were disappointed to miss the final war with Tyrosh, but not one voiced it aloud. Sparta came first. And the treasure taken from Lys would ensure that she would be the wealthiest city in all of Essos. Perhaps even the world.

But not all those killed in the aftermath of Lys' destruction were freedmen…

On the fifth day, rumors reached Kratos that some of the former slaves had taken their vengeance too far upon the freedwomen prisoners who they had once called mistress.

Kratos passed judgment without ceremony.

A thousand men were hanged.

Not because they had once worn chains, but because they had shattered the honor Sparta had given them.

The gallows rose where markets once stood.

There was no applause. Only silence, and the sound of rope groaning under guilt.

"We do not become what we destroy," Kratos had said. "Rape has no place in Sparta. Not now. Not ever."

By week's end, the docks teemed with life and purpose. Thousands of sails, billowing under the morning sun, waited for a single command. The Spartan warriors selected to escort them — one thousand men and women in gleaming silver armor — stood ready, even as longing stirred in their hearts to march with their kin to finish the war.

None disobeyed. None questioned.

They were Spartans.

XXXX

As the ships began to cast off, General Neos approached Kratos at the city's gates, the smoke of smoldering fires curling behind them.

"So many mouths," he muttered. "So many heirs of Lys. You're sure they should be spared?"

Kratos didn't turn. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where sails now dotted the sea like spearheads aimed at dawn.

"They will remember what happened here, my lord," Neos pressed. "And they will hate us for it."

"They will be raised in Sparta," Kratos said simply. "When they grow, they will not be Lyseni. They will be ours."

A pause. Then:

"They will be Spartans."

Behind them, Lys stood hollow.

No laughter echoed in her marble courts. No lovers whispered in the silken dens. The alleys, once filled with perfume and lies, now stank of blood and seawater. Only the wind moved through her bones. Not one living soul remained.

Not one body capable of vengeance.

Not one coin left for plunder.

The city was not conquered. It was erased.

When the last ship vanished beyond the horizon, and the last echo of hammer and hoof fell still, Kratos gave the order.

"We march."

Ahead, only Tyrosh remained.

The last of the Triarchy.

XXXX

Author's Note:

Okay, there will probably only be one last chapter before the end of this month, and then I'll take a break for a bit. I want to finish the Triarchy War before I take a break for a bit. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; if not, please let me know what I could have done differently.

Chapter Text

King's Landing – The Red Keep, Small Council Chamber:

The yellow and black banners of House Baratheon hung heavily from the chamber walls, limp in the stagnant summer air. King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table, bloated with drink, yet alert; a rare thing these days, but war, it seemed, could still stir the warrior beneath the king's fattened frame.

Around him sat Varys, Jon Arryn, Grand Maester Pycelle, Petyr Baelish, and the Lannisters — Cersei, Jaime, and Tywin, the last one summoned in haste.

"Two weeks ago," the Spider began, "the city of Lys fell."

Silence fell like a guillotine.

"Fell?" Pycelle wheezed, adjusting his wrinkled sleeves. "Impossible. Lys has stood since the days of the Valyrian Freehold!"

Varys offered a ghost of a smile. "And now it stands no longer. My little birds confirm it. The Spartans sacked it. What remained of its ruling class were executed. All treasure, slaves, and even the children — freeborn and otherwise — were marched to the harbor and sent away on Lys's own mighty fleet."

"Sent where?" asked Baelish, intrigued. The amount of treasure that Lys could offer was no small thing and made even the Lannisters look like beggars in comparison.

"To Myr," Varys replied. "Or rather, to Sparta, as this 'Kratos' renamed it when he conquered it two years ago."

Robert chuckled low. "Gods, I like this Kratos. He doesn't dither like these Essosi merchant-princes. He takes what he wants and burns what he doesn't."

Cersei scoffed. "What do we care for Essosi rabble? Let them burn one another. It's no concern of the Crown what savages do across the sea."

Baelish chuckled lightly. "Ah, but when those savages raise a new nation out of blood and discipline, perhaps we should care."

Tywin's voice cut through the murmurs like a knife. "My own agents have been keeping me apprised of the events occurring in Essos. Two years ago, this 'Kratos' conquered Myr and renamed it Sparta. He trained the freed slaves not just to fight, but to conquer. And now they march to do exactly that. Lys was the first to fall; Tyrosh is next."

"A man who doesn't inherit his crown but takes it for himself…" Robert smirked before taking a deep draught of wine from his goblet, smacking his lips noisily afterward, "Sounds like my kind of king."

"He's no king," Cersei sneered. "He's a barbarian. A slave who thinks himself a conqueror. I have heard the rumors about these so-called 'Spartans.' That his army even allows women to fight speaks volumes of their savagery."

"Women?" Pycelle repeated, as if the word were foreign.

Varys raised a single finger. "Yes, Your Grace. Not court ladies with court daggers. True warriors. My sources inform me that many of them were former pit fighters, gladiators, or field-born soldiers who were trained by Kratos himself. One name rises above the rest — Rhosene. A former pit fighter. She's not a general, but she commands squads in the field. And if whispers are true, she once lost her weapon mid-duel and won the fight by ripping out her opponent's throat with her teeth."

A stunned silence followed.

Jaime blinked. "That's... certainly one way to win."

Robert gave a low, appreciative grunt. "I'll say this much, if the women of Westeros fought like that, we'd have fewer fools whining at court."

Cersei gave him a look of pure disdain, but Robert didn't notice. He was grinning.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "The army that did this… it numbers only twelve thousand?"

"Ten thousand Spartans, actually," Varys corrected calmly, looking at each face around the table. "Two days before reaching Lys, Kratos met the full force of the mercenary host meant to defend the Triarchy — nearly thirty thousand strong. With only twelve thousand Spartans, he won an overwhelming victory. The mercenary lines shattered, routed. The Spartans lost two thousand of their own. The rest stood, unbroken."

A long silence fell over the council chamber. Even Cersei seemed stunned.

Then Robert let out a booming laugh, slapping his goblet on the table. "Now I REALLY want to meet this 'Kratos.' A warrior who bleeds his enemies like that? Aye, I'll drink to him!"

Tywin's cold gaze narrowed. "Such a feat speaks of more than brute strength. It takes tactical brilliance to defeat a force more than twice your size with such few losses. He is no mere warlord. He is a commander of rare genius."

Varys dipped his head. "Indeed."

"Besides his ability to slaughter men, what else do we know about the leaders of these so-called 'Spartans'?" Baelish finally asked.

Varys' eyes narrowed slightly. "Little, save that his name is Kratos. Some speak of him as if he were a king. Others call him a god. I do not know what is truth and what is myth, but what I do know is this: the world across the Narrow Sea has changed. And it is still changing."

Jaime looked to Varys again. "Were there any survivors from the battle?"

Varys' voice was quiet. "Very few. And those who did surrender were… dealt with. My little birds report that the battlefield has gained a name among the locals. The Sea of Crosses."

Tywin showed no reaction beyond a small lift of his brows. "Efficient. A brutal message to all who might challenge him."

Robert snorted. "Savage way to treat prisoners. I'd have at least kept a few alive for sport."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "Of course you would. And I suppose this butchery makes Kratos some kind of hero now?"

Varys glanced toward her. "To the slaves he freed, perhaps. But make no mistake — this was calculated. Meant to instill fear."

Cersei sneered. "It only proves how savage he and his rabble truly are."

"No," Tywin corrected coolly. "It proves that he knows how to win. He fights with more than steel. He fights with fear. And hope. For every slaver he crucifies, he frees ten thousand slaves who now call him savior."

Robert drained his goblet and slammed it down on the table. "A man who knows how to win. I'll give him that."

"But for what end?" Cersei demanded. "Is he building an empire? Chasing glory? Or just embracing his inner savage and using conquest as a pretext to satisfy his lust for slaughter?"

"That," said Jon Arryn, "is what we must find out. Because if his eyes ever turn west… we will need to be ready."

Jaime leaned forward. "He's only one man. Even the best can bleed."

Tywin's gaze settled on his son. "Perhaps. But until we know how — and if — he can bleed, we treat him like a storm. Watch it. Track it. And make damn sure it doesn't reach our shores."

XXXX

Dorne:

As night fell over Sunspear, the Solar filled with orange light. The scent of jasmine and salt clung to the curtains as Prince Doran Martell read silently from a raven scroll. Oberyn stood near the latticed windows, eyes scanning the sea.

"This Kratos," he said, "he is not merely conquering cities. He is breaking them. Body and soul. What he builds is more than an army. He builds a people. Loyal. Devoted. And the free cities fall before them."

"And what happens," Doran murmured, "When there are no more cities to sack or riches to plunder?"

"I doubt that they care about such things…" Oberyn muttered, causing his brother to pause in the act of raising his goblet to his lips.

"And what reason would you give for such a thought, brother?"

"They don't fight like the mercenary companies of old," Oberyn said. "These Spartans aren't driven by coin. They are forged, shaped — devoted to the man who leads them. And they march with women among their ranks."

Arianne, her dark eyes thoughtful, sat with legs crossed on a low chaise. "Warriors?"

Oberyn turned and nodded. "And they don't just fight. They lead. His warriors are not bound by bloodline or birthright. He names commanders from slaves. Rhosene. They say she's one of his fiercest."

Arianne's lips curled into a faint smile. "I may not know this Kratos, but I already like him better than half the lords of Westeros."

Oberyn chuckled darkly. "According to my sources, when Lys tried to cull its own slaves — to prevent an uprising — they sparked the very thing they feared. By dawn, the city was already in ruins. The Spartans simply arrived and planted their banners in the blood-soaked streets."

"They crucified the mercenaries who the Triarchy sent to stop them," Arianne said. "I heard that too."

"They did more than crucify," Oberyn replied. "They broadcast. Every corpse, every broken body — a message written in flesh and fire. This Kratos doesn't need a fleet to conquer. He needs only to be seen."

Doran nodded slowly. "I've spoken with our spies. The reports are consistent. The man—Kratos, they call him—commands not only warriors but loyalty unlike any I have seen in Essos. His people fight as one and do not break. They show impressive skill."

Oberyn gave a dry chuckle. "Ten thousand warriors crushed the greatest host the Triarchy has mustered in a generation. Even the Golden Company is no more." His eyes flicked to his brother. "That's more than skill, Doran. That's belief. Dangerous thing, when men start believing too much in one man."

Doran turned his gaze to the window. "Myr became Sparta two years ago. We laughed then. Now... now I wonder how long before the world stops laughing."

"What do you think he wants?" Arianne asked.

Oberyn smiled without warmth as he turned back to her. "What all gods of war want. A world remade in blood."

XXXX

King's Landing – Tower of the Hand:

After the council dispersed, Jon Arryn lingered behind.

He climbed the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, not to rest, but to reflect.

He stood by the arched window and gazed toward the distant horizon. The sea glittered beneath the dying light of day. And his thoughts turned to two years ago.

The earthquakes. The tidal waves. The temples of the Faith reduced to rubble. The death toll unimaginable. No explanation was ever found. The people still spoke of it in hushed voices — "the day the gods turned away."

Jon had knelt in prayer that morning in the Great Sept — and watched it collapse before his eyes. Others claimed visions. Some fled the Faith entirely.

And then, weeks later… news of a new warlord in Essos. A stranger with ash-white skin and a crimson tattoo. A conqueror who asked no gods for strength — because he was strength.

Kratos.

Jon's fingers curled against the stone sill. He could not prove it. But in his bones, in the quiet place beneath faith and logic, he knew.

The destruction of the temples… the storm that crushed the Iron Islands… the tide that swallowed dozens of ships…

It had all begun when he arrived.

Was it coincidence? Or something darker?

If the gods had turned away, perhaps it was not in retreat.

But in fear.

And if they feared this Kratos…

Then what hope did men have?

XXXX

Author's Note:

Ask, and you shall receive. So many of you messaged me, asking for a chapter where Westeros reacts to what's going on in Essos, that I had no choice but to write one. So, you get this one on top of the final chapter of the war, which I'm working on, even now. Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down upon the red-cloaked warriors as the Spartan army moved in perfect formation across the rolling plains of Essos, two weeks into their month-long march from Lys to Tyrosh. Dust rose in a steady rhythm beneath thousands of disciplined feet. Not a word passed between them that was not needed. There were no camp followers, no merchants trailing behind. Even the crows and wolves gave the Spartan army a wide berth. The path before them had emptied, for the legend of what they had done to Lys had spread like wildfire.

Traders, bandits, and villages along the route had long since fled or hidden themselves away, fearing the wrath of the red phalanx. In every direction, the land was silent. Haunted. As though the gods themselves feared to gaze upon the warriors of Kratos.

The man himself marched at the front of the army, axe strapped to his back, the Blades of Chaos hanging on his hips, eyes narrowed against the sun as he led his army toward their next conquest.

Behind him, General Neos, the Supreme General of the Spartan Army, marched in front of the column, his crimson horsehair crest catching the sun like a banner of blood. Four remaining generals marched in perfect alignment behind him, each one charged with leading their own two-thousand-strong unit. Their silver armor glinted like polished moonlight, silent and severe. Every general bore the red crest, tall and centered on their helmets, marks of their rank and responsibility. There had once been six such generals. One had fallen alongside the brave warriors in the brutal clash with the mercenaries, a loss still deeply felt. The other had gone with the thousand back to Sparta, along with the treasure fleet of Lys.

Behind them came the army itself; wave after wave of Spartan soldiers, each wearing silver armor that seemed to shine under the overhead sun. Platoon leaders—each commanding five hundred warriors, their black horsehair crests distinguishing them among the ranks—marched on the wing of the army alongside their respective soldiers. They barked orders as needed, but rarely so. The warriors of Sparta required little reminding. They moved like a living beast, many-headed but of one mind.

Within the ranks, bearing the golden horsehair crests of command, marched the squad leaders. Each one charged with command of one hundred warriors each, each handpicked by Kratos himself. Among these few stood Rhosene, her posture upright and gaze sharp as steel. Her armor was worn but immaculate, her shield bearing fresh notches from the last battle, a testament to the lives she had saved. She walked at the head of her squad with silent pride, the weight of her responsibility never far from her thoughts.

She, along with a host of others, had been promoted to the officer rank following the destruction of Lys. Due to how many of the officers had fallen during the battle against the mercenary army, Kratos had been forced to appoint new officers to lead his warriors. He had taken the advice of General Neos for most of them, but Rhosene had received her promotion from Kratos himself, as reward for the bravery and ferocity that he had seen her exhibit during the battle; something that made Rhosene swell with pride as she led the hundred that were now under her command.

Meera and Pindaros marched among the rank and file in Rhosene's new squad, unadorned save for their silver armor and the discipline they carried like a second skin. They had not yet been elevated to command, but all who marched near them knew it was only a matter of time. Rhosene had personally asked General Neos to allow them to join her new squad, alongside Leon, and to the surprise of all, the General had agreed; saying that they worked well together and that it would be a shame to split them up.

The road to Tyrosh was long, but there was no fear in their hearts. Only purpose.

Even the skies above remained cloudless, as if wary to cast a shadow on their march. Nine thousand soldiers marching with a singular purpose: to crush Tyrosh into dust.

They were Sparta. And they were coming.

XXXX

Tyrosh – The Archon's Hall:

The Archon's Hall was in chaos.

Dozens of voices rose in heated argument, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of carved obsidian and shell-painted domes. The scent of rose oil and nervous sweat lingered in the air. Outside the city, the streets were thinning. Inside this chamber, panic was thickening.

Magister Velarro, his silken robes disheveled, slammed a fist onto the lacquered table. "Lys is gone! Do you understand? Not conquered. Erased. No envoys. No word. Only ash and silence."

"They were soft," snapped Magister Cylano, a young man with far too much silver on his rings and not enough wisdom in his skull. "They let the slaves grow bold. We will not make the same mistake."

At those words, Magister Vekos, red-faced and wide-eyed, stood. "But we are making the same mistake! Our own slave population outnumbers us nearly five to one! What happens when they do what the slaves of Lys did? Rise up when the Spartans are near, smell hope and blood, and tear us to pieces from within?"

The room fell quiet.

The Archon—lean and sharp-faced, with rings under his eyes like bruises—rose slowly from his elevated seat. "Then we shall ensure they do not rise."

Silence.

The Archon's voice was cold as ice. "I issue a general decree. All slaves within the walls of Tyrosh are to be culled. Every man, woman, and child. Within three days."

A stunned gasp echoed through the chamber. One of the Polemarchs—Polemarch Adros—rose to his feet. "You cannot be serious. That is more than half our city's population. And its entire labor force."

"If we do not act," the Archon said, his voice as hard as flint, "we will be overrun before a single Spartan sets foot at our gates. Better to lose workers than lose our throats."

Magister Elaryo, an older noble with parchment-thin skin, stared at him in disbelief. "And what of our markets? Our ports? Our fields and sewers? Who will clean the streets? Run the furnaces? Carry the grain? You would see the city collapse in your haste to save it."

The Archon turned to him slowly. "When the war is over, we shall buy new ones. The slavers of Yunkai and Meereen are always eager to sell. There is always more flesh for sale in Slaver's Bay."

The air turned leaden.

Cylano nodded, eyes shining with unearned certainty. "A hard choice… but a wise one."

A murmur of dissent began to rise, but none had the spine to press it. The order had been given. The bloodletting would begin.

Then, one of the Polemarchs—the grizzled Tero Dax—spoke from the shadows. "And the Spartans?"

The Archon did not blink. "We do not meet them alone. Send ravens to the Dothraki Khalassars. Offer gold, slaves, whatever it takes. Let them descend like wolves upon the Spartan rear. They may defeat mercenaries—but I doubt they can defeat one hundred thousand screaming horsemen."

"And afterwards? When they come here," Polemarch Dax said, "Do you believe they will show restraint to us?"

The Archon allowed himself a thin smile. "They are savages. But predictable. Offer them an army to pillage, and a thousand women to break—and they will ride past our gates like blood-hungry gods."

He turned to the scribes standing at the back of the hall.

"Send the ravens. And begin the culling."

XXXX

Spartan Camp, One Week from Tyrosh:

The low hum of conversation and clatter of armor filled the camp as the Spartans settled in for the evening. Fires glowed in neat, disciplined rows, casting flickering light across silver-plated cuirasses and helms set carefully aside as the camp echoed with the quiet murmur of warriors sharing rations and sharpening blades.

In the central command tent, large enough to house fifty men, a canvas of red and black, the atmosphere was anything but quiet.

Kratos sat cross-legged at the far end of the tent, bare-chested, his back ramrod straight, eyes closed in stillness. His axe lay beside him, gleaming faintly in the dim light. In front of him stood Neos and his remaining four generals, all Unsullied, their red crests swaying as they argued over logistics and strategy.

Maps lay unfurled across the central table, dotted with carved figures representing Spartan units, walls of Tyrosh, and other contingencies. The debate was quiet but intense—some favored a direct attack, others discussed the construction of siege towers or scorpion artillery, while one proposed waiting to see if the city's slave population might repeat what had happened in Lys. General Neos stood at the head of the table, silver armor polished to a mirror sheen. His voice was calm, but his brow furrowed as he traced a line across the map. "Tyrosh is fortified. High walls. Broad streets. More than enough room to turn the city into a battlefield."

One of the other generals, a scarred Unsullied named Heron, nodded grimly. "And their slave population is vast. If they follow the example of Lys, the city may already be on the brink of rebellion."

"Which means chaos," said another. "Streets choked in fire, panic, blood. And we will have to cut through it all."

"We're already at a disadvantage," said another general, "We've only nine thousand, after all…"

Kratos did not speak. He didn't need to—not yet. As the voices around him rose, he let his awareness slip from the confines of flesh and canvas.

It spread outward, like smoke through the trees. Beyond the firelight, past the sentries. Over the quiet plains that separated his army from Tyrosh. Over sleeping towns, abandoned roads. Then he felt it—like thunder building in the distance, not in sound, but in vibration.

Hooves. Tens of thousands.

The Dothraki.

They moved as a storm on the horizon, swift and full of bloodlust, riding hard toward the Spartan army with the speed and fury of a lightning strike.

Kratos' eyes opened.

He rose without a word and moved to the table, the quiet authority of a god among men.

The generals fell silent immediately.

"They come," he said, voice low, steady. "The Dothraki. No less than fifty thousand riders. The rulers of Tyrosh must have called for their aid."

The generals exchanged glances, the slightest stiffening of posture the only indication of concern.

One stepped forward. "How long before they reach us, my lord?"

"Two days. At most."

Another said, "Should we divert from Tyrosh and meet them on ground of our choosing?"

Kratos shook his head. "No. Let them come. Let them believe they ride toward prey."

General Neos loomed over the table. "Nine thousand," he said gravely, "cannot hold back fifty thousand horsemen, my lord. Discipline or no."

Another general nodded. "The Dothraki do not attack like men. They are a wave. We will be swept aside. Surrounded. Cut to pieces."

The murmuring of agreement rippled among the gathered generals

"Enough," he said. His voice was not loud — but it froze every man in the tent like winter wind.

He rose slowly, casting a long shadow behind him.

"Do not speak of defeat. Do not let fear steal the iron from your spine," Kratos said, "The moment you allow panic to guide your thoughts, you have already lost."

"We do not fear death, my lord," Heron replied. "For we know that Elysium awaits us. But strategy must dictate action. We are not gods like you, lord Kratos. Just mere mortals."

Kratos stepped forward, casting a long, inhuman shadow over the map.

"No," he said. "You are warriors. Disciplined. Unshaken. You have trained for this."

The map seemed to tremble under his presence as his hand hovered over it.

"What would you have us do, my lord?" Neos asked, his voice not shaking, for his belief in Kratos was as unshakeable as a mountain.

For a moment, Kratos said nothing, his gaze fixed on the map before him. Beyond the tent, thousands slept. Warriors, children of Sparta, the faithful — his faithful.

And that was the truth that made his knuckles whiten around the table's edge as he gripped it so hard that the wood groaned.

He could feel it inside him — the power swelling, unshackled and god-born, fed not by Olympus but by the unrelenting belief of mortals who had suffered, bled, and found salvation in him. Sparta had given him more strength than Olympus ever had. And unlike the gods of old, he had not stolen it. They had given it willingly.

And yet… he felt the monster stirring.

The same one that once burned Greece to the ground in his fury. The same one who had taken up the Blades of Chaos and carved his vengeance through the bones of a pantheon.

Kratos clenched his jaw. He had become more than that. Hadn't he? He had not become Ares. He had not become Zeus. He had become something else.

Yet power always demanded something in return. And he feared the price.

A flicker of memory crossed his mind — his wife's voice, soft and distant. "You are more than what they made you." But the wind seemed to steal it away before he could grasp it fully.

Kratos lowered his head, his eyes half-lidded, staring at the map's details.

His army called him a god. Sparta worshiped him. Their faith had made him mighty.

But even gods can fall into the abyss.

He exhaled, slow and controlled. Then he whispered — not to Olympus, not to any divine realm, but to himself, so silently that not even his generals could hear him.

"I will not be him again."

A beat passed. Then another.

Beyond him, the night rolled on, unaware that the most terrifying force in the world had just vowed, in the silence of his heart, to be better.

"They believe they ride to face men." Kratos spoke at last. "But they will learn they march against a god. And when the last of them lies broken beneath my heel, the world will know—"

He stepped around the table towards the front of the tent, pulling the flap open to gaze out into the dying light.

"—Kratos has come."

XXXX

Dothraki Encampment — Nightfall:

The plains were alive with firelight.

Fifty thousand Dothraki riders had settled into their sprawling camp under the vast canopy of stars, a sea of tents and tethered horses stretching to the edges of the horizon. The scent of roasted meat and fermented mare's milk filled the air, accompanied by the sound of drums, shouting warriors, and the flicker of steel as blades were sharpened not out of fear, but eagerness.

Victory was already assumed.

At the heart of the encampment, five great Khalassars had gathered around a massive bonfire—the five khals seated atop fur-covered stones like minor gods in their own right, their blood riders and trusted warriors circling nearby, laughing, drinking, and feasting.

Khal Rhogo leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, his golden bells chiming softly in his braided hair. "Drogo refused our call," he said contemptuously, spitting into the dirt beside the fire. "Claims he has no wish to war with the one called Kratos."

"He lost over a hundred riders to him," snorted Khal Morro, tearing meat from a spit-roasted goat. "So, he says. Perhaps it was twenty. Or ten. Or none. I say Drogo has grown fat and lost his manhood."

Laughter rippled through the campfire circle.

"Let him hide in his tents and suck at his slave's teats," grunted Khal Zhos, lifting a drinking horn. "While we take the gold and the glory."

"Gold, yes," said Khal Tego, eyes gleaming with firelight. "More than we've ever been promised. Tyrosh is desperate. They've offered chests of sapphires and emeralds, more slaves than we can carry. We take this army, and the world will remember the day the horse-lords crushed the Spartan Army."

The fifth Khal, Khal Vhar, tapped the hilt of his arakh, his grin shadowed beneath his braided beard. "They call themselves warriors of discipline, of strength. But I've yet to see a foot soldier outrun a horse."

A low ripple of agreement spread among the others.

Rhogo smirked. "Let them march. Let them sweat. We ride tomorrow, and by nightfall, we'll have their heads hanging from our saddles and their women screaming beneath us."

There were cheers to that. Horns clashed. Bones snapped beneath careless feet. The air was thick with heat, wine, and a confidence born of years spent unchallenged.

And yet…

A few older warriors lingered at the edges of the firelight, silent. Some had heard whispers of Myr. Of Lys. Of the silver-armored god with the red-marked skin and eyes like molten stone. They had heard how a city fell in a single night, how tens of thousands had died without a single Spartan ever stepping foot within its walls. But such men were few; tonight, their voices were drowned beneath the roar of the drums and the thunder of pride.

Tomorrow, they would ride.

Tomorrow, they would learn.

XXXX

The wind howled low across the flatlands as the Spartan army continued its steady march toward Tyrosh. Thousands of silver-armored warriors moved in perfect discipline, their columns silent, precise, unstoppable; a blade drawn across the heart of Essos.

But at Kratos' command, they did not all go forward.

From atop a low hill overlooking the wide expanse, the God of War stood like a monolith of flesh and fury, watching them go. At his side remained only one hundred — a single squad — the warriors he had chosen to remain. Not a soul among them had protested. He had spoken, and that was enough.

General Neos had bowed deeply before taking his leave, leading the rest onward, casting only one glance back at the red-tattooed god who had delivered them to glory again and again. The army obeyed. But their hearts burned to stay.

Now, the silver phalanxes were just glints on the horizon, and Kratos stood still beneath the dying sun, his axe planted firmly in the dirt before him, his massive hands resting upon it. His eyes stared into the west. For hours, he waited, the squad behind him standing silently at his back. Then he felt it.

They were coming.

The ground began to shake long before the riders were seen. A rumbling tide of hoofbeats, a sound like the heartbeat of the earth itself, growing louder and louder.

And then — the Dothraki horde appeared. Fifty thousand strong. A living wave of muscle and fury, of curved arakhs and screaming warcries. They poured over the hills like locusts on the wind.

But they did not attack immediately.

No, they paused. Reined in their mounts, stopping in one long line across the plain; stopping a mere thousand feet from the small group assembled across from them.

Because there, alone on the plains, was their enemy. Not a city. Not an army.

A single man. And a hundred warriors standing behind him, silent and still.

At the sight of such a horde, any other army would have immediately turned and fled. But not Spartans.

The warriors behind Kratos did not stir. Among them stood former slaves, both men and women. Faces like iron. They were not afraid. They had seen what Kratos could do. They had been reborn by his hand.

Khal Rhogo kicked in his heels, as the other Khals held back, his bloodriders following after him. As they approached the lone man and the hundred at his back, the Dothraki reined in their mounts, stopping a mere ten feet from Kratos.

"I rode to wipe out an army, and this is all I find?" Khal Rhogo sneered, "Such a pitiful group of weaklings!"

Kratos raised his head slowly. His voice was like the echo of mountains cracking.

"Leave."

Rhogo laughed. "You would order me? We ride for Tyrosh. They paid us with gold and slaves, with the promise of armies to burn. Your army."

One of the Khal's bloodriders leaned forward, dark eyes glinting. "Your skin is as pale as the moon… You must be the one called Kratos. Drogo once spoke your name. Said you fought like no man he had seen. Said you tore through his riders like a lion through goats. But I think he was drunk."

Kratos did not move.

"He wasn't."

Another bloodrider chuckled. "When this is done, I'll take the women behind you for myself. I'm curious to see how 'Spartan' flesh feels wrapped around my cock."

Still, none of the Spartans moved. They stood in complete silence. It was not fear. It was faith.

Kratos' eyes narrowed. "You will not reach Tyrosh. You will not leave this field if you challenge me. I will only warn you one final time. Leave."

Khal Rhogo's sneer faded. He gave a sharp command in Dothraki and wheeled his horse around, riding back to the horde.

As he reached the other Khals, Rhogo spoke quickly, pointing at Kratos and the warriors behind them before throwing his head back in laughter. A moment later, the other Khals did the same before raising their arakh into the air and issuing a warcry.

A moment later, the Dothraki behind them began to scream, their warcries creating an echoing screech that rolled across the plain, not words, just that terrible scream that meant death was coming, washing over the assembled Spartans, yet leaving them untouched. A moment later, the Khals dropped their weapons, pointing them at the gathered Spartans, and the horde charged forward, the air echoing with a thunderous roar as fifty thousand horsemen all rushed forward to slaughter those who would dare stand before them.

The earth trembled. The sky darkened with dust. A wave of blades and horses thundered toward the hundred.

And Kratos lifted his axe. His crimson tattoo seemed to glow faintly in the dying sun, not from the light. From within.

The Spartan warriors did not brace.

They waited.

A sudden silence fell across the plain, unnatural and absolute. Even the Dothraki — screaming in bloodlust just a moment before — felt it, as though the sky itself had caught its breath.

The axe pulsed with godly energy. The air shimmered around Kratos like heat bending the world.

The hundred behind him felt it first; a low thrum beneath their bones, the tremor of something ancient stirring. Some stepped back in awe. Others simply stared, wide-eyed, unmoving. But all felt it:

Godhood. Real. Present. Terrible.

Kratos' voice broke the silence.

But it did not echo. It did not thunder.

It was simply everywhere.

It was in the air. In their ears. In their blood.

"You call yourselves horse-lords. You claim dominion over these plains. You believe your bond with your mount is sacred, unbreakable. That you are born in the saddle—"

The Dothraki did not slow, but some eyes widened.

"—You are wrong—"

The axe gleamed like silver fire.

"—There is a line between you and your beast. A line drawn by gods—"

The axe lifted higher, and his voice became a roar of judgment.

"—But no longer."

A pause.

"I curse you. I curse you to become what you worship. I curse you to become what you ride. Let your limbs twist, and your pride shatter — so the world may see you and remember what happens when mortals challenge a god."

Kratos brought the axe down, and the earth exploded with light.

A blinding flash — silver, white, red — tore across the plain, followed by a soundless wave of godly will. The charge halted as if the horde had ridden into a wall.

Then came the screams.

Not of fear.

But of unimaginable pain.

Spartans behind Kratos stared in shock as the front lines of the Dothraki began to convulse, horses rearing back, riders screaming and tearing at themselves — and then, bodies began to change.

Spines cracked. Limbs broke and regrew. Riders screamed as their legs sank into the backs of their mounts, fusing together. Eyes widened in terror as men and beasts merged.

Bodies melted into one.

Flesh reshaped.

The Dothraki became something new.

Their lower halves were equine, muscular, and terrible, but their torsos remained — Dothraki men, shrieking, mouths frothing, eyes wild. Arakhs clattered to the earth as hands trembled, still not understanding what had been done.

They were no longer men. They were no longer horsemen.

They were monsters.

Centaurs.

And worse — they knew it.

Behind Kratos, a wave of awe rippled through the hundred. Not a single warrior moved. One warrior lowered her spear, her face pale beneath her helmet, lips parted in something like wonder. Another whispered a prayer. One young Spartan dropped to one knee, not in submission but in reverence.

None of them had ever truly grasped what Kratos was.

Not until now.

They believed. They knew.

This was no man.

This was not merely a king or a warlord.

This was the God of War.

And he had judged.

XXXX

The screaming had not stopped.

Not for minutes.

The Dothraki — now centaurs — staggered across the trampled plain, their bodies still adjusting to the grotesque fusion of horse and man. Some clawed at their own sides, trying in vain to separate flesh that no longer obeyed. Others screamed at the sky, their pride shattered, their sense of self broken into fragments.

One rider, his upper body still adorned in braids and bells, threw himself to the dirt, pounding his fists and weeping in horror as his legs — his horse's legs — spasmed beneath him. His arakh lay forgotten, half-buried in the grass. Another shrieked as he galloped in frantic circles, trying to outrun the horror of his own form, only to collapse in exhaustion, sobbing like a beaten child.

And the Spartans watched.

They stood behind Kratos like statues of silver and iron. Not a word. Not a breath. Just silence — reverent, stunned, and resolute.

He turned to face them, his eyes no longer glowing but still burning with command.

"We march to Tyrosh."

He turned and began to walk.

"Let them hear our boots in the distance. Let them know that nothing they do will save them now."

Behind him, the hundred fell in step — their movements in perfect rhythm, the sound of their boots rising like a war drum.

Marching toward the horizon. Toward the next conquest.

Behind them, the centaurs galloped in all directions, broken and scattered. The Dothraki horde was no more — transformed from predators into freaks of godly punishment. No songs would be sung of their glory. Only warnings.

Warnings of the wrath of Sparta.

Warnings of the god who walks among men.

Warnings of Kratos.

XXXX

That night, the Spartan camp echoed with a thousand conversations as the hundred who had been with Kratos told those who had not about what had occurred. By dawn the next day, the entire army would know of the curse that Kratos had brought down upon the Dothraki, and their reverence for their god would be forever cemented.

Author's Note:

STOP GIVING ME IDEAS! I was only supposed to write one more chapter, and yet so many of you wrote to me with ideas that it was like a writer's paradise. I decided to combine a few of them into this chapter, but I will not be accepting any more ideas from here on out. The next chapter will be the last one of the Triarchy War. I hope you enjoyed this one, and if you would like to see art based on this story, you can follow me on Discord under the username: MandoVet.

Chapter Text

The plains before them swelled gently beneath a bruised and cloud-streaked sky, the wind rustling the tall grass in waves that whispered of peace. Somewhere in the distance, the sea murmured to itself — a low, steady hush barely heard above the rhythmic thump of marching feet. The road behind them was long, marked by victory. The road ahead… seemed short now.

The Spartan phalanx moved in perfect harmony, but their spirits were light. Victory in Lys. The curse upon the Dothraki. The gods themselves — or at least their God — walked with them now.

"Another month, and we'll be back home," one warrior muttered near the center ranks, shouldering his spear. "Back in time for the harvest festival."

"Bet the baths are cold without us," another replied, drawing laughter from nearby.

Even Rhosene, grim and watchful as ever, allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch at the sound. Pindaros had begun humming an old marching song. Leon marched with quiet satisfaction, occasionally glancing up at the horizon like a man already dreaming of home.

Their trust in Kratos was no longer spoken aloud. It didn't need to be. It lived in their posture, their steadiness, and the calm in their eyes. With a word, he had cursed the horse-lords and brought a legend to life. What could possibly stand against him now?

They crested the next hill with ease, weapons gleaming, spirits high.

And then the world stopped.

The front line froze mid-step. The song died in Pindaros' throat. Rhosene's breath caught. Laughter vanished like a bird shot from the sky.

Stretching out before them was a forest — but not of trees. Of bodies.

Hundreds of thousands. All were impaled, their corpses swaying gently in the salt wind. Pale limbs dangling like forgotten banners. Eyes wide with terror, mouths frozen in their final screams. A death field that reached all the way to the far shore, perhaps five miles away, where the sea lapped against the rocks of the shore. From atop the hill, Tyrosh could be seen far in the distance, rising up like an anthill against the sky.

Men and women. Elders and children. Impaled not in battle, but butchered in fear. Executed. A cleansing — not of dirt or disease — but of hope.

The slaves of Tyrosh had been murdered before they could rise. Tyrosh had learned the lesson of Lys well, it seemed.

Buzzards circled lazily overhead. The stench of rotting flesh rolled across the hills in waves that even seasoned warriors could not ignore.

The silence that fell over the Spartans was total. No commands. No whispers. No sound but the wind rattling bones like dry reeds.

At the head of the column stood Neos, his red-crested helm pulled back so his eyes could see clearly. And beside him walked Kratos, bare-headed and silent, his face like carved marble — still, impassive. But his eyes…

His eyes were storms.

A wind passed through the ranks, not from the sea, but from him. The pressure of his presence pressed down like a thundercloud waiting to burst.

Meera felt her hand tighten around her spear, her breath ragged despite herself. She bit her lip until it bled, but still, the tears came unbidden. A child was impaled near the front and couldn't have been older than seven. A boy. His limbs hung limp, his small tunic stained with salt and blood.

Rhosene's face had gone white, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked carved from

marble. Her knuckles had turned to bone where they gripped her spear. Staring straight ahead, Leon broke the silence with a voice of steel.

"They've damned themselves," he said, his voice quiet, reverent.

Meera looked to him, swallowing thickly. "What do you mean?"

Leon didn't look away from the field of the dead. "Lord Kratos would have restrained himself. For the sake of the innocent."

He gestured ahead, where the road disappeared into the mist of the impaled.

"But now... there are no innocents left."

Behind them, the entire army stood motionless, caught between fury and disbelief.

Kratos stood before the great host, anger radiating from his powerful form like waves that made those behind him take an involuntary half-step back.

When he spoke, it was not a shout. Not a roar. It was simple, and quiet — yet carried through every rank, as though it were spoken directly to each soul in turn.

"March."

The Spartans obeyed—without hesitation, without question. They walked into the valley of death through the orchard of the slain. Their sandals splashed in blood-soaked earth, passing beneath the shadows of the impaled. Each step was a vow.

Tyrosh would pay.

And this time… no god would hold back.

XXXX

Tyrosh – The Archon's Hall:

The chamber was ablaze with torchlight, flickering across walls of painted seafoam and gold. Yet no beauty remained in the room — only panic.

The Archon stood at the head of the table, his jeweled hands braced against the polished surface. His powdered wig was askew, sweat beading down his painted cheeks. Around him, the Conclave of Magisters shouted over one another, panic breaking through years of carefully trained etiquette like floodwater through a rotten dam.

A Polemarch slammed his palm against the table. "The Spartans have arrived!"

"Already?" gasped another. "But the Dothraki—"

"Gone," the Archon snapped, voice sharp with disbelief. "There's been no word from their scouts. No riders. No ravens. Nothing. It's as if they vanished into the wind."

"They can't have just vanished!" a Magister bellowed. "There were over fifty thousand of those horse-fuckers! How could a few thousand slaves—"

"Spartans," another corrected in a trembling voice. "They are no longer slaves. The world does not call them that anymore."

A tense silence followed. Then, more voices broke in like thunder.

"They'll need ships to reach us. They're stranded on the mainland!"

"We should have bribed them. Offered terms before it came to this."

"Dothraki are cowards—maybe they fled!"

"Fled to where? They were promised gold and slaves to slaughter the Spartans! More wealth than they could ever even dream about! Even as dishonorable as those bastards are, they would not willingly give up such treasure… unless they were all killed."

"The people are panicking—there are riots in the outer district!"

The Archon raised both arms and shouted, "Enough!"

Silence returned — reluctant, simmering.

The Archon's voice was strained. "Seal the city. Shut the gates. Post the remaining Unsullied guards at every dock. No ships leave, no ships arrive. All citizens capable of holding a blade — conscript them. Nobles, merchants, bakers — I don't care. If they can stand, they can bleed."

One of the Polemarchs stepped forward, jaw clenched. "Even if we put blades in every hand, what use are they? We've lost our garrison. We've only five hundred Unsullied in the city. And what remains are freeborn dandies who've never swung a sword. We might as well arm the children."

"The city must be defended," the Archon growled. "Sparta cannot walk across the sea."

A balding Magister laughed bitterly. "They don't walk. They conquer."

Another leaned in, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Perhaps if we offered terms? Open the vaults. Surrender the city. It would spare the—"

"It would spare nothing!" barked the Archon. "Even as we speak, the Spartans are marching through a forest of death! Do you really believe former slaves will forgive such slaughter of their own? We spill blood now or drown in it tomorrow!"

Outside, the thunder of chaos echoed through the narrow, winding streets of Tyrosh. Screams, shouts, glass breaking. Nobles rushed to gather what wealth they could not flee with. The wind carried the stench of smoke, sweat, and fear.

And across the strait — just beyond the horizon's edge—Sparta's silent ranks prepared to finish what had begun in Myr and Lys. Any trace of mercy that they might have felt had since been extinguished after the five-mile walk through a literal forest of impaled corpses.

XXXX

The sun was dying.

Its molten light spilled across the sea like blood, staining the waves a deep and angry red. The sky above it burned in shades of copper and fire, and the wind carried with it the smell of salt and death. No birds called. No waves crashed against the rocks. The world had grown still—as though even nature itself held its breath.

Nine thousand Spartans stood at the shore.

Steel gleamed in the setting light. Shields rose like a wall behind the front ranks. Silver helms reflected the sunset like molten fire, and the eyes beneath them burned hotter still. They had marched for weeks with no rest; their faith hardened like iron in the forge of war. And now they stood—thousands strong, perfectly still—staring across ten miles of water at the city that had earned their fury.

Tyrosh.

Far in the distance, the island city loomed, its towers rising like spears from the sea. The last jewel of the Triarchy. The last to fall. Its walls were lit by torches, manned by hastily armed nobles and trembling merchants who had never known war. But it was not Tyrosh's defenses, the Spartans remembered—it was the forest.

Behind them, stretching for miles, the impaled dead still cast long shadows.

The forest of the slain. The Tyroshi's answer to Lys. A grotesque monument to cowardice and cruelty. Slaves—men, women, and children—impaled on wooden spikes, their bodies broken and left to rot in the sun. The message was clear: fear ruled Tyrosh. And now, wrath would answer.

At the head of the army stood Kratos.

Motionless. Carved of stone. The red tattoo that split his pale flesh blazed crimson in the dying light. Behind him stood General Neos, grim-faced and silent, with the four remaining generals arrayed beside him. They, too, had stared at the sea. At the city. At the shame of Tyrosh's final crime. But now their eyes turned to their god.

"My lord," Neos said at last, his voice like gravel breaking the silence. "Shall I have the army make camp? We'll begin planning the assault come morning."

Kratos did not turn. His voice was low, calm—and final.

"No. This city will fall tonight."

The words struck the generals like thunder.

Kratos took a single step forward, eyes narrowing as if he could already see the blood-soaked streets of Tyrosh. "Prepare the warriors. No mercy. Not for lords, nor soldiers. Not for those who gave the order. Not for those who stood by and watched. Slay them all."

He paused.

"Any children you find... leave them unharmed. But everyone else," he said, his voice now a razor-edged growl, "is to be put to the sword. Tyrosh has seen its last sunrise."

Neos blinked, stunned. "My lord, we have no boats. The sea lies between us and the city. How will we reach it?"

Kratos turned to face him.

"I will provide the crossing. I will open the way."

The god's gaze burned into the general's soul, and Neos gave a sharp salute, his heart pounding like a war drum. "As you command, my lord. But... how will we know the signal?"

Kratos' lips curled into the faintest trace of a grim smile.

"You'll know."

Without another word, Kratos turned away from the army and slowly began to walk into the sea as his warriors watched, confused. A moment later, Kratos' head disappeared beneath the waves, and the army was left alone, with only the ghosts of Tyrosh's slaves at their backs.

XXXX

Beneath the Waves:

The sea was quiet.

Darkness closed around him as Kratos descended, deeper and deeper into the abyss. Above him, the world of men faded into a distant shimmer, the dim orange of sunset filtering weakly through the blue-black murk. His feet touched the seafloor. Sand stirred. Silence reigned.

Down here, there was no war. No screams. No blood.

Only memory. Memory of his wife, his son, and of better days long since passed.

"You are more than this."

Her voice. Soft. Steady. Warm. Like sunlight on his skin.

"You are more than the monster they made you into."

Kratos' fists clenched as his eyes slowly shut.

"You'll always be a beast," came another voice — cold and mocking. Athena.

"A cursed thing. No matter how far you run."

The silence broke inside him.

Power — ancient, divine, and terrible — stirred in his gut like a rising tide. It had always been there, coiled in his bones, burning behind his fury. But now it surged like a storm, fed by the belief of an entire people. Of an army. Of a city.

The power of a god — not inherited, not granted, but earned.

His wife's voice again, faint, like wind on water:

"You are not what they think you are. You are what you choose to become."

Kratos opened his eyes.

They glowed in the abyss like twin suns. His tattoo flared — crimson and searing — a brand of wrath that now pulsed with divine light. His muscles bulged as power coursed through him, boiling out of his skin in waves.

And then he screamed.

The water around him exploded — a pulse of fury that shattered the calm of the sea.

XXXX

The Spartan army stood in silence on the shore.

Waves crashed violently against the shore now. The wind howled like a beast, ripping at cloaks and banners. The sea had begun to churn, a great roiling boil as if the sea itself was somehow on fire below. Thunder cracked across the sky, though no lightning followed.

Then came the sound — deep, distant, and wrong.

A scream that wasn't a scream.

A roar from beneath the ocean that echoed not in ears, but in bones.

The waves surged outward. A tidal bulge rose from the horizon. The wind shrieked harder, as though in fear of what was coming. The very sky seemed to pull away from the sea, as if the heavens themselves did not dare draw near what was about to rise.

The Spartans stood as they always did—still, unwavering. But many gripped their weapons tighter. Some whispered prayers. Others just watched, waiting.

Then, one of them whispered what they were all thinking.

"…He's coming."

XXXX

The sun clung to the horizon, bleeding gold and crimson across the sea. Its dying light bathed the marble towers of Tyrosh in a false calm — a final, fleeting beauty before the storm. The breeze tasted of salt and fear.

On the city's outer walls, hundreds of newly conscripted defenders stood shoulder to shoulder. Boys barely old enough to shave, merchants who had never lifted a blade, old men dragged from their shops and thrown into boiled leather armor. Their hands trembled against pikes and short swords. Eyes strained toward the distant shore.

There, across the water, they saw them — the silver line.

Spartans.

Row upon row of glinting armor, unmoving, unbroken, like a wall of polished steel cast by the gods themselves. Nine thousand strong, and each one burning with quiet fury.

"They're not moving," one man muttered.

"Maybe they can't cross..." another offered hopefully.

Then, the winds began to scream.

The sky darkened, not with cloud, but with power. Waves churned, towering and unnatural. The sea itself seemed to rebel, rising in massive, boiling swells. Thunder cracked across the heavens. Seagulls fled inland, screeching in terror. The defenders turned pale.

"What's happening…?" The son of a minor noble asked, voice tinged with fear as he gripped a sword, whose handle was covered in jewels.

Then the sea exploded.

A pillar of water a hundred feet high surged upward, and something emerged from its heart.

Kratos.

His form broke the surface in silence at first — as if the ocean itself held its breath. Then he rose higher. And higher. And still higher. His muscles carved from war, his crimson tattoo blazing with light, his body swelled with divine might as if the sea itself could not contain him.

He grew until he eclipsed the setting sun.

He grew until the defenders could no longer see the distant mountains — only the outline of a titan with burning eyes.

"What… what is that?"

One man dropped his sword with a clatter.

Another fell to his knees, weeping.

And then one ran.

He turned and bolted from the wall, shoving aside anyone in his way. A heartbeat later, a second followed. Then, a third.

Panic spread like wildfire.

The commanders screamed for order, waving their swords, crying for the men to stand firm, but their voices were drowned in the storm. The line broke. The defenders fled, screaming, shoving, and slipping from the walls and into the streets below.

From the distant shore, the Spartans watched.

They did not move.

They did not speak.

But within their ranks, one word passed from mouth to mouth in reverence.

"God."

XXXX

The wind shrieked like a dying beast, and the sky had turned to fire and shadow, but beneath it all stood Kratos — or rather, loomed.

He stood in the ocean as though it were nothing more than a shallow pond. The water surged barely to his ankles, frothing madly around calves the size of siege towers. The sun's dying light painted his god-forged frame in blood and gold. Beneath him, the Spartan army looked like ants — small, glinting, perfect in their formation, awaiting his command.

Kratos breathed.

In. Out.

The power surging through his limbs was immense, more than he had ever known — even in Olympus and his cruelest moments of wrath. He let the divine force settle, coiling through every fiber of his being, burning behind his eyes like wildfire held at bay.

Then he reached behind his back.

Fingers the size of trees curled around the haft of the Leviathan Axe.

With a guttural roar, he pulled it free. The blade shone with divine light; runes pulsing, steam hissing off its frozen edge as sea spray clung to it like mist on a blade.

Kratos raised the axe high.

And then — he brought it down.

The ocean split.

Not in waves. Not in ripples.

It cleaved.

A deafening crack echoed across the sea like the world itself had been struck. Water screamed as it was forced apart. A massive chasm tore open from the shore to the very base of Tyrosh's island walls — the seabed exposed like the open chest of a slain beast, stone and coral slick with seawater.

A path had been made.

Behind him, the Spartan army stirred.

On the front line, General Neos stood frozen for a beat — helmet tucked beneath one arm, red cloak fluttering in the storm wind — his jaw clenched in reverence.

Then, to his nearest general, he smirked and muttered,

"You've got to admit... even for a god, Lord Kratos has style."

The general only nodded, eyes wide.

Neos raised his voice, firm, and commanding,

"Spartans! Advance! Double-time!"

Steel rang against leather. Boots hit earth. Nine thousand warriors began to jog quickly toward the newly opened path — not a sound of doubt among them.

Above, Kratos turned his gaze forward.

To the city.

From his height, he could see everything: the chaos, the fires blooming like cursed flowers in the streets, the narrow alleys packed with fleeing nobles, the guards abandoning posts, and the smoke curling from towers and palaces as fear, not battle, tore the city apart.

He hadn't even touched it yet.

His lip curled.

And then he moved.

One step. A tremor cracked across the earth.

Another. A wave the size of a fishing village slammed against the city's outer docks, catapulting several ships into the city and causing untold destruction.

The sea shuddered as he advanced — each stride sending tidal force and seismic echoes ahead of him. Stone foundations trembled. Statues toppled. Bells clanged wildly in high towers as the sea itself carried the herald of death to Tyrosh's gates.

Behind him, the Spartan army ran down the sea floor with unwavering precision.

God and army.

Wrath and steel.

Judgment, come to life.

XXXX

Tyrosh – The Archon's Hall:

The walls of the council chamber groaned with the force of the storm outside. Dust sifted down from the ceiling with every shuddering quake, each one more violent than the last. The candlelight trembled, shadows swaying wildly across painted murals that had once depicted Tyrosh's victories. Now, they danced like ghosts over a tomb.

The Conclave of Magisters was in chaos.

"—I tell you, we are doomed!" Magister Deryo shouted, slamming his goblet against the marble table. Wine sloshed like blood across the surface. "The army that stood before us has crossed the sea without ships! You heard the screams from the walls—"

"A trick!" another Magister insisted, voice high with desperation. "Smoke and mirrors! Illusions! The Free Cities are full of them!"

"He split the fucking ocean!" screamed Polemarch Varlo, his face drenched in sweat, veins bulging in his neck. "The sea — it parted at his command! What trick can do that?! What illusion conjures tides like that?!"

A heavy crack shivered the walls. Bits of plaster rained down like snow. In the distance, the deep, thunderous sound of a footstep rumbled through the city — as though the gods themselves were walking toward their doom.

"Let him come," hissed Polemarch Cesarn, gripping the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "Let him come and see what defenders Tyrosh still has. We still have swords. We still have fire!"

"Swords?" laughed Magister Horen, wild-eyed. "You'll throw bronze toothpicks at a god? Did you see the size of him? We should have fled! We should have—!"

"And go where?" snarled another. "There is no place left in Essos that doesn't shake at the sound of Sparta's boots. My cousin tried to flee to Volantis last month, and the Archon had him crucified before he left the docks!"

"ENOUGH!"

All turned at the Archon's voice.

He sat slumped on the high seat of Tyrosh, once robed in silks and glory — now a hollow man. His hands trembled slightly in his lap, his eyes distant and dead, staring not at the council, but at the cracked marble floor beneath his feet.

He spoke again, quieter now. Broken.

"I remember when Myr fell… I thought — we all thought — it was a rebellion. Slaves with stolen weapons. An outrage to be crushed in a week."

A distant boom echoed again — closer. The walls trembled.

"Then came the reports. Not of chaos, but order. Discipline. Cities rebuilt in marble. Barracks rising from rubble. Armies that moved like rivers of steel. We laughed it off. Called it fanaticism. We sent ships…"

He swallowed.

"…and they never returned."

No one interrupted him.

"Then came the mercenaries. Thirty thousand of the best swords our gold could buy. All gone. Slaughtered in the field. Their corpses hung on crosses that still rot in the sun."

One of the younger Polemarchs looked as though he might be sick.

The Archon looked up now, eyes hollow but clear, staring at them all.

"We should have surrendered when Lys fell. We should have freed every slave. Thrown down our banners. Begged."

Silence.

"But we didn't. I didn't. I was proud. Proud of our fleets, our walls, our gold."

Another footstep rolled through the city. This one cracked a pane of stained glass high above. It shattered like an omen, raining shards onto the floor.

The Archon didn't flinch.

"And now… he's here. The God of Sparta. And he walks toward our gates."

He looked up at the mural above the throne — painted with gods and heroes long since forgotten.

"Tyrosh will die. And it will be my fault."

No one spoke. Even the most stubborn of Magisters said nothing now.

For outside the walls, where the city once ruled proud and cruel, judgment marched.

And it bore the face of a god.

"Go," the Archon said at last, his voice little more than a whisper carried on a tremor in the marble floor. "Be with your families… or run, if you must. Perhaps the gods will show you mercy. Spend your final moments however you see fit. There is nothing more to be done here."

The room, once filled with thunderous argument and panic, now fell deathly still. The assembled magisters and Polemarchs exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of finality settling like ash upon their shoulders. Then, one by one, they turned and began to file out through the great doors — some in silence, some with heads bowed, others glancing back with haunted eyes.

Outside, another tremor rippled through the floor, a step so massive it seemed the city itself groaned in dread.

Only one Magister lingered.

He stood motionless at the foot of the dais, staring at the broken figure slumped on the Archon's throne — a man who had once ruled with unshakable pride, now hollowed out and ghost-pale beneath the flickering light.

"…And what of you, Archon?" the Magister asked softly.

The Archon didn't answer at first. He stared down at his trembling hands, fingers curled like the talons of a corpse, as though trying to make sense of them.

When he finally looked up, the Magister recoiled.

There was nothing left in his gaze — no fear, no sorrow, not even anger. Only a quiet, resigned emptiness.

"This has been the seat of the Archon since the founding of Tyrosh," he said, his voice calm, even gentle. "It seems only fitting… that the last to sit upon it should remain. To witness the end of an era."

The Magister swallowed hard. He searched for something to say — a word of defiance, of hope, anything to break the silence. But there was nothing. No more plans. No more pride. No more city.

Only fate.

With a choked breath, he turned and stepped into the chaos of the streets beyond — where fire met screams, and the shadows of doom stretched long beneath the setting sun. Behind him, the council chamber — once the beating heart of a city that had endured for centuries — stood silent and still. Empty but for one man.

A man waiting to greet the end.

XXXX

Kratos approached.

His footsteps made the earth tremble. Water rolled off his immense form in sheets, trailing like storm clouds behind his legs. His shadow—a monstrous shape cast by the last beams of the dying light—swallowed streets and towers alike as he neared the outer wall.

Atop that wall, a handful of men remained.

Some were too proud to run. Others too afraid to flee. Their hands shook as they nocked arrows, drew bowstrings taut, and screamed curses down at the towering god striding toward them. Dozens of arrows hissed through the air — aimed at eyes, throat, heart.

They struck.

And fell.

The shafts shattered on Kratos' skin like toothpicks hurled at stone. He did not flinch. He did not glance up. He did not notice.

He simply stopped.

The defenders paused — a heartbeat of stillness, of dreadful awe — and then Kratos shifted his massive frame. One titanic leg slid back. And then—

BOOM.

With a roar of stone and steel, Kratos' foot slammed forward into the wall.

The entire section exploded inwards. Masonry shattered, towers cracked, and defenders screamed as they were hurled into the air like broken dolls, their cries vanishing beneath the thunderous collapse of centuries-old defenses.

The dust had barely begun to rise before Kratos stepped forward again, crossing the rubble in a single stride. His footfall crushed the debris—and everything within it.

A house stood in his path.

He did not pause.

His colossal foot came down on the tiled roof and drove the structure into the earth with a sickening crunch. Inside, a single scream—high and desperate—pierced the air and then went silent as wood, bone, and stone were flattened beneath the god's weight.

Behind him, the Spartans surged.

Their silver armor caught the fading sunlight as they roared forward, a perfect formation of wrath and purpose. Neos led them, crimson crest whipping in the wind, shouting orders with a voice like a warhorn. The gaping hole in Tyrosh's wall became a funnel of death as the disciplined tide of Sparta flooded into the city behind their god. Normal warriors could never have run ten miles so quickly, but these were not normal warriors.

These were Spartans. From the moment they had made their oath to Kratos, they had created a link between themselves and the god. In return for their faith, he gave them a tiny piece of his strength, his power, making them more than mere mortals. And now Tyrosh was learning exactly that as the Spartans flooded into the city with all the fury and hatred that former slaves could have for men who had once delighted in the suffering of others.

Inside Tyrosh, the screams of the people rose to a fever pitch. Panic spread like wildfire. There was no more resistance. No more hope.

Only the march of vengeance.

And the god who walked at its head.

XXXX

The sun had vanished beneath the horizon, leaving Tyrosh to burn beneath a blood-red sky.

Smoke curled through the once-proud spires. Screams echoed in the night like a funeral dirge. The cobbled streets ran slick — not with water, but with blood.

From every direction, Sparta descended.

The Spartans surged into the city in waves, blades singing, spears thrusting with merciless precision. No quarter was given. None was expected. From Kratos' first command, the law had been clear:

No mercy. No survivors. Save only the children.

And so Tyrosh died.

Its cries filled the heavens.

XXXX

Meera:

The girl who once trembled before a Dothraki horde as it slaughtered her family's trading caravan, now screamed with the fury of a warrior reborn.

Her bronze skin was smeared with soot and blood, her eyes burning as she cut down a fleeing noble in silken robes. The man had begged — she hadn't listened. Behind her, a child barely older than ten held a dagger, eyes wide with shock. Meera grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Do you want to die tonight, boy!" she growled. "For a city as cruel as this one?"

For a moment, the child held the dagger in front of him, his face pale with terror at the girl who was covered in blood and growling at him like a demon from his worst nightmare. A moment later, the dagger fell from limp fingers as the boy collapsed to the ground, tears running down his cheeks.

Meera nodded once at the child before pointing down the street with her sword.

"Run. Hide. If you survive until dawn, then perhaps you will find a new home. Once this city is obliterated."

And then she was gone again, sprinting into the chaos, her spear plunging through another defender's throat.

XXXX

Rhosene:

Flames danced along the edges of her hair as Rhosene stood atop the shattered fountain in the merchant quarter, surrounded by bodies. Beneath her, a Tyroshi priest sobbed like a child as he begged for his life, her boot pressing him into the filth of the street.

"WHERE WERE YOUR TEARS FOR THE SLAVES YOU MURDERED?!" she howled, driving her spear into the priest's chest, then kicking him into the blaze of a nearby burning stall.

She moved like a fury, like wrath made flesh. Her gold-crested helm was smeared with ash, her arms streaked in gore, her eyes wide with fury and grief.

From the rooftops above, arrows tried to find her — but they missed. The gods themselves seemed to shield her now.

XXXX

Pindaros:

He walked through the manse district like death in silver, his blade flashing like lightning.

Nobles screamed and tried to hide behind their gold, their silks, their wealth. Pindaros showed them the same mercy they'd shown the slaves they impaled.

"THIS IS THE PRICE OF TYRANNY!" he shouted, impaling two with a single thrust. "REMEMBER IT IN WHATEVER AFTERLIFE AWAITS YOU!"

A man tried to flee — Pindaros flung his spear, nailing him to the door of a burning chapel. Behind him, Spartan warriors marched forward in lockstep, spreading fire and steel through the last unbroken quarter of the city.

XXXX

Leon:

Leon burst through a line of Tyroshi militia in the shadow of a crumbling tower, his shield splintered but still raised. His voice cracked from shouting; his face streaked in blood that wasn't all his own.

"They murdered children," he growled, slamming his shield into a screaming noblewoman before slashing her down. "Children!"

He grabbed another by the throat — a magister, weeping, clutching a golden chain — and dragged him toward the pyre where slaves had once been burned in public view.

"Now feel what they felt!" Leon snarled, throwing the man into the flames as the Spartan behind him lit the structure.

XXXX

The God of War:

And above them all, the god moved.

Kratos, towering and terrible, strode through the city like the hammer of Olympus reborn. Each step sent tremors through the earth. The sea still raged behind him, but here in the city, he was the storm.

A noble tower — one that had stood since the height of Valyria — vanished beneath a swing of his arm. Entire manses crumpled beneath his tread. Fires rose higher, as if trying to reach him, but could not touch him.

He stepped onto a plaza where once slave auctions had taken place. With a roar that shattered windows across the city, Kratos brought down both fists upon it — obliterating the past in a single strike.

And then he moved again.

A quarter collapsed beneath his heel.

The screams became one with the roar of the fire. There was no order left. No command. No Archon. No gods. Only fire, blood, and the silver tide of Sparta.

And above them all, Kratos watched — god, judge, executioner.

The streets flowed red.

But occasionally, amidst the chaos, a Spartan warrior would lower their weapon

and lift a child from the wreckage. They were carried, one by one, out of the slaughter, past the crushed palaces and shattered temples.

For they were the only ones spared.

By dawn, there was no city left — only a graveyard of ash and broken stone.

Tyrosh was no more.

And the Triarchy War was over.

XXXX

Author's Note:

Finally! The Triarchy War is over! Which means it'll be a few weeks before you guys get another chapter because I'm taking a break. In the following chapters, I plan to do a series of time skips, showing Sparta's growth and how the world has reacted to Sparta basically being the ruler of the entire Southwest of Essos. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and how I chose to end the war, but if not then tell me what I can do to make the following chapters better. As a little hint about where I plan to take the upcoming chapters, I will say this: two of the children recovered in Lys are very special… A boy. And a girl.

Some of you already guessed that the Spartans were more than mere mortals, and I finally decided to show that. Every man and woman who swears their oath to Kratos will be... more. Not a demi-god, not even close. But more than an average human. Faster, stronger, etc.

To those of you who will argue that Tyrosh is twenty miles out to sea, not ten, I know that. I decided to change the distance so that the Spartans could get to the city faster. As powerful as they are, I could not logically make the case that the Spartans could run twenty miles that quickly. I hope that satisfies you.

If you would like to view images associated with this chapter, you can visit my Discord. The username is 'MandoVet.'

Chapter Text

Four Weeks After the Fall of Tyrosh:

The winds off the coast carried the bitter scent of ash and salt. Smoke curled into the heavens in great, lazy spirals, rising from pyres that stretched across the blackened plains. The air shimmered with heat and sorrow. Rows of tall wooden stakes, once bearing the mutilated corpses of slaves, now stood empty, their grisly burdens carried down with reverent hands.

Three thousand Spartans moved with silent purpose across the fields of the dead. They did not speak. They did not curse or weep. They burned.

Each body was lowered carefully, the ropework undone by gloved hands, the impaled wounds sealed with damp cloth to preserve dignity. Children, women, men—all the nameless, the broken, the forgotten, were carried to waiting pyres, stacked in hundreds.

The pyres lined the coastline like funeral altars to an age now extinguished.

General Heron stood on a raised hill overlooking the grim work. His silver armor was dulled by soot and blood, his red cape torn from the battles, but he remained motionless, a sentinel carved from grief and steel.

For four weeks since the fall of Tyrosh, the three thousand Spartans chosen for this detail had worked from sunup to sundown, gently taking the bodies of the slaves down from the stakes that they were impaled on, and placing them on one of the hundreds of pyres to be burned. Even now, long after death, the bodies were shown the respect that Tyrosh had denied them in life. Throughout it all, the Spartans whispered words of comfort to the dead, praying that they would reach Elysium, where no master would ever be able to torment or punish them again, creating an unending buzz of whispers as the bodies burned.

Rhosene stood at the edge of such a pyre, her eyes locked on the flames as they consumed a pile of the dead. The scent stung her eyes, and the heat licked at her cheeks, but she did not flinch. For days now, well beyond what a normal human should have been able to endure, she had made sure that every child she could find was taken down with all the tender care she could offer. Every fallen child was laid gently on the wood, their hands crossed over their chests; no one would ever know their names, but at least they would burn with dignity.

She glanced sideways as Meera approached, the younger girl's face streaked with soot and dried tears.

"We finished clearing the eastern quarter," Meera reported quietly. "That leaves only the south. At our current rate, we should finish the last of the bodies within the week…"

"Good," Rhosene said, voice very low. "Then we go home. Finally."

Meera said nothing for several moments as the two watched the flames grow higher, choking the sky in black smoke. Finally, she spoke in a voice that sounded close to heartbreaking.

"I still can't believe Tyrosh could be so cruel… So barbaric."

"They paid for their cruelty with their own blood." Rhosene growled, "Tyrosh is dead."

"Is it though?" Meera asked, "We destroyed the city, yes. But her children still breathe… And her memory will last long beyond this day."

"Her children will be Spartan," Rhosene spat back, her fists clenched at her side. "And I heard from General Neos' own mouth what our lord plans for Tyrosh…"

"And what's that, sister?" Meera asked.

"To make sure that this city never breathes again…"

XXXX

Inside Tyrosh, another kind of storm had taken hold.

Where once elegant homes had sprawled like veins of marble and luxury, now only broken shells remained. The manses of old nobles had been cracked open like skulls; pillars shattered, walls blackened with soot, and gilded tapestries torn from the walls like the flayed skin of some defeated beast.

The Spartans moved with discipline through the wreckage. For the last month, the six thousand remaining Spartans, those not on grave detail, had combed through every district, every alley, every cellar and storehouse. Nothing of value would remain.

Pindaros moved alongside a squad as they exited what had once been a merchant guildhall. Now, it was just another empty husk, its silken banners soaked in blood and sagging like corpses.

"Bronze busts, coin chests, carved furniture," young Aeson recited from a tally, his voice lisping slightly due to his two missing teeth. "All stored on carts fifty-three through fifty-five."

"Good," Pindaros replied, wiping grime from his forehead. "Move on to the next. We're not done until all that's left is rubble."

XXXX

In another part of the city, Leon moved alone through the shattered remains of what had once been a noble's private theatre.

He stepped over plush crimson seats blackened with soot, his massive frame ducking under scorched beams as he moved through the smoke-filled ruin.

In the center of the stage, a golden lyre sat untouched on its display pedestal. A beam of light came through the roof and landed on the instrument, giving it an almost ethereal appearance.

Leon's eyes narrowed as he took in the lyre. The instrument gleamed in the firelight, impossibly clean despite the destruction around it. He approached slowly, then smashed the pedestal with the hilt of his sword, causing the lyre to clatter to the floor and crack down the middle.

"There is no music in a graveyard…" He muttered before turning and making his way back outside.

Outside, the carts filled with Tyrosh's gold and jewels and everything else of value creaked under the weight of their plunder. Spartans moved between them, ensuring each item was marked and accounted for. This was not pillaging for sport. It was systematic, calculated, and disciplined. The wealth of Tyrosh would now serve Sparta.

XXXX

In the heart of the city—once the plaza where nobility had paraded in peacock finery—stood five thousand children. The only survivors of Tyrosh's slaughter. When the Spartans had breached Tyrosh's walls, many of the citizens within had decided to kill their families themselves rather than allow them to fall into Sparta's hands. For days on end, the Spartans had stormed manses, only to find entire families dead within, either from poison or blade. These five thousand children were all that remained of Tyrosh's population. As the army had spread throughout the city, the children had been corralled here and placed under guard to keep them safe and keep them from interfering as Sparta finished the war by taking everything of value that Tyrosh had.

Their faces were drawn and hollow. They were too tired to cry, too scared to speak. Some clutched each other. Others stood alone, their heads bowed. For a month, they had been under constant guard, fed only the bare amount needed to keep them alive. They would be Spartans one day, but for now, they were children of the enemy, and Sparta would not starve itself to feed its enemies.

A moment later, Kratos entered the plaza, and the children released a collective cry of fear as they drew closer together. This had been the first sight they had of the monster who had destroyed their city since that night. After ordering them corralled here, Kratos had assisted in gutting the city. It was only now, once the work was nearly completed, that he had decided to pay a visit to Tyrosh's surviving children, to see what remained of such a powerful city.

He wore no helmet, no ceremonial cloak. Only his bare arms crossed over his chest, the Blades of Chaos resting innocuously on his hips, his axe resting on his back and gleaming in the dying sunlight.

None of the children looked at him directly, but all felt him.

Behind him, General Neos stood a few steps behind, silent and grim.

"These are all that remain of Tyrosh, my king…"

Kratos looked at the children, and said nothing for a long time as he spread his awareness throughout the huddled mass; he could practically taste their fear of him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady and quiet, but its authority made every child look up.

"Your city is gone, it died screaming. Not because of Sparta. Not because of me. But because of the cowardice of the men who ruled it."

The children said nothing. Only one boy, older than the others, glared at Kratos defiantly; Kratos saw it.

"You are afraid…" Kratos continued. "That is natural. But know this, you are no longer Tyroshi. That name is ash. You are Spartan now. And you will be taught how to live as one. Not as slaves, nor as the masters of slaves, but as warriors."

A few of the children blinked in surprise. Others shifted nervously, as though not daring to believe Kratos' words after what they had watched him do just four weeks earlier.

"Some of you will become farmers," Kratos continued. "Some, smiths. Some, healers. But all of you will learn to fight. That is the law of Sparta."

The glaring boy lowered his gaze at that, causing Kratos to nod once before turning back to General Neos.

"Have them fed properly. Then clean them and have a commander assigned to oversee their transition during the march back to Sparta."

Neos saluted crisply. "At once, my king."

With a nod, Kratos stepped out of the plaza and back into the city as General Neos began issuing orders to the guards. Kratos looked out at the broken city before him, now nearly stripped of all value; only the bones of Tyrosh remained, and even those would not remain for much longer.

"Soon…" he murmured. "Even the sea will forget your name."

XXXX

One Week Later:

It was nearly noon when Kratos walked alone to the cliffs that overlooked the drowned shoreline. Not far behind him, the Spartan army stood in neat, disciplined formation, along the cliff, awaiting orders. Behind the army, a line of carts stretched out into the distance, the treasure of Tyrosh. At the very rear of the army, stood the children of Tyrosh, guarded by a platoon of Spartans.

The city itself stretched offshore before him in silence. The fires were out, and all that remained was a city of ghosts and broken buildings.

Slowly, Kratos knelt and placed his palm against the earth.

There was a stillness in the air, a quiet holy moment that all in the army behind him could feel.

Kratos closed his eyes. Reached inward and called upon the godhood he had buried beneath blood and rage. The ocean answered.

Far beyond the shore, the water began to churn as the waves began to retreat violently, as though pulled by an unseen hand.

The warriors in front watched with awe, while the children at the rear cried out in fear, clinging to each other.

A low thunderstorm began, then a tremor as the sky turned black. The sun disappeared behind the dark shroud as the sea groaned.

Then, like the judgment of a forgotten sea god, a wall of water rose into the heavens.

A tidal wave, towering and wrathful, raced toward the coast.

The children screamed in horror, memories of the giant monster that had destroyed their city, returning in full force, yet Kratos did not move.

With a voice that shattered silence, he growled one word:

"Fall."

The wave slammed into the walls of Tyrosh with all the force that nature could bring to bear, smashing them to rubble like an axe through kindling.

It thundered through Tyrosh with divine fury, engulfing towers, manses, temples, and bones alike. The waters crushed the rubble, dragging it down into the deep as the earth trembled, buildings shattering like clay.

In a matter of moments, there was nothing left.

Where once stood a city of decadence and cruelty… now, only an endless expanse of dark ocean remained.

The children stared in awe and terror as their once proud city vanished beneath the ocean's waves, as though it had never existed.

As the ocean returned to its peaceful state, Kratos turned back to his army, who were all staring at him in awe.

"To Sparta," he commanded before taking the first step towards home.

The army began its march. Thousands of wheels creaked under the weight of Tyroshi treasure. The wind howled softly over the ruined coast, now blank and bare as though Tyrosh had never been.

XXXX

The road to Sparta had never seemed so short, nor so long. The march from Sparta to Lys had taken a month to complete; the march from Tyrosh back to Sparta took barely two weeks, yet every step was done with the excitement of an army eager to see their loved ones again and celebrate the glory that was due them.

At their head marched Kratos, the God of War, his crimson tattoo blazing like a wound against the pallor of his skin. His face was stoic as always, unreadable. His axe was slung over his back, and his eyes locked forward, toward home.

Behind him strode General Neos, the pride of the Spartan army, flanked by the four remaining generals. Their red horsehair crests swayed with every step, and their eyes were sharp and forward, mirroring the discipline of their king.

Behind the generals came the phalanxes, rows upon rows of silver-armored warriors, shields worn from battle, cloaks stained by the long road home. Their faces were hard, but pride glowed like fire behind the steel helms. These were the survivors of the Triarchy war, the destroyers of two cities, one of which had dared to impale hundreds of thousands and defy Kratos's will.

When the city finally came into view, a cry of happiness echoed throughout the ranks before the captains shouted for silence.

As they neared the city, the large gates opened wide, like a mother welcoming their child home at last. As the front ranks entered the city, more than one Spartan gaped in shock at what they beheld. Construction had not halted in the three months since their departure. The city stretched out in pure white marble as far as the eye could see. In the distance, Kratos' temple was still under construction, yet already towering above any other building in the city.

The streets were choked with people—men, women, and children—all dressed in their finest tunics, their eyes wild with joy and reverence.

The rooftops groaned beneath the weight of onlookers who had climbed high to witness the return of their army. Music played from the plazas; drums, flutes, and lyres joined by chants of triumph that echoed like thunder across the open sky

"Kratos! Kratos! Kratos!" They cried, the name rolling like a storm over the hills.

The army did not flinch. They did not raise their arms in greeting as they passed family and friends, nor acknowledge the adoration. They simply marched.

As they entered the heart of the city, the swell of voices became deafening. Flowers rained down from windows and balconies—white lilies, red poppies, blue hyacinths—and the warriors of Sparta marched through them all as though untouched by the beauty of the moment.

And then, Kratos stopped.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to crack the bones in his neck; the sound echoed like a whipcrack across the cheering crowds. In that instant, something impossible occurred.

The wind shifted.

From above, like a benediction from the gods themselves, a soft, steady rain of purple flowers began to descend; not thrown by the crowd, not loosed by the breeze. They simply… fell.

The crowd gasped, many dropping to their knees. Others wept. The sky had been clear, and no trees grew over the street. It was a sign, one undeniable in its divine strangeness.

A miracle.

The petals caught in the warriors' hair, clung to their armor, drifted into their open hands. Smiles cracked through the ranks for the first time since their march back from Tyrosh. Some laughed softly under their breath. Others tilted their faces to the sky, letting the soft petals wash over them like a baptism.

Even General Neos could not suppress the upward curl of his lips.

He leaned softly toward the general at his side and murmured,

"Only our king would mark our return with something so strange… and yet, so perfect."

"Purple flowers," muttered another general in awe. "In the old tongue, they meant rebirth…"

Neos nodded solemnly. "And that is what we are. Reborn from the ashes of the Triarchy and made whole by war. Made worthy by his hand."

The soldiers behind them marched on, silent but changed. What had begun as a triumphant return now felt like something more, something sacred.

Among the marching ranks, Meera stood shoulder to shoulder with her squad, tears running down her cheeks as she saw her grandmother standing in the crowd and smiling at her like she could not have been prouder in her life. On Meera's left, Rhosene marched, face still as stone, yet Meera knew the woman well enough by now to see the fierce pride gleaming in her eyes. The pain of the forest of impaled still lingered in them both, but today, they were whole. Today, the blood spilled meant something.

On her right, Pindaros leaned close, grinning like a boy who had just snuck wine from a noble's table.

"This," he whispered, "Is what glory feels like."

At the rear of the army, the children of Tyrosh walked in silent awe at the city before them; Tyrosh had been magnificent, but this? Sparta put Tyrosh to shame, and the fact that this is where they would be living now? That left nearly all of them speechless with awe.

Back at the front, Kratos raised one hand, not high but just enough for the warriors behind him to see; the signal was wordless but absolute.

The army halted as one.

The cheers faded as the people noticed. The drums stopped. The silence resumed, heavy and expectant.

Turning to face his people, Kratos said nothing. For a moment, he simply looked at them, at the faces of those who had once been slaves, cast aside by the world. He looked at the children on rooftops, the blacksmiths with soot on their faces, the scholars, the healers, the mothers and fathers.

Then, he bowed his head. Just once. Just enough to mean something.

The city erupted in cheers once more.

Behind the army, the carts began to roll in, thousands of them laden with gold and jewels, fine silks, tapestries, statues, and books. The wealth of Tyrosh, stolen in the dark and kept from the world for centuries, now returned to the people who would use it to build a better one.

No cries of greed came from the crowd. No rush toward the treasure. The people of Sparta did not need to be told where that wealth would go: Into the city's future.

Into schools, and public baths, and libraries. Into armor and weapons. Into the strength of their sons and daughters.

A voice rose above the crowd; a woman's voice, shrill and proud: "Long live Sparta!"

Another joined. "Long live the army!"

Then a third: "Long live the King!"

The chant grew until it shook the very stones beneath their feet.

Kratos did not respond to the crowd's cheers; instead, he turned toward the great temple that crowned the highest hill in Sparta, still under construction. A reminder of who he was and who he was trying to become.

General Neos stepped up beside him as the cheers grew thunderous.

"What now, my king?"

"Now…" Kratos rumbled after a moment of silence, "We rest. The army has earned it."

XXXX

The sun had long since fallen beyond the mountain ridges, casting Sparta into a warm twilight glow. But even in the absence of the sun, the city burned brightly, not with fire, but with the fervor of victory. All across the newly expanded streets of Sparta, bonfires blazed, casting flickering light across stone walls, marble columns, and the freshly polished armor of returned warriors. Music echoed from every district, laughter rolled down the alleys, and the very stones beneath their feet seemed to hum with pride. Kratos had given but one order for the night.

"Let the wine flow as freely as the blood that was shed."

And the city obeyed.

Soldiers and civilians alike drank together, sang together, and remembered together. Every courtyard and colonnade became a festival ground. Massive amphorae were cracked open by the dozens, spilling the deep red bounty of Spartan vineyards into stone basins, where celebrants dipped in their goblets, drinking to their own lives and to the dead who bought them.

The tales began quickly and spread like wildfire.

"The fall of Lys," one veteran cried, standing atop a table in a crowded plaza, "was swift, but the wrath of Tyrosh! Gods, you should've seen it!"

Women clutched their children closer, men leaned in, young warriors-in-training listened wide-eyed as returning heroes told of the burning skies, of the giant rising from the sea, and of the thunderous march of nine thousand blades.

They spoke of the sea boiling, of the Dothraki's fate, of the silence of the impaled, and the wrath of Kratos.

"Tyrosh thought itself untouchable," another soldier roared, half-drunk, a wreath of purple flowers twisted around his helm. "Their archers fired on a god and now their bones sleep beneath the sea!"

Cheers erupted around him.

In another quarter of the city, musicians played lyres and drums to the rhythm of dancing sandals. Warriors clasped arms with their families, sharing kisses and laughter. Some cried from joy, others from relief. Not all had returned, and empty cups were raised in honor of the fallen. But not even sorrow could dampen this night. It was a night for Sparta.

Children who had grown up as orphans now looked on the returning army with stars in their eyes. These were their brothers, their sisters. Heroes all. Elders who had once fled other cities now sat on porches, marveling at the glory that Sparta had become.

And still, the celebration surged.

Deep beneath the city, in the vast chambers of the Spartan vaults, sat the treasures of Tyrosh, mountains of gold, priceless artworks, jewels glittering like captured starlight. It would take weeks, maybe months, to count it all. A dozen high officials had already begun cataloging the endless bounty, their hands trembling with awe. Sparta, once a slave camp, had become the richest city on earth.

And yet above all, it was not the gold that gave the city its pride.

It was the knowledge that they had earned it with blood, iron, and unbreakable will.

XXXX

In a quieter corner of the city, far from the celebration and light, a large stone compound stood sealed under heavy guard.

Inside, the air was colder.

There were no songs here.

Within the dim confines of the pens were the last remnants of Tyrosh and Lys, fifteen thousand children, the only survivors of cities drowned by divine wrath. Their clothes were tattered, their bodies thin, their eyes filled with uncertainty. Most huddled in corners or under old straw blankets, whispering prayers to gods that no longer answered.

The compound had once been used for torment and cruelty, but now it served another purpose—containment. Not imprisonment, but observation. These children were the last trace of Tyrosh and Lys. The Spartan law forbade killing the young, and so they lived. But the trauma ran deep.

Nearby, behind their own locked gate, Daario's men stood restless. Warriors to the core, they paced the pen like caged beasts, glaring at the guards who refused them entry into the city-wide celebrations.

"This is madness," one spat, slamming a fist against the stone. "We were told that we would be welcomed in Sparta after we surrendered! Instead, we're left here to rot while the rest of the city drinks itself into oblivion!"

Another growled, "They treat us like slaves. Like animals."

"Doesn't feel too good, does it?" One Spartan guard asked, causing the man to sneer.

Daario Naharis sat against a wall, quiet, as he watched his men seethe.

"They fear trust given too easily," he muttered. "We were not born Spartan. They gave us a chance, and we will prove we deserve it."

"But how long must we wait?" a younger warrior snapped. "While they drink, we rot!"

Daario's eyes narrowed, and he stood. Though his posture was relaxed, there was steel in his voice.

"If you wish to be Spartan, then act like one. Not like a whining child denied sweets. We lost nothing tonight. Remember that."

His words silenced the unrest for a time, though tension still lingered.

Across the pen, the children stared at them, wide-eyed. A few whispered among themselves

"Are they Spartans too?"

"Are they monsters?"

In the shadowy silence, no answer came.

XXXX

Elsewhere, On a Quiet Rooftop:

High above the city, Kratos stood alone on a rooftop, watching the fires below flicker with celebration. He wore no crown, no robes, only the silver armor that had seen the walls of Tyrosh crumble.

He listened.

He heard laughter. Joy. Music. Life.

And he allowed himself, just for a moment, to feel it.

Behind him, General Neos approached quietly, stopping just a few feet back.

"My lord," he said with a respectful nod. "The city is celebrating you."

Kratos didn't turn. "They are celebrating themselves."

Neos smiled. "Perhaps. But they follow you because they believe. In what you've built. In what we've become."

Kratos grunted, "It's a small thing to repay what I was once before."

Neos said nothing. There were no words to match that burden. After a pause, Kratos turned his head slightly.

"Tomorrow, the work continues. The city will need to be expanded to account for its added population, and the children of Tyrosh will need food. Teachers. Purpose."

"They'll get it," Neos promised. "Just as Lys did."

Kratos nodded once.

And below them, Sparta sang.

XXXX

Author's Note:

In the next chapter, expect a series of time skips to show Sparta's growth. If you would like to see artwork that goes along with this story, please feel free to join my Discord. The username is MandoVet.

Chapter Text

Across the breadth of Essos, in palaces and forums, in smoky taverns and candlelit council halls, the name Sparta was no longer spoken with mere curiosity—it was uttered with awe, and fear.

What had once been dismissed as a slave rebellion gone awry had transformed into a tidal force, rolling across the southwest of the continent like a thunderstorm that could not be stopped. Lys was gone. Tyrosh was a memory drowned beneath the sea. Myr, reborn as New Sparta, was now the seat of an empire-in-all-but-name.

And now, word spread that the God of War's city glowed brighter than any in Valyria's old dominion. That it grew by the day—richer, stronger, hungrier.

The Free Cities stirred.

XXXX

Pentos:

The magisters gathered beneath the domed ceiling of the High Hall, their silks whispering as they shifted nervously around the long table.

"This… city," muttered Magister Loreno, a plump man with rings on every finger, "this Sparta. They call it a beacon, a new cradle of civilization. Do you know what I call it?"

"Salvation?" another ventured wryly.

"A sword," Loreno snapped. "A sword at our throats. And it is growing sharper every day."

Magister Ormal leaned forward, voice calm and cutting. "You fear a people who have done nothing but crush tyrants and uplift the enslaved? Shall we next weep for Tyrosh's magisters, impalers, and slavers alike?"

"They defied this so-called 'God of War, '" said Loreno. "And he drowned them beneath the waves. That is not justice. That is annihilation."

"It was a warning," Ormal replied. "And one we should heed. They took Lys in a fortnight. Tyrosh in a night. You would challenge them with what? Our wall-guard and merchant guardsmen?"

Another magister slammed his fist. "We are Pentos! We do not bow!"

"You will," came a quiet voice from the end of the chamber.

All eyes turned to the eldest among them—Magister Vael.

The man's face was like aged parchment, his eyes dull but keen. "You will bow. Not out of weakness, but out of wisdom. Sparta is not a flame to be extinguished. It is the sun rising. We can stand against it, yes. But we will burn."

Silence followed.

Then one voice, uncertain, offered, "Then… what do we do?"

Vael folded his hands.

"We send a delegation to Sparta, and join its empire voluntarily, before we are forced to..."

XXXX

Qohor:

The City of Sorcerers burned with its endless forges. But even amid the rhythm of hammer and flame, the tension was palpable.

In the grand lodge of the Silver Elk—a hunting club turned council hall—nobles argued as incense drifted around them like mist.

"We have our Unsullied!" a hunter shouted, pounding his wine cup on the table. "We have steel, we have magic—let Sparta come!"

"And who leads your warhost?" another asked, sneering. "You?"

The hunter bristled but said nothing.

A third, older woman in furs and a braided crown raised her voice. "They had twelve thousand," she said slowly. "Twelve thousand. And with that, they crushed two cities and shattered the Triarchy."

She sipped her wine.

"They now have twenty thousand trained warriors, according to the latest reports. With another hundred thousand in the Agoge even as we speak. All those freed slaves from Lys and Tyrosh have been inducted into Sparta's training program. In only a few years, Sparta will not just have the richest city in Essos, but also the largest army the world has ever seen."

"They are not conquerors," muttered a merchant. "Not yet."

"They don't need to be," she replied. "The world is already kneeling."

The silence was heavy until a younger man asked, "So, we give in?"

"No," she said. "We adapt. We send envoys. We learn their ways. And we make ourselves indispensable before they decide they don't need us at all."

"And then?" The same merchant asked.

"When the time is right, we strike." The woman replied. "After all, the cut that strikes deepest is the one you never see coming."

XXXX

Norvos:

The bearded priests pounded their drums.

The high bell tolled beneath the sky, casting echoes across the city's stone terraces as robed elders debated beneath the Temple of the Bearded God.

One priest, young and red-faced with indignation, bellowed, "They raise temples to a foreign god! They worship a mortal, Kratos, as their God of War!"

"They build," said the head priest. "They do not demand conversion. Nor sacrifice. What they worship is strength and unity."

"But what of faith?"

Another, calmer voice chimed in. "Faith without action is prayer without flame. The God of War has brought peace where we only gave incense."

There was a hush.

One of the older priests, eyes closed, whispered, "Perhaps the divine moves through him."

XXXX

Volantis:

In Volantis, the fires burned highest.

Within the Black Walls, old bloodlines seethed.

A hundred lords sat beneath banners woven with dragons and fire, their voices raised in contempt and fear.

"They threaten the natural order!" one cried. "They dismantle slavery!"

"They dismantled the Triarchy," spat another. "We should have crushed them at Myr!"

A third slammed his goblet down. "And now what? Face a war-hardened empire whose soldiers do not flee, do not break, and who need no coin to march?"

"Madness!" another shrieked. "Madness not to fight!"

"Madness," said a woman from the shadows, "to fight what cannot be defeated."

They turned.

She stepped forward, clad in crimson robes. A priestess of R'hllor.

"Fire has spoken," she said. "The old order is dying. A new flame rises in the west. It is not for you to resist—it is for you to decide whether you will kneel in fear… or walk into the fire and be remade."

XXXX

Braavos:

In Braavos, the mood was colder.

The Iron Bank's golden domes reflected a sky clouded with storm.

In a subterranean chamber, where coins moved kingdoms and debts built empires, the leaders of Braavos debated not as soldiers, but as economists.

"They do not borrow," said a silver-haired banker, tapping a ledger. "They take, and build, and thrive. And they share."

"Share?"

"With their people. The wealth of Tyrosh and Lys is not hoarded. It is distributed. Invested. Their citizens grow stronger. That is dangerous."

"They do not yet challenge our fleets."

"They may never need to."

A pause.

Then the question.

"Should we support them?"

The lead banker smiled thinly. "No. Not yet. But we will send a delegation to Sparta and see for ourselves just what kind of people these 'Spartans' are."

XXXX

Mantarys:

And in distant Mantarys, amid the smoking ruins of old Valyrian ambition, the warlocks gathered around a great bowl of fire.

They saw visions of red tattoos and stormy skies, of children learning war, and of a king who did not sit on a throne but walked among his people like a giant.

They did not speak of resistance.

They spoke of prophecy. A prophecy older than their very city.

XXXX

And the whispers grew louder across Essos, from the domes of Elyria to the shadows of Selhorys.

A name.

A legend.

Sparta.

The name echoed louder than any crown.

And the world tilted.

XXXX

The sun rose lazily over Sparta, its golden light spilling across streets that still bore the scars of celebration. The city—glorious, marble-wrought Sparta—was silent in the way only a place can be after surviving something immense. Music no longer echoed through the avenues, but the memory of it lingered, a soft hum in the morning breeze.

In the plazas, musicians lay sprawled atop empty benches, their lyres cradled like lovers in their arms, drumsticks still clutched in sleeping fists. Amphorae lay broken or empty, dark wine pooling on the white stone like spilled blood from a gentler battle. Purple petals, now trodden and damp with dew, carpeted the streets in fading hues. Men and women slumped in alleyways, wrapped in their cloaks or curled beside comrades, faces slack with exhaustion and wine. There was no fear, no chaos. No knives in the dark or thieves preying on the sleeping. This was Sparta; even in sleep, she stood proud and secure.

But not all slept.

Inside the war chamber of the Spartan palace, Kratos stood before a wide, sunlit window, his arms crossed over his chest. Below him, Sparta breathed and watched the city in silence, eyes cold and watchful as the morning wind that swept in through the open arches.
XXXX

It rose at the heart of Sparta like a mountain forged by man—not a glittering monument to vanity, but a stronghold of stone and will. The people called it The House of the God of War, though Kratos himself had never uttered that name. He had not wanted a palace, not at first. But when word spread that their king still lived among columns and barracks, the people had risen in a chorus so loud and unified that even Kratos had paused.

"A king as mighty as you," they said, "should be housed in a place just as mighty."

He relented—grudgingly—but on one condition: "There will be no golden roofs. No ivory floors. No useless thrones carved from the bones of beasts."

And so it was built—not as a gilded pleasure hall, but as a bastion. The palace was carved into the highest rise of the city; only the Temple of Kratos, which was still under construction, was larger in comparison. It overlooked the sprawling marble avenues and training fields below. From its broad terraces, one could see the sprawling city, and the lines of warriors drilling at dawn. Great statues of Spartans—not gods—lined the exterior colonnades, immortalizing warriors, healers, scholars, and laborers alike. It was a palace not of kings, but of the people who had built it.

The walls were hewn from smooth, dark stone shot through with veins of white marble, each block set by the hands of Spartan builders and masons. Massive bronze doors marked the main entrance, plain, functional, and emblazoned with only one symbol: a single red omega, painted with ochre the same color as Kratos's tattoo. Inside, the air was cool and quiet. The halls were vast and sparse, lit by oil sconces and tall open arches that let the sunlight pour in without the need for jewels or flame-gilded mirrors. At the center of the palace was the War Room, a circular chamber with a sunken floor and a massive map of the known world carved into a stone table. It was here that the generals met, strategies formed, and campaigns planned. Around the walls were racks

of weapons and relics, not for decoration, but for utility. Kratos had said it best: "A war room must be a place for war. Not a place for talk."

Adjoining the war room was the Council Chamber, more refined but no less austere. It featured long benches for discussion, a stone dais for Kratos or any speaking authority, and mural carvings along the walls depicting Sparta's rise, from its conquest of Myr, to the day its army began to march against the Triarchy.

Then came the Throne Room, though few dared call it that in Kratos's presence. It was not the grand vaulted hall of a conqueror. It was quiet. Intimate. Built more like a gathering hall than a place of judgment. At the far end, on a raised step of plain white stone, stood a single chair—crafted from black oak and wrapped in leather, shaped by Kratos's own hand.
No gold. No gems. No beast skins. Just wood, hide, and strength.

He rarely sat in it.

Elsewhere in the palace were guest chambers, designed for visiting dignitaries, foreign envoys, and allies of Sparta. These rooms were comfortable but modest; stone floors, linen sheets, warm lamps, and shelves filled with scrolls and Spartan teachings. To stay in the palace was not to be pampered, but to be respected, and expected to listen. The palace could also house several hundred people: generals, scholars, guards, scribes, and visiting citizens. Its vast halls and disciplined silence gave it the feel of a temple, a fortress, and a school all at once. It was not beautiful by traditional standards. But it was perfect by Spartan ones.

Strong. Enduring. Unshakeable.

And above all, honest. Just like the man it was built for.

Its construction had taken nearly two years, beginning just a few months after Myr had become Sparta, and the workers had pushed themselves beyond human endurance to see it completed as quickly as possible. When the army had left Sparta to destroy the Triarchy, the workers had pushed themselves even harder, determined to see it completed before Kratos returned. Unbelievably, they had succeeded. Managing to finish it just a week before the army returned, something that many viewed with pride, seeing it as a well-deserved gift to welcome home Sparta's king.
XXXX

The heavy doors creaked open behind him, yet Kratos did not turn around.
General Neos entered, his red-crested helm tucked under one arm, his other hand clenching tight at his side.

"My king," he said, voice even but urgent.
Kratos didn't turn. "Speak."

"There is an issue concerning two of the children from Lys."

Kratos' brow furrowed. "Speak plainly, general."

Neos took a breath, then stepped closer, his boots echoing against the polished floor.
"Two of the children housed in the eastern compound... they are not orphans. Not in the way the others are. Their names are Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen."

Now Kratos turned. The light caught the pale lines of his face, the sharpness of his eyes like twin blades drawn.
"The Dragonspawn?"

"Yes," Neos confirmed. "The last known children of House Targaryen. Survivors of the sack of King's Landing. They were apparently smuggled from Westeros to Essos by loyalists after the fall of their house."

Kratos said nothing at first. He merely stared at Neos as if weighing him, judging the weight of every word.

Neos continued, careful now. "They were found among the children taken from Lys. A boy of about thirteen and a girl, seven at most. They've been quiet, kept their names hidden, but one of the scribes in the census group recognized their silver hair. When questioned, the boy, Viserys, confessed."

Kratos's jaw clenched. "And what do you expect me to do with this information, general?"

Neos hesitated. "We must assume that word of their presence here will spread. Robert Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne now. He is... not known for mercy. If he learns the children are alive and in our care, he will demand they be turned over."

Kratos's eyes narrowed. "And if we refuse?"

"He may declare war," Neos replied. "He is proud. And violent. He may see their survival as a threat to his rule."

Kratos stepped forward, his voice suddenly low and deadly.
"And will Sparta do so?" He asked, his tone a blade drawn in the dark. "Will it kill children?"

"No," Neos said instantly, his voice firm, unflinching. "Never."

Kratos stared at Neos for a long moment. Then he walked slowly to the map table at the center of the chamber. His hand hovered above it, tracing the mountains and rivers carved into the silver. "I have seen kings who murder babes in the cradle to secure their rule. I have broken gods who carved the flesh of innocents to prove their strength. And still they called themselves just. Tell me, do you believe Robert Baratheon is such a man?"

Neos's face was hard. "Yes. He was a warrior before he was a king. And now he rules through fear, vengeance, and wine."

"Then let him come," Kratos said, his voice low and dangerous. "If his throne trembles at the breath of children, then he is weaker than I thought."

There was silence in the chamber, broken only by the wind through the high arches.

Neos approached the table slowly, placing his helm down. "What would you have us do with them?"

Kratos closed his eyes for a moment, as if the answer weighed more than the axe on his back. "Bring them to me."

Without another word, Neos gave a sharp nod and turned to carry out the order.
XXXX

An hour later, the chamber was quieter, the light warmer as the sun rose higher over Spata's marble skyline.

The guards at the door parted.

Two children stepped forward under the watchful eye of General Neos. They looked so small beneath the towering ceiling and stone pillars.
Viserys Targaryen stood tall despite the filth on his clothes, his silver-blonde hair matted but defiant. He scowled at the world, chin lifted in challenge.
Daenerys clung to his hand, smaller by five years but somehow seeming wiser in comparison. Her violet eyes were wide and curious, darting across the room and landing on Kratos with a blend of fear and awe.

They stopped before him.

Kratos remained motionless, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
"You are Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen." He said, not a question.

Viserys stepped forward, placing himself in front of his sister. "Yes. And if you mean to kill us, you might as well do it now. I will not beg for my life."

Danerys whimpered slightly at that and stepped closer to her brother's side as Neos tensed at the boy's tone, but Kratos raised a hand, calm, silent.

"Sparta does not kill children," Kratos said flatly.

You destroyed Lys," Viserys shot back. "You drowned Tyrosh. Butchered men, women... and children."

Kratos took a step forward, towering over the children, "Do not mistake justice for cruelty, boy."

Viserys faltered, but held his ground. "We are Targaryens," he said stubbornly. "We are of royal blood. Children of the dragon. We are not yours to keep!"

Kratos didn't blink. "You are children of a fallen madman."

Viserys scowled. "Our family ruled Westeros for centuries. We were kings. Gods among men."

"And yet your family lost it all," Kratos said coldly. "Why?"

Viserys faltered. "Because… because they betrayed us. The usurper. The rebels."

Kratos stepped forward. "No. You lost because your father burned his people. Because power unchecked breeds fear. And fear breeds rebellion. You did not lose because of rebels. You lost because you believed that your blood made you invincible. More than those you ruled."

"We ARE more than common men!" Viserys shouted. "We are Targaryens!"

Kratos's voice dropped to a growl. "You are a child playing at legacy. You've never led an army. You know nothing of war. Nothing of what it costs."

Viserys flushed, but didn't back down. "What gives you the right to judge? You, who tore cities apart. A butcher."

"And yet my people follow me," Kratos said simply.

"Because they fear you!"

"No," Neos said from behind the children. "We follow him because we love him. Because when he could have ruled with chains, he gave us swords. When he could have demanded obedience, he gave us purpose. He did not ask to be king. We chose him."

Viserys looked between them, uncertain now.

Kratos stepped closer, looking down at the boy. "You are unmade. A prince without a crown. A child without a cause."

"I will return to Westeros," Viserys said, though the words rang hollow. "I will take back the throne. And kill all those who murdered my family!"

Kratos stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Daenerys, who was cowering behind her brother. "And you? Do you wish the same? To become no better than your mad father?"

Daenerys blinked up at him for a moment before answering. "I... I don't know. I only want to be safe. To stop being hunted like I'm an animal. I want people to stop hurting us..."

Something in Kratos's expression shifted, so subtly that it was almost missed. A memory, perhaps. Of another child. Another war.
"You will remain in Sparta," Kratos said at last. "You will not be handed to Robert Baratheon. You are not prisoners here. You will be educated, trained, and given a purpose. You, boy, will be placed in the Agoge. You will be trained, tested. And if you survive, perhaps you will understand what it means to earn something, rather than have it given to you."

Viserys stared at him, trembling with frustration and pride and the gnawing fear that Kratos might be right.
"You would put me with common soldiers?" He cried in outrage.

"I would make you stronger." Kratos growled, causing Viserys to take a step back in fear. "If you are worthy of the Targaryen name, then prove that you deserve it. Earn it."

"And her?" Viserys asked, voice cracking. "My sister?"

"She will be placed in the academy until her own time comes to participate in the Agoge comes. She will study. Be given care and education. She will not be harmed."

Turning to Neos, Kratos nodded once before ordering simply, "See it done, general. And if word arrives from Robert Baratheon regarding the children, tell him that there are no dragons here. Only Spartans."

As they turned to leave, Kratos said one last thing to the Targaryen siblings.

"If you heed no other lesson, boy. Heed this one. In Sparta, we do not inherit greatness. We forge it. You can remain as you are or use that anger burning within you to become something better. Choose wisely."

Viserys looked back, confusion and something else—doubt—in his eyes.

The doors closed behind them. And in the silence, Kratos stood alone.
XXXX

Four Months Later:

Months had passed since the victory over Tyrosh and Lys, and Sparta—reborn from a camp of ashes and chains—stood as a marvel unlike anything the known world had ever seen.

Where once there had been nothing but scorched earth and skeletal ruins, now rose marble temples and white-stone colonnades, gleaming in the morning sun like the bones of some ancient god. The city was a symphony of hammer and chisel, scaffolding and artistry. From dawn until long after dusk, the sound of construction rang through the air—stone being shaped, pillars being raised, arches crowned.

Everywhere, there was movement. Life. Purpose.

Public baths, hewn from veined marble and heated by intricate aqueducts, had sprung up across the city in dozens. They weren't just for cleaning; these were communal centers where men and women gathered to discuss philosophy, poetry, battle, and politics.

Gymnasiums echoed with the sound of wooden blades and sandaled feet. Boys trained in wrestling pits beneath the watchful eyes of instructors, while girls practiced archery and horseback riding in the yards beyond. There were no soft children in Sparta. From the age of seven, every soul had a path.

Spartan law was absolute: all children aged seven to fourteen were enrolled in the city's academies. There, under the supervision of scholars and warriors alike, they studied language, mathematics, geometry, astronomy, rhetoric, and the sciences of the natural world. The most promising among them were taken into the Scholar's Circle, a group of elite tutors who prepared future healers, engineers, philosophers, and a hundred other opportunities. Those who would one day lead the city.

At age fourteen, school ended, and the Agoge began.

This was Sparta's crucible. Spartan law was absolute: every citizen was required to learn to fight. Boys and girls alike entered its trials: three years of brutal conditioning, military discipline, and Spartan philosophy. They learned to endure pain, wield sword and spear, and sleep with one eye open. They learned the meaning of unity, the price of failure, and the purpose behind power.

They learned to become warriors.

At the end of this training, they were free to choose what kind of future they wished to follow. They were free to remain in the army, if they wished. But if they wanted to choose another life, then there were dozens of paths to choose from.

Since the conquest of Lys and Tyrosh, the city's population had exploded a hundred times over. Now, nearly fifty thousand young children had been enrolled in the Agoge, with the rest being too young. On top of that, over a hundred thousand adults had begun to learn what it meant to be Spartan and were suffering the same trials that Meera and the first generation of Spartans had been forced to endure. But none complained, for they knew that it would all be worth it in the end. And more than anything, they wanted to earn the sacred armor of a Spartan. To be counted among those who had marched against the Triarchy and brought them low, ensuring their names would live forever in Sparta as heroes.

The first generation of Spartan warriors had only trained for a year and a half, but that was out of necessity, considering the ever-present danger of the Triarchy. Now that they were destroyed, Kratos extended the Agoge to three years to ensure that the Spartans would receive proper training in the art of war.

Everywhere one looked, new buildings were beginning to emerge within the marbled city. But perhaps the most awe-inspiring sight in all of Sparta stood still less than half-finished atop the city's second-highest hill, a grand structure of pillared glory that shone like fire at sunrise: The Great Library.

Already, over fifty thousand books and scrolls had been brought into its vast inner sanctum, gathered from the ruins of Tyrosh and Lys, from merchants, and scholars. Scrolls from Asshai, tomes from the Valyrian Freehold, records from Yi Ti and Qarth—all found a home within its marble halls. When complete, it would rival the lost Library of Valyria, perhaps even surpass Oldtown's Citadel.

Scribes in crimson and gold robes walked its halls daily, cataloging, preserving, translating. Artists painted star maps on the ceiling. Philosophers debated beneath towering archways.

When completed, this would be Sparta's gift to the world: knowledge carved into stone and set alight like a beacon.

And nearby, another structure rose, equally ambitious, equally vital.

The House of Healing.

Not just a hospital, but a place of education and experimentation. Here, young students learned anatomy from scrolls and bodies, practiced herbal medicine under the watchful eyes of trained physicians, and debated the nature of disease and balance. Under Kratos's decree, every Spartan citizen was to be given access to care, healing of the body, and healing of the soul.

For the city remembered what it had once been. And it refused to forget.
XXXX

In one of the smaller courtyards near the edge of the Library, Daenerys Targaryen sat cross-legged on a smooth stone bench, surrounded by scrolls.

She wore a simple white tunic, her silver-gold hair braided away from her face, her violet eyes scanning the diagrams before her. Geometry today. Then language. Then history. She didn't mind. Not anymore.

At first, the strictness of Spartan schooling had terrified her. The uniformity. The expectations. But over time, something had changed. The structure gave her comfort. The lessons gave her strength.

She liked the numbers. The way they always added up.

She liked the books—so many books—and the way her instructors encouraged questions, even from a girl who had once been royalty.

And above all, she liked that no one here treated her like a relic of a broken dynasty.

They treated her like a student. Like a person.

Across from her, a dark-haired girl named Kyra leaned over, whispering, "Did you get to the riddle about the circle yet?"

Daenerys smiled faintly. "It's a trick question. The answer isn't the number. It's the concept."

Kyra blinked, then grinned. "You're weird."

"So are you," Dany whispered back.

The two shared a quiet laugh before returning to their scrolls. Above them, sunlight poured through the archways like divine approval.
XXXX

Elsewhere, on the training fields of the Agoge, Viserys Targaryen gasped for breath. He lay face-down in the dust, his tunic soaked through with sweat, his body screaming from the day's punishments.

A shadow loomed over him.

"Up."

Rhosene's voice was cold. Uncompromising. Her golden-crested helm cast no shadow of mercy.

"I said up."

Viserys groaned, pushing himself onto his elbows. His ribs ached. His legs trembled.

"I'm a prince," he muttered.

"Not here," Rhosene snapped. "Here, you are what you prove."

"I'm—"

The tip of her spear hit the dirt an inch from his hand. "If you speak again before you stand, I'll drag you through the pit by your hair."

Viserys snarled, teeth clenched, and forced himself upright. Sand clung to his face. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

But he stood. Across the field, other boys watched. None mocked him. Some nodded with quiet respect. It had taken time, but Viserys no longer collapsed in every spar. He no longer screamed in every drill. He had not yet earned their friendship. But he had earned their silence. And that was something.

Later, as the day ended and the warriors-in-training were dismissed, Viserys walked with a limp to the edge of the field. There, water waited. And silence.

Rhosene approached him once more.

"You're slower than the others," she said flatly. "But you don't quit. That's a start."

He didn't respond.

She paused. "Why did your dynasty fall?"

He blinked, confused. "What?"

"Your father was a king. His father before him. Why did it all collapse?"

He gritted his teeth. "Because the great houses betrayed us."

Rhosene shook her head. "Because your people stopped believing in you."

Viserys looked at her, unsure.

She pointed toward the city, the rising Library behind her. "We follow Kratos not because he commands. We follow because he freed us. Worked beside us. Burned our chains with his own hands. Made us more than what we were. And because he asks nothing from us that he would not do himself."

"You worship him."

"Of course," Rhosene stated. "What else should mortals do before a living god?"

Viserys sneered at that, "He's not a god. There are no gods."

Rhosene snered right back at the petulant boy. "Believe what you will, boy. But I was there at Tyrosh. I saw Lord Kratos's power with my own two eyes. If you're lucky, perhaps you will one day as well."

She walked away then, leaving him to his thoughts.

And for the first time since arriving in Sparta, Viserys Targaryen had no ready answer. No retort. Only a question.

What if power wasn't taken?

What if it was earned?
XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I know that some of you will say that there is no way Sparta could be built as fast as it currently is, but you have to remember that Sparta now has a population of nearly one million people, and almost all of them are working as one to build up the city as fast as possible.

Also, as you're probably aware, I changed the ages of the Targaryen children in order to make their appearance work better in the story.

Chapter Text

Sparta.

Three Months Later:

The gates of Sparta stood open under the midmorning sun, tall bronze and marble sentinels carved with the symbols of harvest and war—grain bundles beside spears, sickles crossed with swords. Beyond them, the world bloomed.

What had once been barren, dust-choked hills—scarred by fire, slave raids, and war—was now green and gold, row upon perfect row. Farmland stretched for miles in every direction, a patchwork of tilled earth, rippling wheat, and rich olive groves swaying in the breeze. Between the fields, irrigation canals glittered like threads of silver under the sun, fed by reservoirs engineered by Spartan minds and Spartan sweat.

No land was left to waste. Terraced hillsides bore fruit trees and vegetables. Planted rows moved with military precision, wheat and barley in one quadrant, flax and legumes in another, with beekeeping and herb gardens lining the slopes closest to the city. And at the heart of it all, near the eastern hills, lay the vineyards.

The vineyards were the pride of postwar Sparta. Mile after mile of deep-rooted vines curled along trellises and stony ridges, their clusters of grapes swelling fat with promise. Red, gold, and deep purple glistened in the light like the polished armor of the phalanx. The scent was earthy and sweet—rich with growing things, the perfume of rebirth.

Dozens of workers moved through the rows—men and women both, dressed in simple tunics, wide-brimmed hats shading their faces. Some carried tools, others baskets. All moved with practiced ease, not as peasants, but as citizens. Some had once been slaves in Lys or Tyrosh. Others had once fought with the Spartan army, and now tilled earth instead of striking steel.

Children ran between the vines, laughing, learning to pick grapes without bruising them. Apprentices to the vintners learned when to harvest, how to test for sweetness and rot, how to crush the fruit with patience and rhythm. Nothing was wasted. No labor unrespected.

Just off the main road, a tall column bore a simple inscription:

"He who does not grow, shall not feast."

It was a Spartan motto now, carved into stone.

From the city walls, one could look down upon the fields and see life moving like a second army—an army of farmers, vintners, and workers whose harvests fed not just the mouths of Sparta but its pride. They were as vital as the phalanx, as respected as the generals. And every bushel pulled from the earth was proof: this land, once soaked in blood, now bled gold.

At the southern edge, granaries stood—massive domed structures made from limestone and clay, ringed by mills and guarded like armories. And beyond them, storage vats and pressing barrels waited beneath shaded overhangs, ready to turn harvest into trade, into wine, into celebration.

Sparta's empire had been forged by war, but it was being secured by soil.

Here, beyond the gates, the next conquest unfolded not with blade or fire, but with sun and seed.

XXXX

Kings Landing:

The sun hung low over King's Landing, casting long golden rays through the tall, stained-glass windows of the Red Keep. Within the Tower of the Hand, the council chamber was alive with tension, though no words had yet been spoken. Ravens had arrived at dawn, four of them, all bearing the same message in different tongues. The news had come not from a single trader or whisper, but from Pentos, Qohor, Volantis, and even Braavos.

Tyrosh was gone.

Not defeated. Not conquered. Gone.

King Robert Baratheon leaned back in his carved wooden chair, one leg propped on the edge of the long table, a goblet of wine dangling from thick fingers. He stared into the hearth as though it might answer the question burning in every mind at the table.

"How many?" he finally asked.

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat and looked down at the crinkled message on the table. "The final count remains uncertain, Your Grace. But… they say the city held close to three hundred thousand before the Spartan siege. That number is now… zero."

"Zero?" Cersei Lannister scoffed, seated beside her husband with her usual languid disdain. "No city simply disappears. What did they do, tear up the stones and carry them off?"

"It wasn't the Spartans," Pycelle said gravely. "At least, not entirely. Word says the Spartans took the city after a short but bloody siege. But what followed… they say a wave came. A great tidal wave, larger than anything seen in living memory."

"A storm?" asked Stannis Baratheon, his brows furrowed.

Pycelle shook his head. "No storm, my lord. The sky was clear. No rain. No winds. And yet, the sea rose and swallowed Tyrosh whole."

There was silence in the chamber.

Petyr Baelish broke it first. "The timing is… too precise."

"Coincidence," Cersei said, waving a hand. "No doubt they collapsed something beneath the harbor. Or a natural fault in the earth, such things do happen."

Robert drank deeply and exhaled. "Happen to cities that have just been conquered?"

"She's right about one thing," Renly Baratheon said, finally speaking from his place at the far end of the table. "It wasn't the Spartans. No siege force, however mighty, commands the sea."

"You assume too much," Stannis murmured, fingers steepled before him. "We know too little of this… Kratos."

"A man," said Cersei, "not a god, no matter what his slaves or soldiers might claim."

"Aye," Robert agreed. "Not a god. But a warrior. A hard bastard, from the sound of it. Took Lys, crushed Tyrosh, and made a jewel out of Myr. All with what? Twelve thousand men and women?"

"Fewer than that at Tyrosh," Jon Arryn said quietly. "Reports suggest they were nine thousand strong by the time they reached the Tyrosh."

Cersei scoffed again. "And we're meant to believe that? Nine thousand warriors, women among them, tearing down a city of hundreds of thousands?"

"They didn't tear it down," Robert said, voice low. "They gutted it. Then the sea did the rest."

He paused, then turned to his Hand. "Tell me, Jon. What do you see?"

Jon Arryn didn't speak right away. He rose from his chair, moving toward the tall window that overlooked the city.

"I see the beginning of something," he said at last. "Sparta has taken the place of the Triarchy, yes. But they're not rebuilding what was lost; they are creating something new. Something we've never seen before."

"They've made an empire," Varys said. "Not in name… yet. But in deed? Absolutely. And now, word comes that the Free Cities are sending envoys. Pentos, Qohor, even Norvos. They speak of Kratos as they once spoke of Aegon the Conqueror."

Robert grunted. "Difference being Aegon had dragons. What does Kratos have?"

"Faith," Jon replied. "Discipline. Purpose."

"And half the bloody continent at his feet," Renly added.

Robert stood and paced the room, fingers clenching and unclenching. "Why now? Why him?"

"That," Varys said with a faint smile, "is the question of our age."

Jon Arryn turned back toward the table. "We're watching the birth of something that will reshape Essos, and if we are not careful, it will reshape Westeros as well."

Robert frowned. "You think he means to come here?"

"No," Jon said. "Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But empires do not remain content for long. And Sparta is no mere city; it's become a beacon. Every freedman, every orphan, every exile with a sword and a dream is flocking to Kratos's banner."

"And what does he offer?" Cersei demanded. "Blood? War? Glory?"

"He offers order," Varys said quietly. "A world without chains. Without noble birth determining your worth. The soldiers fight for him not because he is king, but because he bleeds beside them."

"A romantic notion," Cersei sneered. "One day they'll turn on him, just like they did on every idealist who came before."

Varys did not argue.

Robert drained the rest of his goblet and refilled it. "I don't like the thought of a man making himself a god. But I'll say this, I respect the bastard. No lords. No banners. Just blades, blood, and will."

Renly chuckled. "He reminds you of yourself, doesn't he, brother?"

"He reminds me of what I could've been," Robert muttered. "If I hadn't taken the damn crown."

Silence settled again, broken only by the crackle of fire.

Jon cleared his throat. "There's more. Reports say that Sparta has begun building something beyond even Valyria at its height: a library to rival the Citadel and a hospital that doubles as a training school. Their education system spans mathematics, engineering, warfare, and medicine. Every child is trained. Every adult has a purpose. Unlike King's Landing, there are no beggars or thieves in Sparta. Only discipline and purpose."

"They're preparing for something," Stannis said grimly. "Empires don't build monuments for no reason."

"Or perhaps they prepare because they understand what's coming," Petyr added. "If the Free Cities are rallying to Kratos, if Essos becomes one under his hand… it will be too late to stand against them."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "Do you all hear yourselves? Panicking over a man half a world away who drowned a crumbling city."

"Crumbling?" Jon said sharply. "Tyrosh was powerful, your grace. Wealthy. Guarded by fleets and walls, and it fell in one night."

"You think he'll try for Westeros?" Robert asked, gaze locked on Jon.

"I don't think he needs to," Jon replied. "The world will go to him."

Varys nodded. "They already are. Pentos has called a summit. Braavos remains neutral, but the Iron Bank has begun tracking Spartan investments. And from what I hear from my little birds, many from Essos are now making their way to Sparta in search of a new life."

"Then what do you propose?" Renly asked. "Send a raven? Swear fealty?"

"No," Jon said. "But we must understand this man. His city. His rule."

Petyr leaned forward. "Then send envoys. Diplomats, not soldiers. Let them walk the streets of Sparta and see what has been made. Let them speak with Kratos. Offer respect, not tribute. Acknowledge his place in this changing world."

"And if he sees us as weak?" Cersei asked.

Robert stood tall. "Then let him come and see what Westeros is made of."

Jon raised a hand. "We do not show weakness. We show wisdom. Send a small group. Trusted men. No banners, no boasts. Just words. We listen. We learn."

Robert nodded slowly. "Then send them. Choose them well, Jon. If we're standing at the edge of a new age, I want to meet it standing tall—not blindfolded."

The council bowed.

Outside the chamber, the bells of King's Landing tolled.

And far across the Narrow Sea, Sparta listened.

XXXX

Casterly Rock:

The sea pounded against the cliffs of Casterly Rock with rhythmic fury, waves crashing below the stone-carved stronghold as if the ocean itself wished to be heard. But within the austere chamber of Lord Tywin Lannister, the only sounds were parchment crackling and the low, measured voice of the most feared man in the realm.

Tywin stood near the great window, arms clasped behind his back, his golden lion clasp catching the firelight as he stared out over the western sea. Behind him, his brother Kevan leaned against a pillar, brows furrowed. Tyrion sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth, wine in hand, his eyes flicking between the two elder Lannisters with poorly concealed curiosity.

"So," Tyrion began, breaking the silence, "Tyrosh is gone."

Kevan grunted. "Gone is putting it lightly. They say it was swallowed by the sea."

Tywin turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "Not swallowed. Erased."

Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup. "Ah, poetic. Very dramatic. I'm sure the bards will have a song by sundown."

"This is not jest," Tywin snapped, voice clipped. "Three cities have fallen to the Spartans in less than three years. First Lys, then Myr, and now Tyrosh. And now one of those cities—one of the wealthiest ports in Essos—is at the bottom of the sea. That is not strategy. That is something else."

Kevan nodded. "Some say it was divine punishment. Others believe it was a natural disaster, poorly timed."

"Conveniently timed," Tyrion muttered.

Tywin approached the table, laying out a scroll that bore the sigil of House Lannister at its seal. "It doesn't matter whether the wave was divine, natural, or the work of their so-called god-king. What matters is what it means."

"And what does it mean?" Tyrion asked. "That the Spartans control the tide now?"

"It means the world is changing," Tywin said. "And we have to decide whether to anticipate the storm or be drowned by it."

Kevan took a seat beside his nephew. "Robert and the small council have yet to act."

"Because they are fools," Tywin snapped. "Robert sees a warrior and admires him. Cersei dismisses him as a peasant. And Jon Arryn plays diplomat, hoping words can stop what iron cannot."

"Still," Tyrion said, sipping his wine, "what do you propose? Do we start mustering troops to prepare for a war with an empire that hasn't even looked westward yet?"

Tywin looked down at the map stretched across the table. A red mark circled where Tyrosh had been. Now it was crossed out. "I propose we take this threat seriously. Because whether Kratos means to come west or not, his influence will. Trade routes, culture, even their laws—all of it will bleed across the Narrow Sea."

Kevan frowned. "They've outlawed slavery. Reorganized Myr into a citizen-based system. Their laws are absolute."

"And enforced by soldiers bred like hounds," Tywin added. "Fiercely loyal. Perfectly disciplined. Incorruptible."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "You sound impressed."

"I am concerned," Tywin corrected. "Empires don't rise without ambition. And ambition does not remain idle. Sparta has conquered the southwest of Essos with fewer than twenty thousand men. Imagine what they'll do with fifty thousand."

"Or a hundred thousand," Kevan added quietly.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "And what of the Free Cities? Will they roll over and show their bellies?"

"They already are," Tywin said. "Pentos, Qohor, even Norvos have begun sending envoys. Not because they are cowards, but because they understand reality. When the lion faces a storm, he does not roar. He finds shelter."

Tyrion gave a crooked smile. "So, what do the lions of the Rock plan to do? Send wine and gold to the new king of the east?"

Tywin's gaze locked on him. "We learn. We prepare. And we position ourselves to benefit, whatever direction the wind may blow."

Kevan nodded. "Do you believe he'll cross the Narrow Sea?"

Tywin was silent for a long moment.

"No. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But his ideas will."

"The end of noble houses," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "Merit over birth. Strength over title. Dangerous talk in a world like ours."

Tywin looked to him. "That is why we must be careful. Such ideologies appeal to the desperate, the poor, the disillusioned. We rule because the people believe we deserve it. If they stop believing—"

"We become the Targaryens," Tyrion finished, surprisingly somber.

Kevan sighed. "What about trade? If their influence spreads, if they control ports—"

"They will control everything," Tywin said, flicking a gold coin at his brother, which was swiftly caught. As Kevan stared at it, his brow furrowed slightly. One side had an imprint of a small omega symbol. The other side showed twin swords crossed over a Spartan helmet. "They've begun a monetary reform." Tywin continued as his brother inspected the coin. "Sparta-backed currency is gaining favor in many of the free cities. It's stable, widely accepted, and now backed by gold looted from Tyrosh and Lys. Already, merchants are favoring Spartan markets."

Tyrion frowned. "So, we face a military threat, an economic rival, and a political movement?"

"Yes," Tywin said flatly. "And worse, we face all of them at once."

"So, we must respond," Kevan said.

Tywin nodded. "We must begin positioning House Lannister as indispensable. Gold buys influence. We fund trade. We send emissaries, quiet ones. We make ourselves useful."

"To Sparta?" Kevan asked.

"To whoever survives the storm," Tywin answered.

Tyrion raised his cup. "Now there's the father I know. Always planning for who comes out alive."

Tywin ignored the jab. "Sparta is not infallible. Empires rot from within if not tempered. But if this Kratos truly is what they say he is, then we may be seeing the rise of a power the world has not seen since Old Valyria."

Kevan said nothing.

Tyrion looked into his cup. "You know, I would like to meet him. This war-god."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"To see what a man looks like when the world follows him not because of who he is… but because of what he's done."

There was silence.

Then, slowly, Tywin nodded. "Then perhaps you shall."

XXXX

Dorne:

The sun burned low over Sunspear, casting long amber rays through the open arches of the Tower of the Sun. The heat of the day still clung to the stone, but the sea breeze carried the scent of salt, citrus, and desert flowers, softening the air in the palace's highest solar.

Prince Doran Martell sat reclined on his cushioned divan, wrapped in pale robes. His swollen joints were elevated as always, but his gaze was sharp as it lingered on the scrolls scattered before him. His hands, though aged and trembling slightly, moved with purpose. Beside him, a carafe of chilled Dornish wine dripped condensation onto the table, untouched.

Across the room, barefoot and shirtless, Oberyn Martell—his younger brother and the infamous Red Viper—paced like a panther denied prey. He held a goblet in one hand, but it had long since gone forgotten.

"You've read the letters," Oberyn said. "You've heard the whispers. Even now, the Free Cities shift like sand in a storm, and every grain flies toward the same name: Sparta."

Doran's face betrayed nothing. "I have read every word. And I wonder how many of them are truth, and how many are fear."

"They say nine thousand men and women marched into Tyrosh… and the sea swallowed the city within a week."

"Coincidence," Doran said mildly.

"Or judgment," Oberyn shot back. "The kind that only the gods—or monsters—can deliver."

Across the room, on a plush divan near the open-air windows, Arianne Martell reclined lazily, her sun-kissed skin gleaming with oil. Her long dark hair was damp from the bathhouse, and beside her, Ellaria Sand nestled on a silk cushion, her arm draped over Arianne's waist.

Ellaria's golden eyes were half-lidded, but her mind was sharp. "You sound impressed, my love."

Oberyn turned toward her, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. "I am intrigued. The Triarchy stood for generations. Three cities, three fleets, three armies. It took centuries to form them. Sparta broke them in less than three years."

"Because no one believed they could," Arianne said, sitting up straighter. "That was their strength. Surprise."

Doran nodded slightly. "It is always the unknown that upends the world. Sparta was nothing a year ago. Now, it rivals Old Valyria in myth, if not yet in power."

Oberyn stopped pacing. "That's just it, brother. This… Kratos... they call him the God of War."

Doran exhaled softly through his nose. "Men call many things gods. Fire, water, kings. Madness."

"They say he summoned a wave to crush Tyrosh."

"They say the sky weeps roses when he walks," Doran replied dryly.

"I don't believe in gods," Oberyn said, pouring himself more wine. "But I do believe in men who change the world. And this one has done just that."

The solar fell quiet for a moment. Only the wind stirred the gauze curtains.

Arianne crossed one leg over the other, her voice thoughtful. "What does this mean for Dorne? For Westeros?"

"That," Doran murmured, "is the question."

He picked up one of the scrolls and unrolled it with care. The seal had been broken—Braavosi wax. "Sparta now holds all the lands once ruled by the Triarchy. Myr, Lys, Tyrosh. Their armies swell daily. Trade flows through their ports. Slavery is outlawed. And the Free Cities that once mocked them now send envoys."

"So do we send one?" Arianne asked.

Doran's gaze lifted to Oberyn.

"I think we should send you."

Oberyn blinked, surprised. "Me?"

"You have walked the length of Essos more times than I can count," Doran said. "You know their customs. Their languages. You speak their tongues better than some of their own nobles. You are our sword and our spear. But more than that… you are our eyes."

"And ears," Ellaria added, sitting up fully now. "And heart. He can charm a storm into stillness if he chooses."

Arianne gave her uncle a wry smile. "Or provoke one."

"Both, if it's a good day," Oberyn said, grinning.

Doran's face remained placid, but his voice lowered in gravity. "I want to know what Sparta truly is. What this Kratos is. Whether he is a man who seeks peace, or a storm that will cross the Narrow Sea one day."

"You believe he will?" Arianne asked quietly.

"I believe," Doran said, "that he does not yet know what he will become. That makes him dangerous. And it makes him worth watching."

There was a pause. Then Oberyn turned toward the window, watching the Dornish sea glitter beneath the dying light of day. His voice was quiet, but firm.

"Then I will go."

Ellaria stood so quickly the cushions rustled. "Not without me."

Oberyn turned, eyebrows raised. "Ellaria…"

"No," she said sharply. "You will not go to the court of a warlord alone. I will not let you. I know you—your pride, your need to test every blade you see."

"This is not a battlefield—"

"But it might become one," she said, stepping closer. "And if it does, I will be there. At your side. As always. And just in case there is cause for violence, I suggest we bring Obara, Tyene, and Nymeria with us."

Oberyn chuckled at that for a moment before responding. "We're supposed to be avoiding trouble. If we bring those three, we can all but guarantee it will occur."

"Perhaps," Ellaria smirked. "Perhaps not."

Arianne gave a low whistle. "You may as well agree, Uncle. She's already packed. The sand snakes as well."

Doran watched the exchange, his lips twitching ever so slightly at the corner. "Then it is decided. You will both go. You will carry my seal and go not as beggars or spies, but as emissaries of Dorne."

Oberyn inclined his head. "And what message shall I carry?"

"Simple," Doran said. "Respect. Curiosity. And the hope that Sparta is a land we can understand, if not yet embrace."

He paused. Then, carefully: "And if the rumors of children being taken from Lys and Tyrosh are true…"

"Yes?" Oberyn prompted.

"Then I would know what became of Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen."

That earned silence.

Arianne leaned forward, wide-eyed. "You think they're alive?"

"I think," Doran said slowly, "that no one can say they are dead. And Kratos is said to spare no one, except children. If he found them, he may have kept them. If so… the game changes."

Oberyn looked thoughtful. "A Targaryen raised in Sparta? That's a blade no one sees coming."

"I want truth," Doran said firmly. "Not fear. Not myth. Truth."

Oberyn crossed his arms and looked at his brother with a grin. "Then truth you shall have, dear brother. From the lips of the Viper himself."

Ellaria rolled her eyes fondly. "Try not to bite anyone until after the first feast."

XXXX

Author's Note:

Two chapters in one day has wrecked my hands, so don't expect another for a while, lol. I hope you enjoy this one, however.

Chapter Text

It started as an idea—a drunken suggestion given by some random warrior during Sparta's great celebration to welcome its sons and daughters home. It was a way to honor their god further, to show the entire world that they belonged to Kratos, body and soul.

Many had cheered the warrior's suggestion before eagerly refilling their cups with more wine.

Over the following weeks and months, however, the idea began to grow larger in the people's minds and become something more than a mere suggestion given during a drunken revelry. It was a way to show not only themselves but everyone who ever looked at them for the rest of time just who they were: Spartans.
XXXX

The sun had just begun its ascent over the mountains east of Sparta, casting a golden wash over the city below. Morning light kissed the rooftops and warmed the vast marble roads still slick with dew. In the western part of the city lay the Agoge fields; Sparta's crucible, where the future was forged in sweat and discipline.

Here, no laughter stirred. Only the rhythmic thud of feet striking packed earth, the bark of commands, and the clang of training blades. Nearly five miles from one end of the field to the other, taking up almost half of the city's western half. All of which was needed as it currently housed over a hundred thousand who were all learning just what it meant to truly be Spartan.

Kratos moved through the city as silently as the dawn itself. He had no escort, no entourage. He needed none. Wherever he passed, citizens stilled and bowed their heads, not in fear but reverence. No one bowed in Sparta. That was the law. But respect was given to its king, all the same. A baker nodded with flour-dusted knees. Children paused in games to press their fists to their chests. No cry announced his presence. No trumpet blared. And yet the whole city seemed to shift with his passing.

He crossed the training fields alone.

From the edge of the central ring, he watched the first rays of sun stretch across the hardened earth and catch on silver helms and sweating backs. Rows upon rows of warriors moved as one, practicing spear formations, shield walls, and unarmed takedowns with grim precision. The younger recruits were already bruised and bloodied. Not one of them complained.

Kratos narrowed his eyes slightly.

The older ones—those who had already earned their armor and fought in the Triarchy war—stood apart, forming a semicircle near the grand obelisk that marked the spiritual center of the field. It had been created soon after the army had left Sparta to destroy the Triarchy. It towered more than a hundred feet above the field, serving only one purpose: Confirmation. Every Spartan who completed the Agoge had their name inscribed on this obelisk. Already, the stone had twelve thousand names engraved on it. The first generation who had earned their armor, including the two thousand who had died honorably on the battlefield.

Unlike their younger counterparts, they were not drilling. They were standing in silence. Dozens of them. Bare-chested, save for the women, who wore a linen wrap to hide their breasts. Bloodied. And marked.

Kratos's eyes flicked over them.

The red mark.

His red mark.

Painted in ink and scar. Some still fresh, the flesh raw and raised from the heat of the tattooing needles. Others already healing, the crimson stain curling down shoulder, chest, and back, just as it did on him.

He stopped before them, the training field falling into a hush.

Meera stood at the front. Blood still trailed from her left shoulder, where the last line of the tattoo had been carved only hours earlier. Beside her stood Rhosene, silent and proud. Her mark was older—weeks perhaps—but just as vivid. Behind them were dozens of Spartan warriors, the first true generation, the ones forged in this new Sparta, all bearing the same symbol.

Kratos said nothing for a long moment.

Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was deep, like a stone scraping against the mountain itself.

"…Why?"

The warriors straightened in unison, but the general in charge of the Agoge—a grizzled Unsullied known only as Kael—stepped forward.

Kael carefully removed his helm and tucked it under one arm. His voice was hoarse from years of shouting, but now it carried something deeper than command: conviction.

"You asked us once," Kael said, "what we were. Broken men and women, stolen children, forgotten lives. We had no answer then, but we do now."

He turned to face the rest of the marked warriors, then turned back to Kratos.

"You did not simply teach us how to fight. You gave us meaning. You gave us worth. You took a thousand shattered lives and made them whole. When Lys burned, when Tyrosh fell, it was not because of your axe or your power. It was because we believed. In you. In Sparta. In ourselves."

Kael stepped forward, baring his chest.

"This mark," he said, tapping the crimson tattoo that mirrored Kratos's own, "is not worship. It is brotherhood. It is gratitude. It is the fire that lives in us now because of you. You did not ask for crowns or slaves or tribute. You gave us freedom. And so, we wear your mark, not because we were told to… but because we chose to."

Kratos studied them.

The weight of their stares pressed against him; not in demand, but in loyalty.

His jaw clenched.

"How many of you have done this?" Kratos asked lowly.

"All those who fought with you, my lord," Rhosene replied at once. "All those who have earned the right to wear it. To be called yours."

"You have already bled for Sparta," Kratos replied, his voice rough like a boulder rolling down a mountain. "You have already proven that you belong here. There is no need to offer more of your blood, just to mark yourselves for me…"

"Yes," Kael replied. "But we bled far more when we were slaves, and it meant nothing. This? This means something."

Kratos glanced across the faces. Warriors, once children. Now proud, hardened, reborn. He met Meera's eyes. Saw the raw, radiant pride there. Then Rhosene's. Fierce and unwavering. In the far rear, he saw Leon and Pindaros standing beside each other, proud and tall.

He stepped forward slowly.

"You have taken my mark," he said. "But I am no god to demand it. You are Spartans. That is enough."

The silence thickened.

Kratos raised his hand slightly. Not in refusal. Not in denial. But in acknowledgment.

"If you wear this mark," he said slowly, "you must carry its burden. Not one of glory, but of strength. Of discipline. Of duty to those who walk behind you."

He looked again. Into every eye. Into every heart.

"And if you choose it… Then let none say you are not worthy."

A ripple went through the line.

Kael, the general, saluted with a fist over his heart. Meera grinned fiercely, shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. Rhosene gave the faintest nod, the kind she saved for moments that mattered most.

From across the field, the younger trainees had stopped their drills. They stared, sweat-slicked and dirt-caked, their small frames filled with wonder and envy. They whispered among themselves, eyes wide, fists clenched with yearning.

One of them, a fresh recruit who had just started the Agoge, a boy of fourteen with shaved hair and arms bandaged from morning sparring, leaned toward his neighbor. "I want it," he muttered. "I will earn it."

"You'll have to pass the Agoge first," came the whispered reply from the girl at his side.

"I'll pass it twice if I have to."

On the training grounds, Kratos turned back toward the field.

"Continue."

The command was soft. But absolute.

The marked warriors saluted and turned sharply, rejoining their ranks. Some wiped away tears before they resumed drills. Others held their heads higher, their steps firmer, as if the ink in their skin had added weight to their souls.

The training resumed, but something had changed.

Kratos stood at the edge of the ring for a long time, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But behind his eyes, something stirred.

Not pride. Not awe.

Something older: recognition.

These were not boys and girls any longer. These were not refugees or orphans.

They were his. Not by birth, nor by blood. But by bond. By battle. By choice.

When he finally turned to leave, Kael stepped up beside him.

"Did we do wrong?" the general asked quietly.

"No," Kratos said, not looking back. "You did right."

They stood in silence together a moment longer.

Then Kratos walked away, the morning sun catching the red of his mark, no longer singular. Now, it was shared by ten thousand others, and thousands more would also give everything they had to earn it.

XXXX

One Month Later:

The midday sun blazed high above the Agoge fields, baking the packed earth into hardened clay and casting sharp shadows beneath the marble columns that lined the outer edge. The training ground rang with the clash of wooden practice swords, the barked orders of drillmasters, and the grunts of bodies pushed to their limits.

But something had changed.

In the days since the first generation of Spartans returned bearing the red mark—the same crimson swirl that cut down the shoulder and across the chest of Kratos himself—the atmosphere among the trainees had transformed from disciplined obedience to burning hunger.

They had seen it with their own eyes.

Some had been present when the warriors revealed their fresh and bleeding tattoos. Others had only heard the tale passed from student to student like wildfire. But it was no longer a myth, no longer an abstract idea that the Agoge forged Spartans.

Now, the mark was real.

And only those who passed the trials could earn it.

The mark of the god-king.

The mark of a true Spartan.

And so they bled for it.

Fifteen-year-old Timos wiped blood from his lip with the back of his arm, stumbling upright after his opponent had knocked him flat with a brutal strike. His muscles burned, his lungs screamed, but he grabbed his wooden shield and charged again. Around him, other trainees did the same, gritting their teeth through broken fingers, bruised ribs, and split knuckles.

"Form your lines!" shouted Drillmaster Lykaon, pacing between the ranks. "You think pain means anything?! You want that mark? Then you will earn it!"

The trainees roared as one, slamming their shields together, the sound echoing like thunder across the plain.

They no longer trained because they had to.

They trained because they wanted to.

Timos glanced across the field to where the elder Spartans—the marked ones—stood observing. Their red tattoos gleamed in the sun, a river of blood made flesh. They stood silently, watching, never interfering.

Just watching.

And somehow, that was worse than any shouted criticism.

Across the training yard, in the shadow of a high marble arch, Daenerys Targaryen crouched low behind a line of stacked amphorae, her violet eyes wide. She wore a simple tunic now, and her silver hair had been bound back in a long braid that trailed down her spine. She had slipped away from her assigned studies with a stolen apple and a mind full of questions.

She had never seen a training field like this.

She had seen soldiers before—back in Lys and Tyrosh, she had watched Triarchy men parade, their gilded armor shining, their plumes high. But those men had trained in comfort, drilling lazily under perfumed commanders while slaves fanned them.

This… was different.

Some of these children were younger than some of the knights she had known back in Lys. Other trainees were old enough that she could see the first wisps of grey hair running through their heads. Sweat glistened on their brows. Mud clung to their legs. They fought not for show, but for survival. For strength. For pride. And Daenerys could see it clearly—they wanted this. No one beat them into obedience. No one shouted in fear. They rose. They fell. And they rose again.

The red tattoo had changed something. She heard whispers of it in the school halls, and even some of the younger teachers spoke of it with reverence.

It wasn't just a mark.

It was identity.

Daenerys bit into her apple, still watching. One of the girls—a dark-haired trainee barely older than her brother—collapsed during her spear drills, sweat pouring down her face. Her arms trembled too much to lift the shaft.

Drillmaster Lykaon stood over her, his expression like chiseled granite.

"Get up."

The girl whimpered. "I—I can't—"

"Get. Up." Lykaon growled again, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

And she did. Slowly. Shaking. But she rose.

Daenerys swallowed the lump in her throat, barely aware she still held her apple. This wasn't strength like she'd seen in the Triarchy. This was something more. Something that lived in the marrow.

She didn't flinch as the drillmaster's eyes swept toward her hiding place. She had been caught before—always scolded, never punished—but this time, Lykaon said nothing. He merely gave her the smallest nod.

A silent acknowledgment.

She wasn't the only one watching.

From the rooftop above, General Neos stood with arms folded beside Kratos himself. They had come without escort, choosing to observe in silence. Kratos's eyes swept over the trainees, over their grit, their pain, their obsession.

Neos leaned closer. "They would die for that mark."

"They should not have to," Kratos replied evenly.

"But they will," Neos said. "Because they saw what it means. Not power, not glory. Purpose."

Kratos said nothing for a long moment. He looked toward the central training ring, where an older boy, perhaps sixteen, was helping a smaller girl to her feet after a brutal sparring match. The boy said nothing. He didn't smile. Just handed her the spear again and stepped back into place. The girl stood taller now.

"The mark has become a symbol of meaning for them," Kratos murmured. "Just as it meant for me when I first marked myself."

Neos said nothing as he shifted through the pain in his chest; his own mark was still fresh, only a few weeks old.

After another moment, Kratos turned away and began to make his way back to the palace. Word had reached him that nearly every city in Essos, as well as Westeros, would be sending a representative to speak with him in a matter of months, and there was still much that needed to be done to make the city ready.

Far below, Daenerys crept from her hiding spot. Her curiosity had swallowed her fear whole. Skirting the edge of the yard, she made her way toward the weapon racks that stood beneath the shaded alcove. Dozens of wooden swords and shields lay stacked beside the real steel that no trainee dared touch without cause.

Her fingers reached toward one of the training swords… but stopped mid-air.

A voice cut through the heat.

"You shouldn't be here."

Daenerys spun, heart jumping.

Meera stood behind her, arms crossed over her chest, brow arched in quiet disapproval. Sweat clung to her skin, her armor dusted with dirt. But it was the red tattoo, curling down her left shoulder like a flame, that held Daenerys's gaze.

"I just… wanted to see," Daenerys said. She sounded small even to herself.

Meera studied her. Long and hard. And then, finally, she nodded.

"You saw more than most," she said. "But you're still too young to be here, the Agoge will find you when the time is right."

Daenerys looked back toward the field, where the trainees had resumed their grueling drills. "I can't fight," she said softly. "Not like them."

Meera snorted. "None of us could, not at the start. We bled, we broke, we cried. But we learned, and you will too. Not because someone forces you… but because you choose to."

Daenerys's lips parted, but no answer came. She didn't fully understand it yet. This hunger to be more. But she felt it.

Meera stepped beside her and gestured toward the field. "There will be days," she said, "when you'll curse every god that ever made you. Days when your bones feel like fire and your breath tastes like ash. But then there comes a day when you wake up… and realize you've survived it all. And suddenly, you know…."

"Know what?" Daenerys asked.

Meera smiled faintly. "That no one can ever break you again."

Daenerys stood in stunned silence, words lodged in her throat.

Meera turned, giving her a light shove between the shoulders. "Go on, little one. Back to your studies before your teacher has a heart attack."

Daenerys nodded quickly and took off at a sprint, her braid whipping behind her like a silver ribbon.

Meera watched her go with a quiet smile. There was so much curiosity in that child, so much gentleness, so different from her brother. Where Viserys Targaryen was pride and fire and fury, Daenerys was patience and wonder. She didn't hunger for thrones or crowns, only understanding—a rare thing.

Stretching, Meera groaned as her shoulders popped. Her muscles ached, but it was a good ache. The kind earned through fire.

She turned and made her way back across the yard, where Rhosene—tattooed and feral as ever—was currently bellowing at a pack of exhausted trainees.

"GET UP OR I'LL DRAG YOUR CORPSES TO THE PYRES MYSELF!"

Meera grinned. Sparta would be ready when the day came to show her teeth to the world again.

XXXX

Author's Note:
I know I said that you wouldn't get another chapter for a while, but this idea popped into my head and I just had to write it down. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Text

Winterfell:
The sun had not yet crested over the eastern hills of the North, but Winterfell was already awake.

Steam rose from the forges. Boots crunched lightly on frost-covered stone. Maester Luwin moved swiftly through the courtyard with a scroll in hand, his brow furrowed in quiet concern. He ascended the winding stairs of the great keep and paused outside the Lord's solar before knocking lightly.

"Enter," came Eddard Stark's familiar, grave voice.

Luwin stepped in, bowed slightly, and handed the scroll over. "A raven arrived before dawn. From Kings Landing. It bears Lord Arryn's personal seal."

Ned took the parchment with a furrowed brow. Jon Arryn did not write lightly.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His eyes moved slowly over the lines. Twice he read it. Then a third time, more slowly.

"My lord?" Luwin asked gently.

Ned lowered the scroll. "He asks something of me. Something I cannot refuse."

Luwin waited, as still as a shadow.

"Jon Arryn wants me to sail for Essos. To Sparta."

The Maester blinked. "Sparta? After what they did to the Triarchy? After what befell Tyrosh?"

Ned nodded. "He writes that the king's court is fearful. That Kratos commands an empire now in all but name. Robert… seeks answers. So does Jon."

Luwin looked uneasy. "That is a long journey, my Lord. And dangerous."

"Aye," Ned said, his voice distant. "But I must go."

XXXX

Later That Evening:
The crackling of the hearth filled the solar. Catelyn Stark stood near the fire, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her auburn hair fell loosely about her shoulders, her face tight with worry and fury.

"You are leaving?" she asked coldly. "For Essos?"

Ned nodded. He stood near the window, looking out into the fading light of dusk.

"To Sparta," Catelyn continued, as though testing the word on her tongue. "To the city of this... warlord?"

"Kratos," Ned said. "And yes. Jon Arryn asked it of me. And the king."

"They ask too much."

"They ask what must be done," Ned replied. "The crown is uneasy. Sparta is rising. And no one in Westeros understands what it truly is."

"I do," Catelyn said, her voice sharp. "The smallfolk whisper, even here in the North. They say the people of Sparta worship Kratos as a god. A god, Ned."

Ned turned toward her, the firelight catching the hard lines of his face. "I've heard those same rumors."

"And you would entertain them?" Catelyn asked, incredulous. "You would cross the Narrow Sea to treat with blasphemers who kneel before a man of flesh and blood?"

"I would cross the sea to understand them," Ned replied. "And to judge the truth for myself. Jon Arryn raised me, Cat. I owe him this. And I swore an oath to Robert. The crown needs someone who will give a truthful account of what is happening in Sparta."

Catelyn's eyes softened for a heartbeat. "I know. But what if this man—this Kratos—truly believes himself divine? What if his empire seeks more than just Essos?"

"Then we must know. Before it is too late."

There was a long silence between them. The crackle of the fire filled the void.

Finally, Catelyn asked, "When do you leave?"

"Within a fortnight was Jon's request," Ned said.

She frowned. "And you mean to take men with you? Guards?"

"I will take Jory Cassel with me, as well as a contingent of the guard. Not only to ensure my safety, but also as a show of strength."

"You think that wise?" Catelyn asked at once, "To march into this warlord's kingdom with a show of strength?"

"Based on what I've read about them…" Ned replied, "Strength is the only thing that Spartans respect."

Catelyn said nothing at that, just turned to stare into the flames of the hearth.

"I also intend to take Jon…" Ned said after a moment's hesitation.

Catelyn turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. "Jon Snow?"

"Yes."

"No," she said immediately.

Ned's voice remained calm. "I cannot leave him behind. Not with tensions as high as they are. And I will not ask you to raise him in my absence."

"You know how I feel about that boy," she hissed.

"I do," he said quietly. "Which is why I will take him with me."

Catelyn moved away from the fire, pacing, her arms crossed tighter than ever. "You ask me to accept blasphemy. To send my lord husband across the sea. And now you would take that boy with you?"

"I do not ask," Ned said. "I inform."

Her eyes narrowed. "And if I said no?"

He looked at her. Truly looked.

"I would still go."

That answer seemed to deflate her. Her arms dropped slightly, and for the first time in the conversation, she looked not angry—but hurt.

"Ned… what if you don't return?"

"I always return," he said softly. "You know I do."

"And if this Kratos kills you?"

"Then, make sure that the North remembers, and avenges me.

XXXX

Later That Night:
Ned found Jon Snow near the training yard, running drills with the young squires under Ser Rodrik's eye.

The boy's blade was fast, though not always clean. But his focus… that was what caught Ned's attention.

When the drill ended and Jon began to unstrap his practice gear, Ned approached.

"Father," Jon said, surprised. He rarely spoke to Ned when others could see.

"I need a word," Ned said.

They walked in silence to the godswood. There, among the ancient heart trees, Ned finally spoke.

"I've been called away, Jon. Across the sea."

Jon looked up quickly. "To war?"

"No. To learn." He paused. "To Sparta."

Jon's eyes widened. "The city that sank Tyrosh? That broke the Triarchy?"

"The same."

"And… you want me to come?"

"I do," Ned said. "I don't know how long I will be gone. And I would rather have you at my side than left behind where you are not wanted."

Jon winced slightly but nodded. "When do we leave?"

"In a week."

The boy nodded again, his face unreadable.

"There's more," Ned added. "This mission… It's not just for show. I go as the king's eyes. And you, if you're willing, may be mine."

Jon blinked. "You want me to spy?"

"No," Ned said. "I want you to see. And to remember. What you learn there may shape your future. It may shape the realm."

Jon straightened his back. "Then I'll go."

XXXX

Three Days Later:
Catelyn stood in the godswood, staring at the carved face of the heart tree. Her lips moved in silent prayer to the Seven, though she knew the godswood belonged to the old gods. She prayed nonetheless.

She heard Ned's steps behind her.

"You're really going, then."

"I am."

She turned slowly.

"Come back to me," she whispered.

"I will," Ned said, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "And if this Kratos is what they fear… I will see it. And warn the realm."

Catelyn nodded, tears brimming in her eyes, though none fell.

XXXX

Sparta. Two Weeks Later:
The council chamber of Sparta, often called the Stone Circle, was neither gilded nor grand. It was a place of function, not vanity. A circular bench of smooth stone ringed the center dais, where Kratos now stood, silent as always, watching his council with eyes as sharp as drawn steel. A sanctum of deliberation carved into stone with the same care as any temple. The walls bore murals of Sparta's rise: the conquest of Myr, the liberation of Lys, the obliteration of Tyrosh. No depictions of gods adorned this hall, only mortals who had clawed greatness from the bones of ruin. Light poured in from narrow windows, illuminating the faces of those who governed not through lineage or gold, but merit and sacrifice.

To the people, they were the Pillars of Sparta—seven in number, united beneath their king. Each one held a domain vital to the empire. Each one had bled for this city. And each one was his chosen.

Today, all seven had gathered. For the first time since word had come: envoys from Westeros, Dorne, and the remaining Free Cities were en route.

At Kratos's left sat General Neos, Lord of War. The broad-shouldered veteran wore armor even in the chamber; his red crested helmet lay on the bench beside him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, always ready to act. Calm, until war called.

To Kratos's right, Kara, the Lord of Faith, sat in quiet dignity, her cheek upon her knuckles. Her long grey hair was braided with strips of crimson cloth, and her ceremonial robes bore no gemstones, only stitched depictions of Kratos's deeds. The high priestess of Sparta rarely spoke unless it mattered. When she did, even Neos listened.

Opposite them sat Cassandra, Lord of Coin, once the assistant to the Master of the Iron Bank. Her hair was tied in a no-nonsense bun, and her dark green robes were clean but plain. She had once been sold for a crime she didn't commit; now, she bore the scars of her betrayal and enslavement like medals. And now her word moved legions of gold.

Next to her sat Cleitus, Lord of Knowledge, elder and stooped but sharp as ever. His long white beard was braided into three strands and fell past his chest. The scrolls at his belt rattled as he adjusted his seat. The libraries and academies of Sparta all answered to him.

Beside him, Bellatrix, Lord of Laws, sat ramrod straight. The tallest in the room, save Kratos, her voice carried like thunder across courts and barracks. She had been a slave turned enforcer, then guardian of the peace. Clad in the simple armor of a Spartan, her presence was iron—unbending, cold, and essential.
The commander of the city guard, tall and dark-eyed, she ruled the streets with iron clarity.

And beside her, arms crossed, lips pursed in what passed for a grin, sat Becker, Lord of Whispers, the spider of Sparta. Former assassin. Now master of intelligence. His presence was like smoke—unseen until the fire burned. His skin was dark as polished obsidian, his eyes unblinking, and his movements silent as mist. Only Kratos knew from where he came, but all knew of his spies. His voice, when used, was soft. Deadly. Unforgettable. What was most surprising, however, was his loyalty to Kratos. No one knew how the king of Sparta had earned such devotion, but all knew that he belonged body and soul to Kratos.

And finally…

Floki.

Lord of the Seas.

He did not sit. He perched.

Atop the back of his own bench, long legs crossed like a praying mantis, arms draped like sails in slack wind. He wore no armor, no cloak. Just salt-stained linen and a leather vest carved with etchings of waves and winds. His matted hair hung wild down his back, streaked with ash-blond and gray. His eyes—those strange, dancing eyes—flicked from one speaker to the next, as if charting waves only he could see.

Floki had once built ships for Myr. Ships so fine they seemed alive. Yet despite his skill in shipbuilding, the masters of Myr had refused to allow Floki to construct the ships he truly wanted to. The ones in Floki's dreams that would make any city that had them the uncontested ruler of the seas. That was until Kratos came to Myr and tore its chains asunder. Floki had been found in a shed of splinters and blueprints, surrounded by half-repaired hulls and whispering to gods no one else believed in. That was before he had laid his mad eyes on Kratos and found a new god to worship. Seeing beyond his 'supposed' madness to the sheer brilliant mind that lay beneath, Kratos had immediately made Floki the master of all the ships in Sparta and ordered him to begin building Sparta's fleet. This single act ensured that Floki's loyalty to Kratos was absolute, and he had undertaken the order given to him with all the mad enthusiasm he could bring to bear.

Now, his fleets made the seas of Essos Spartan.

Kratos raised his head. "They come?"

Becker nodded. "The envoys draw closer, my Lord. As predicted."

"From where?" Kratos rumbled.

"Two ships from Westeros. One from Dorne. And nine from the Free Cities. They will arrive within the next fortnight."

Neos scoffed. "Let them come. Let them see what we've built. Let them fear it."

Kara spoke softly. "We do not want fear. We want respect."

"We want both," Cassandra added. "Fear keeps hands still. Respect makes them open. Either way, we must assume the worst and hope for the best. They come not to pay respects, but to measure our strength."

"They'll find it immeasurable," Neos said.

Kara gave a soft nod. "But strength alone is not the lesson Sparta offers. What they must see is what Sparta has become—a city of rebirth."

Bellatrix snorted. "They won't care. Nobles only understand power. We show weakness, they strike. We show too much strength, they panic."

"We are not trying to charm them," Becker added. "Only ensure they leave alive… and afraid."

"We are not tyrants," Kratos growled.

The chamber fell silent.

He walked toward the edge of the dais, gazing down at his council. "We did not build this city to impress men. We built it to endure. Let them come. Let them see what we have made. But let them come as guests. Not enemies."

"Should they become enemies?" Bellatrix asked bluntly.

Kratos turned his head slightly. "Then they will be ended."

Cleitus tapped his staff. "Many of these cities sent scholars and scribes ahead of their lords. I've already housed them. They've seen the schools, the baths, the healing center."

"They see, but they do not understand," Floki said suddenly, voice like creaking wood. "They look at the walls and think them stone. But they are not stone. They are memory. They are blood, layered in purpose. They come expecting cities. They do not expect belief."

Bellatrix arched a brow. "Are you speaking poetry or madness, Floki?"

Floki grinned, eyes gleaming. "Yes."

A soft chuckle went around the chamber.

Kratos looked to Cassandra. "And the treasury?"

"Healthy," she replied. "Tyrosh and Lys have paid for at least a century of Spartan growth. We trade in food, steel, and education now. The vineyards outside the walls have begun exporting, and Spartan wine is now considered one of the best that can be bought.

Cleitus tapped his staff again. "The library is nearly complete. Fifty thousand scrolls and counting. I've heard whispers that some Maesters from the Citadel may wish to see it."

Kara's brow furrowed. "Westerosi Maesters? From Oldtown? They won't like what they find here. Based on what I've heard of them, they deplore freely given knowledge."

"They will learn," Cleitus replied. "Or be left behind."

Kratos turned to Becker. "The city is prepared?"

Becker gave a half-nod. "The guards have been doubled around the palace, Agoge Fields, and school districts. And when our guests arrive, I will be listening to them. Closely."

"And the people?" Kratos asked.

It was Floki who answered.

"They buzz," he said, voice lower. "Like bees on honeyed winds. They know something is coming. They know the world turns toward them now. Some fear it. Some welcome it. But all… feel it."

Kratos let the words hang in the air for a moment.

Then he stepped down from the dais and moved to the center of the ring.

"When they arrive," he said, "we will show them Sparta. Not our walls, not our fleets, not our soldiers, but our people. Let them see the children learning, the fields feeding mouths, and the slaves who became Spartans."

Bellatrix shifted. "Security, my lord?"

Neos gestured. "Each envoy will be assigned a personal escort of three. One from the city guard, one from the Agoge, and one from the phalanx. Every corner they turn will be watched. Every word noted."

"Will any be allowed inside this room?" Cassandra asked, arching a brow.

Kratos looked to Kara.

The priestess answered, "Let them stand here, where our hands meet. But only after they've seen all else. Let them understand that we rule not from greed or fear but from unity."

Cleitus smiled. "A powerful lesson."

Floki grinned. "Let's hope they're capable of learning."

Kratos looked over them all—warrior, sailor, merchant, scholar, priest, judge, spy.

His hands.

"We do not bend the knee," he said. "But we are not blind. If there is peace to be made, we will make it. If there is war to be had, we will finish it."

Neos stood. "Then we prepare. The world watches now."

"And Sparta watches back," said Bellatrix.

The meeting dissolved in disciplined steps. Cassandra gathered her scrolls. Cleitus leaned on his cane. Floki's pipe was lit the moment they left the room. Kara walked in silent prayer. Bellatrix left with orders to increase patrols. Becker disappeared, as always, into shadow.

Only Kratos remained.

He stood before the mural depicting the march from Myr, eyes fixed on the carved faces of warriors long dead—men and women who had followed him not because he was divine, but because he never asked of them what he would not endure himself.

Kratos was no fool; he knew how strong Sparta had become in just three short years and how such strength had caused many to look at Sparta with fear. He had essentially become an emperor in all but name. And yet, it was not an added weight he wanted to bear. When he had conquered Myr, destroyed Lys and Tyrosh, he had done so to ensure the safety of his people. To make sure they remained free from ever wearing chains again. He had not done it for a crown, nor did he want one. Yet he knew there might be no way to avoid it now.

XXXX

Author's Note:

Can't. Stop. Writing.

At this point, I'm hoping the ideas stop coming so I can focus on my other stories.

If you would like to join my Discord, where you can view pictures accompanying this story, you can find me under the username MandoVet.

Chapter Text

The winds off the Summer Sea were warm and salt-laced, but Ned Stark barely felt them. He stood at the prow of the Westerosi ship, his dark cloak flapping behind him, one hand resting on the hilt of Ice and the other gripping the rail. Behind him, the grey-clad Northmen stood in disciplined silence, warriors handpicked from Winterfell's household guard. And beside him, young Jon Snow, barely ten years old, clutched the edge of the rail with wide eyes, his black hair tangled by the sea breeze.

"Is that it, father?" Jon asked, his voice small, full of wonder.

Ned nodded slowly.

"Aye, lad. That is Sparta."

And what a sight it was.

It rose from the coastline like a vision out of legend, a grand and unyielding city carved into the bones of the land. White marble walls stretched for miles, interwoven with smooth black stone and flanked by towers bearing crimson banners marked with a single red omega. Past the gates, rising tiers of colonnades, schools, and training yards gave way to sprawling boulevards and terraced forums. Statues of warriors, philosophers, and builders lined the main roads, not gods—but men and women, immortalized in bronze and stone.

Jon could barely speak. His young eyes tried to take in every inch of what they saw: set on the city's highest ridge, a palace that overlooked everything. It was not a gaudy monstrosity like the Red Keep, but a strong, beautiful fortress with smooth walls and proud terraces, flanked by statues of Spartan heroes.

"I've never seen anything like it," whispered Jory Cassel, the captain of Ned's guards.

Neither had Ned.

He had marched across the North and stood before the walls of Riverrun, Barrowton, and even the Red Keep. He had seen castles built by dragonlords and cities chiseled from ancient stone. But none of it compared to this. This city was not merely built but forged, like a blade.

And it hummed with purpose.

As they sailed into the harbor, Ned saw Spartan triremes floating in perfect formation, their prows carved with wolves, spears, and grim-faced masks. Surrounding them were hundreds of trade ships bearing dozens of different sigils. Dockworkers moved with brisk efficiency, unloading crates marked in a dozen languages, and even the slaves—no, former slaves, he reminded himself—moved without the beaten, hunched posture so common in Westeros. They were free, and it showed.

A horn blew from the harbor wall.

A sleek black ship with crimson sails pulled alongside them, marked with the same omega sigil as the banners above. From the deck, a tall, dark-skinned man in Spartan armor and a flowing red cloak raised a hand in greeting.

"That must be the harbor master," Ned said.

Sure enough, the Spartan ship guided them into a wide dock of polished black stone. There was no gold or ornamentation; there was only function.

As they disembarked, the full weight of the city hit them.

Marble steps rose into the main gates, flanked by two towering statues of helmeted warriors. The gates were open, not to intimidate, but to welcome; though the dozen spear-wielding guards on either side made clear that any trouble would be swiftly ended.

Ned stepped onto Spartan soil.

And instantly, he felt it.

Not magic. Not fear. But discipline.

Order.

From the vendors in the market squares to the patrols walking in pairs along the roads to the boys and girls in uniform tunics reciting geometry beneath stone arches, everything was purposeful, structured, and alive.

Jon stayed close to his side, his mouth agape.

"Look at them," the boy whispered. "They're all so… strong."

"And proud," Ned said. "Even the youngest of them."

They were met at the gates by a Spartan escort. A woman in Spartan armor stood at its head, her black hair bound tight and her eyes like sharpened steel, while her helmet was held tight under her left arm.

"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell," she said in a deep voice. "I am Bellatrix, Lord of Laws. You and your men are welcome in Sparta. You will be given guest chambers within the Palace."

Ned bowed his head slightly. "Your hospitality is noted, my lady."

"I must congratulate you on being the first to arrive."

"We're the first?" Ned responded in shock. "I would have thought the envoys from Dorne would have beaten us; they are much closer after all."

"Unfortunately, a storm halted their departure by nearly two weeks," Bellatrix responded quickly."

"What of the envoys from the other Free Cities?" Ned asked.

"They've apparently decided to sacrifice time for comfort…" Bellatrix replied dryly, "Once they felt their travel accommodations were appropriate to their station, they departed…"

Ned frowned at that; he had no love for the extravagance that some nobles liked to exhibit and could understand Bellatrix's annoyance with those she felt were wasting Sparta's time.

"Thankfully, we've received word that all should reach the city by sundown. King Kratos has arranged for a Grand Feast tonight to welcome you all to Sparta. You will meet him then."

Bellatrix turned to Jon. Her gaze softened for only a moment.

"Your son?"

"Yes. My… bastard." Ned said in obvious discomfort. "Jon Snow."

She gave the boy a curt nod. "He will learn much here, if he watches closely. But you should know, Lord Stark, that in Sparta, we do not judge someone based on their birth. But rather the content of their character."

Jon's jaw dropped open comically at that, as did several of the Northman guards behind him. Ned seemed equally shocked for a moment before regaining control of himself. Jon managed a moment later, straightened under her gaze, unconsciously pulling his shoulders back. Internally, however, he was in a state of complete shock. An entire society where being a bastard held no power?

They were led through the city, their boots clapping against the polished stone roads. Children trained in the yards, reciting philosophy and mathematics with the same energy others gave to swordplay. Veterans nodded in passing, their red-marked shoulders gleaming with pride.

And everywhere, there was the mark.

The red tattoo that curled over the shoulders of true Spartans—Kratos's mark.

Ned recognized it instantly. Reports had come about it just before he had left Winterfell about how all those who had fought against the Triarchy and had already earned their armor had decided to mark themselves with the same tattoo that their King wore.

Now it adorned an entire civilization.

And they bore it like armor.

When they finally reached the Palace, they paused beneath its vast terrace. The bronze doors loomed above them, plain but powerful, and the omega symbol, painted in ochre, was dark as blood.

Jon whispered, "They said we would meet this Kratos tonight. Do you think he's really a God?"

Ned was silent for a moment.

"I don't know what he is, Jon. But we'll soon find out."

The doors opened.

And the heart of Sparta awaited.

XXXX

The sun hung above the sea, casting a golden sheen across the sapphire waves as the sleek Dornean vessel approached the Spartan harbor. The ship, made from sun-dark wood and trimmed in gold and crimson, cut across the water like a serpent, its silken sails billowing in the warm breeze.

Oberyn Martell stood at the bow, his arms crossed over his chest, a contemplative smile dancing across his lips. Beside him, Ellaria Sand leaned into the railing, her eyes fixed on the horizon, while behind them, three of the Sand Snakes huddled close together, whispering with excitement.

"Is that it?" asked Obara, shading her eyes against the sunlight. "That can't be real."

"It is," Oberyn said, voice low, awestruck. "By the gods... it is."

Sparta.

It rose before them like a city born not of men but of the old myths. White stone walls rose toward the heavens, strong towers glinting beneath the sun, and wide roads radiating from the heart of the city like the arms of a star. The port itself was immense and impossibly well-organized. There was no chaos, no shouting merchants haggling, just order, even beauty.

"Mother above," whispered Tyene, barely older than a girl. "I didn't know men could build such things..."

Ellaria nodded slowly. "This isn't just a city. It's a declaration."

As their ship sailed closer, they passed a line of Spartan warships in formation—sleek, narrow, deadly. The helms were carved with wolves and owls, and each vessel bore the red omega on its sail. Sailors aboard the Spartan ships turned to watch, but none shouted. None jeered. Just quiet observance.

"They don't look like they're here to impress us," said Nymeria, leaning on her spear.

"No," Oberyn agreed. "They don't need to."

The moment the ship docked, a group of Spartan harbor officials approached with silent efficiency. One of them, a wiry man with sun-creased skin and a short crimson cloak, stepped forward.

"Oberyn Martell of Dorne," he said. "Lady Ellaria. You and your company are welcome in Sparta; you will be escorted to the Palace."

"How courteous," Oberyn said with a smirk.

The Spartan ignored the tone, simply gesturing to a waiting chariot.

Their path into the city was carved through high walls and flanked by colonnades covered in murals—not of kings or gods, but of battles, laborers, physicians tending the wounded, and teachers guiding students. The red mark of Kratos appeared again and again, not as a boast but as a standard—a symbol of transformation.

Everywhere they looked, Sparta breathed.

Children in uniform tunics marched through the streets in orderly columns, reciting chants of numbers and equations. Vendors in market squares displayed goods from across Essos. Yet, not a single gold coin exchanged hands without a clear record and witness. Nothing was wasted. Nothing ignored.

"Where are the slaves?" Obara asked.

"There are none," Ellaria replied. "Not in Sparta."

As they passed one of the great plazas, they saw what could only be a training field. Dozens—no, hundreds—of men and women drilled with wooden spears, blades, and shields. Their skin gleamed with sweat; many bore the red mark etched into their flesh, proud and permanent.

"They train harder than any army I've ever seen," Nymeria said.

"Not an army," Oberyn corrected. "A people."

The city was immense but not wasteful. There were no palace spires reaching for the heavens or gold-leafed domes to dazzle. The beauty was in the strength of its stone, the balance of its buildings, and the rhythm of its streets.

Then they saw it.

The Palace.

Carved into the tallest rise of the city, it overlooked all of Sparta. It was no gilded monstrosity but a fortress of smooth black stone veined with white marble. Massive bronze doors marked its entry, emblazoned with a red omega. Statues lined the exterior—not of kings but of warriors, healers, teachers, and laborers.

"He lives among them," Ellaria said. "Not above them."

They dismounted at the palace steps.

Waiting for them was a woman in gleaming silver armor, tall, broad-shouldered, her eyes unblinking and fierce.

"Welcome to Sparta," she said. I am Tetra, and I have been tasked with being your escort during your stay."

Oberyn bowed with a dramatic flourish. "A pleasure, Lady Tetra."

She raised a brow. "Titles matter little here, Prince. What matters is what you bring to the table."

He chuckled. "Then I hope you're hungry."

Tetra did not smile, but Ellaria caught the flicker of amusement in her eyes.

The Palace was not grand, but it was vast. The hallways were lined with murals of Sparta's rise: a slave camp becoming a city, then a kingdom, then something greater. Past the council chamber, past the war room, past the great terrace, they were shown to their quarters. They were modest but finely made. Cool stone walls, clean bedding, and images of great battles were carved onto all the walls.

"The Great Feast will begin at sundown, once all the other envoys and dignitaries have arrived. I will return for you then, but in the meantime, feel free to enjoy yourselves."

Without another word, Tetra turned and strode out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Oberyn could see the sprawling vineyards and farmland stretching into the distance from their window. The land was alive.

He turned to Ellaria.

"Now do you see why I came?"

She stepped beside him, her hand brushing his. "It is not what I expected."

"No," Oberyn said. "It never is."

Behind them, Tyene peeked into the room. "What kind of man builds a place like this?"

Oberyn's eyes narrowed as he stared toward the horizon.

"We're going to find out."

XXXX

PENTOS:

The magister of Pentos, a rotund man named Malerio Tolos, stepped off his ship in shimmering violet robes trimmed with silver thread. Behind him came half a dozen guards and two scribes, each furiously writing on scrolls even as they walked.

Malerio gawked at the harbor first—the cleanliness, the efficiency, the sheer silence of it all.

"Where are the beggars?" he murmured. "Where are the hawkers, the children snatching coin?"

A nearby Spartan dockhand, overhearing him, answered quietly, "There are none."

They were escorted through the city in silence, passing murals of battle, workers, and scholars. Malerio clutched his walking stick tighter as they moved through districts of children in schools reciting knowledge in multiple tongues, gymnasiums filled with boys and girls wrestling and training in philosophy alike, and training yards echoing with the clash of spear and shield.

"What is this place?" one of the scribes whispered.

"A warning," Malerio muttered. "To all of us."

XXXX

THE IRON BANK:

The delegation from the Iron Bank arrived dressed in dark finery, with polished boots and scrolls bound in dragonbone. But as they disembarked, their eyes locked on a tall woman waiting for them at the docks.

Cassandra.

Their surprise was immediate and poorly hidden.

Garren of Braavos, narrow-eyed and fox-faced. Blinked as he stepped forward.

"Cassandra?"

She smiled as she stepped forward. "It has been some years, hasn't it?"

"It has…" Garren replied, "You were presumed dead."

"I was enslaved." Cassandra sneered back, "by your associate for supposedly 'embezzling funds.'"

Garren offered a polite chuckle, not quite meeting her gaze. "Then, we are ever so happy to see you alive and well."

"I don't believe you, but it's nice of you to say, all the same," Cassandra smirked, seemingly enjoying Garren's discomfort.

"I had heard that a woman named 'Cassandra' was the Lord of Coin for Sparta…" Garren said after a moment of tense silence. "But I never could have imagined it would be you…"

"Well, good thing for me that Lord Kratos sees potential and value in everyone…" Cassandra replied with a dangerous edge to her voice. "Even in those who others throw away."

Garren rubbed his beard at that, saying nothing for several moments.

"Your King is a man of... rare vision."

Cassandra raised a brow. "That is why he has earned his crown."

XXXX

NORVOS:

The Norvosi envoys arrived in their tall, brimmed hats and flowing dark robes. Stoic and deeply bound by ritual, they were both priests and politicians. Their leader, High Chanter Volmenn, studied every structure with narrowed eyes.

"Where are your temples?" he asked a passing Spartan.

"Speak to Kara," was the only reply.

Kara, High Priestess of Sparta, greeted them outside the gates of a towering structure still under construction. Already, the Temple of Kratos was unlike anything seen in Essos; a colossus of marble and bronze, adorned with carved murals of Spartan victory and salvation.

"This... is your only temple?" Volmenn frowned.

"The only one we need," Kara answered. "There is only one god in Sparta."

"A man," another Norvosi muttered. "A man pretending to be divine."

Kara tilted her head and stared unnervingly at the man momentarily before replying, "Many believed that. Now, they are all dead."

The men left quickly after that, eager to return to their rooms in the Palace, far away from the eerie woman whose gaze bordered on fanaticism.

XXXX

VOLANTIS:

The Volantene delegation was large and opulent. Half their retinue wore the black and red stripes of nobility. The other half wore robes of deep purple with gems of extreme beauty stitched into the fabric. One woman named Velyra stood alone in dark red robes; a priestess of R'hllor, studying everything around her with narrowed eyes.

From the harbor to their lodgings, they were greeted with silence, discipline, and unimpeachable order.

From the harbor to their lodgings, they were greeted with silence, discipline, and unimpeachable order. As their ship pulled into the Spartan harbor, they saw laborers working alongside builders; shipwrights, children delivering tools. None bore chains. None bore brands. And all were paid.

One of the Volantene nobles whispered, "This... is not natural."

"Agreed…" Another noble spat angrily. "This whole city is a violation of the natural order."

As they passed through the city, whispers grew. Merchants who had once worn chains now owned their own stalls. Boys and girls who had once been branded property now wore red cloaks and armor.

As a tall Spartan in armor strode past the delegation, one of the nobles turned to their escort. "That man, I saw his brand! He belongs to House Meleros!"

Their Spartan escort, a lean woman in armor, spoke without a moment's hesitation. "He belongs to no one now."

"How dare you!" The noble retorted angrily, "That man is property! You are disrupting the world order by allowing him to wear that armor!"

Again, the woman replied without pause, "Good."

The nobles stewed in silence for the rest of the walk.

And the moment they reached the Spartan guest quarters, the complaints began in full force.

"This is unacceptable!" Domeren Meleros sneered angrily. "There is no bath, no silk bedding, no attendants!"

"Your wealth means nothing here," their Spartan escort spat back. "You have a bed, water, food, and protection. If you are displeased, you are welcome to leave."

Meleros turned red. "How dare you—"

"Dare? I am Spartan. I do not need to dare. I will return tonight to escort you to the Grand Feast. Until then, stay or leave as you will."

The Spartan woman turned and stormed away without another word, leaving the fuming nobles behind.

XXXX

QARTH:

They came dressed like peacocks—jewels dripping, silks flowing, and perfumes wafting in the Spartan air.

And then they saw Sparta.

No gold, no emerald towers. Just strength. Marble. Bronze. Smoke and sweat.

"It is barbaric," sniffed one.

"It is eternal," murmured another.

They saw no slaves. No silk-draped servants. No dancers. Just children learning, warriors training, fields being harvested with joy.

Even the Qartheen were forced into silence.

The youngest among them said, "They are not rich in gold... but rich in spirit."

"Dangerously so," the eldest replied. "One day, they may come for ours."

XXXX

MANTARYS:

And then came the strangest delegation of all.

From behind bronze masks, the representatives of Mantarys moved like shadows, speaking little and observing much. Their leader, a tall woman with one green eye and one golden, said nothing for hours.

But she watched.

She watched the forge-masters shaping blades with no Valyrian steel, but with care.

She watched children recite strategy and poetry in the same breath.

She watched the citizens walk unafraid. Free.

"You have built something that should not exist," she said to General Neos at last.

Neos only replied, "Yet here we stand."

She bowed. "Mantarys does not bow to gods. But we respect power."

And so she left an offering of knowledge, a scroll written in the lost tongue of Valyria. For the Great Library.

XXXX

The sea breeze rolled over the deck of the ship as the cliffs of Sparta emerged from the haze of dawn.

Tyrion Lannister stood at the prow, his small hands gripping the carved railing. The scent of salt and olive groves drifted on the wind, but it was the sight before him that robbed the words from his tongue. Even he, who prided himself on always having something clever to say, found himself speechless.

Beside him, Kevan Lannister crossed his arms over his chest, mouth set in a firm line. "By the Seven…" he murmured. "What in all the hells is this place?"

Sparta.

A city carved from legend and sharpened by war.

White marble buildings gleamed beneath the rising sun, spreading out in proud avenues and regimented quarters like a fan drawn by the hand of some ancient god. Training fields stretched like scars across the land beyond the walls. Statues lined the docks—towering, not of kings or gods, but of warriors mid-charge, of farmers with sickles, of teachers raising scrolls in clenched fists.

And above it all, rising from the central plateau like a sentinel carved from the bones of the world itself, loomed the palace. Severe and dark, yet noble in its restraint. Flanked by columns, and marked only by a red omega. No gilded domes. No banners flaunting the names of noble houses. Just the symbol, and silence.

Tyrion chuckled softly. "I feel we have sailed not to a city, but into a story the maesters forgot to write."

Kevan didn't answer. He was still staring.

The ship pulled into the harbor and was met by a group of Spartan dockworkers and escorts—each man and woman dressed in Spartan armor, their movements fluid and disciplined. One stepped forward, a tall man with a spear strapped to his back and scars marking his jaw.

"You are guests of Sparta," he said simply. "Follow me."

No welcome fanfare. No gold. No garlands. Just that.

As Tyrion and Kevan disembarked with their northern guards, they stepped onto stone roads so clean one could eat from them. Children passed by in disciplined lines, carrying slates and books. In the distance, a drillmaster barked orders while boys and girls hurled spears at straw dummies with terrifying precision.

Sparta didn't pretend to be rich.

It pretended to be strong.

And it did so without a single lie.

As they passed rows of homes and colonnades, Tyrion's eyes widened with each step. "I always thought Lannisport was orderly," he murmured. "This place makes it look like a brothel during tax season."

Kevan shot him a glare, but said nothing.

Eventually, they were led into a modest courtyard near the heart of the city. Their quarters were simple—stone walls, wooden beds with clean linens, a table, a pitcher of cold water, and a window overlooking the street below.

Tyrion stepped inside and blinked. "No wine fountain? No silk robes? No portrait of me carved in jade?"

The Spartan escort stood motionless. "This is Sparta. If your comfort is not sufficient, you may return to your ship."

Kevan tensed, but Tyrion raised a hand. "No, no. It's perfect. Spartan, even."

The soldier inclined his head and turned on his heel, leaving them.

As the door shut behind him, Kevan rubbed his temples. "This city is… unnatural."

Tyrion walked to the window. Outside, a group of children were reciting multiplication tables in perfect unison while a teacher monitored their cadence.

"No," he whispered. "This city is impossible."

After a long silence, Tyrion turned. "When do we meet their king?"

Kevan sat on the edge of the bed. "That man… Kratos. They say he's a god."

"They say a lot of things. But anyone who builds this out of slave camps and rubble…" Tyrion shook his head. "God or not, he deserves to be heard."

Moments later, another Spartan arrived to formally deliver the message.

"You are to attend the evening's feast," the young woman said. "All envoys will be present. The King will address you then."

"And until then?" Kevan asked.

"You are free to explore the city, if you so choose. Or rest. Sundown is your summons."

With that, she turned and left them to their thoughts.
XXXX

They stepped back into the city an hour later, walking through the agora where vendors sold bread, olives, scrolls, and copper tools—but no slaves. There were none. Not one. Throughout their wanderings, both men were keenly aware that they were being followed by Spartans.

They saw the public baths—open and clean, with men and women bathing separately, but all speaking in low, purposeful voices about law, poetry, or engineering.

They passed the House of Healing, still under construction, but already tended by robed scholars and physicians with scrolls tucked into belts.

And in the distance, rising from the earth like a challenge hurled at the gods themselves, they saw the Temple. The Temple of Kratos.

It wasn't finished. But even half-built, it dwarfed any sept in Westeros. Dark stone. Bronze supports. And etched above the lintel in crimson paint: Strength. Discipline. Freedom.

Kevan turned to Tyrion. "This is not a city."

"No," Tyrion agreed. "It's a statement."

As the sun began to descend beyond the peaks, staining the city in hues of gold and crimson, Tyrion stood in their quarters once more, adjusting his tunic.

He looked to Kevan, who remained silent as he checked his blade's sharpness.

"Nervous, uncle?" Tyrion asked.

Kevan didn't look up. "We are lions in a den full of wolves. I'm not nervous. I'm cautious."

Tyrion smiled as he filled his cup with cool Spartan wine. "Then you're smarter than most men give you credit for."

XXXX

By the day's end, the city of Sparta had received envoys from across the known world.

And though no one said it aloud, each was changed.

Some were in fear; this city unsettled them. Others were filled with admiration.

Priests felt challenged. Scholars felt humbled.

And though none said it aloud, each left the day with one undeniable truth:

Sparta was not just a city. It was a force, a vision, a reckoning. And soon, they would meet its god.

Chapter Text

The night air was cool atop the highest terrace of the palace, the wind whispering gently through the colonnades. The marble beneath Kratos's boots was smooth and cool, a welcome contrast to the heat still lingering from the day. He stood alone, motionless, save for the rise and fall of his chest as he gazed down upon the city.

Sparta.

It sprawled beneath him like a vision from another world—a world not forged by divine command, but by toil, stone, and blood. From the high perch of his chamber's balcony, he could see it all. The agora marketplace, silent now as many of the merchants made their way home for the night, or to the nearest tavern to drink to that day's success or failure. The training fields still flickering with the last torchlights of a day's final drills. The great marble avenues gleamed faintly beneath the stars, carrying workers and warriors back to their homes and taverns. The nearly complete Temple of Kratos loomed in the distance, rising like a mountain crowned in scaffolding.

He could see everything.

Hear everything.

The city was his. Not as a tyrant claims a kingdom. But as a blacksmith claims the blade he has tempered and hammered into form.

And yet, he felt none of the triumph that others might. Not pride. Not satisfaction.

Only silence.

Only weight.

"You've built something beautiful, my love."

The voice came softly, gently, from behind him.

Kratos's hands clenched the stone railing with sudden force, veins bulging along his forearms. His breath hitched.

He didn't turn.

He didn't have to.

The voice was etched into the deepest hollows of his heart.

Faye.

Still, he remained still, eyes scanning the city as if afraid that turning around would break the illusion.

"I know you're not there," he whispered after a long moment. His voice was rough, gravel and grief twisted together.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I never left."

The breeze shifted, and for a heartbeat, it felt like warmth ghosted across his back, like the brush of a hand that had once known him intimately.

Kratos exhaled sharply through his nose. His shoulders sagged.

"They revere me," he said, jaw tight. "Call me god. Savior. King." His hands tightened again. "They do not know what I am."

"They know more than you think."

"They know nothing," he growled. "I am not who they believe. I am not their salvation. I am not this 'pale god' that their prophecy says I am. My throne was built on suffering…"

Silence.

Then the voice came again, soft but firm.

"You are a god. But not of death."

He flinched.

"You are not the monster that Olympus made. Not the shadow that Midgard feared. Not anymore."

He looked down at his hands—scarred, calloused, the leather of his gauntlets worn thin. These were the same hands that had torn gods from thrones, ripped Titans from the mountains, and slaughtered countless beings of myth and legend.

His voice cracked. "Then what am I?"

A pause.

Then, "You are what you choose to be."

Kratos bowed his head. The breeze stirred his cloak.

"You always believed in me more than I did," he murmured, voice almost inaudible now.

"Because I saw the man. Not just the god."

He closed his eyes. And for a fleeting instant, he allowed himself the smallest whisper of hope; that if he turned now, she would be there. That if he spoke her name, he might see her smile one more time.

"I miss you," he breathed. "Every moment."

But when he turned… the room behind him was empty.

As it always was.

The wind blew gently through the balcony. The silence returned.

A soft knock broke the stillness.

Kratos looked toward the heavy bronze door. A Spartan guard stepped inside, pressing his fist to his chest in salute.

"My king," the young warrior said. "The envoys are gathered in the feast hall. They await your presence."

Kratos looked once more out across the city.

The streets glimmered faintly in the torchlight. Children laughed in the distance. Warriors sang from the taverns. Farmers carried baskets of grapes and bread down winding alleys. It was not Olympus. It was not Asgard.

It was better.

Because it was real.

After a long silence, Kratos turned his back on the night and strode from the balcony.

"Let them wait no longer."

XXXX

The sun dipped low behind the mountain ridges, casting a golden hue across Sparta's marble façades. From atop its terraces, one could see the sprawling vineyards beyond the gates and the last rays of light dancing across the tiled roofs and colonnades. But as darkness came, light did not fade. It bloomed.

Torches flared to life one by one, lining the grand avenues like veins of fire. Bells tolled from distant towers; not in alarm, but in celebration.

Inside, the hall was a marvel of power disguised in restraint. No golden chandeliers hung from the ceilings, no jewel-encrusted goblets awaited the touch of kings. Instead, the grandeur lay in the sheer scale of the chamber: towering pillars of dark stone lined the walls, each etched with the history of Sparta's rise. The red omega blazed proudly at the center of a great marble mosaic on the hall's floor.

Long stone tables stretched the length of the hall, each flanked by benches where delegates from every corner of Essos sat in restless silence, caught between fascination and wariness. Upon the tables were platters of fire-roasted meats, bowls of olives, baskets of dark bread, and fresh fruit. Roasted lamb rubbed in mountain herbs, skewers of grilled fish from the Blackwater, dark olives, and wheels of goat's cheese, amphorae overflowing with Spartan wine, and a hundred other things to choose from.

Food was not served by servants; there were none. Guests were free to serve themselves, as was custom here. Some hesitated, unaccustomed to such release from the rehearsed elegance of nobility. Others embraced the freedom eagerly.

Spartan guards, silent and still as statues, lined the periphery of the chamber. Red cloaks, silver armor shining like moonlight, and gleaming spears in hand. Their presence was not ornamental. This was a feast, but it was also a message.

But there was no throne at the center of the dais, no gleaming gold, no jeweled extravagance. Only a single long table at the head of the hall, raised slightly higher than the other tables, where Sparta's council sat, waiting. At the center of the table, one lone chair made of leather and wood was empty, yet gave no sign of weakness, despite its simplicity.

XXXX

Lord Eddard Stark, clad in deep grey trimmed with wolf fur, entered the hall with young Jon Snow by his side. They were among the first of the Westerosi to arrive, and though Ned was no stranger to grandeur, what he saw humbled him.

Jon, barely ten, looked up in wonder. "Is this… all real?"

Ned nodded slowly. "Aye. And I suspect this is only the beginning."

"There are no servants…" Jon said softly, "They serve themselves?"

"Aye," Ned nodded in understanding, a wave of respect rolling through him. "Because no one here is less than another."

The great hall was already half-filled with envoys and emissaries, their accents and garb forming a living map of Essos.

The Iron Bank sat stiffly beside the Braavosi delegation, their deep red cloaks unmistakable. The Braavosi, ever stylish, studied the walls like collectors at an auction.

"The symmetry," one whispered in High Valyrian. "It's too perfect. It's unnatural."

From Quarth, a merchant prince adorned in silks and jewels fanned himself lazily. "So much stone," he said with a sneer. "You'd think they'd discovered marble for the first time."

His companion leaned in, whispering, "Yet we are all here. And he—this King we have not yet seen—summoned no one. We came of our own will."

Even the Lorathi delegates, wrapped in the pale furs of their cold isle, found themselves unnerved. Their leader, a wiry man with sharp eyes, leaned toward his scribe. "Take note of the discipline," he murmured. "Every aspect is controlled. Even the chaos of a feast is arranged with intention."

Nearby, the envoys from Norvos debated among themselves, muttering in hushed Norvoshi. One pointed toward the mural etched into the far wall: Kratos leading the march through Lys, slaves unshackled, standing tall beside Spartan warriors.

"And they worship this man?"

"There is only one temple in this city," another replied, gesturing to Kara at the high table, the High Priestess of Sparta.

"Only one?" a third sneered.

"I heard it from her own lips." One of the Norvoshi replied softly. "Her exact words were: One God. One temple. One Sparta."

Even the emissaries from Yi Ti—stoic, distant, veiled—leaned forward, intrigued by the defiance, the power, and the subtle threat behind Kara's words.

"Send word to the emperor the moment the feast concludes. He will be very interested in hearing about this city. And the man who rules it..."

Still no Kratos. But already, the world was tilting.

XXXX

Prince Oberyn Martell and his retinue swept into the hall with casual grace. Beside him walked Ellaria Sand, radiant in deep violet, and behind them, the Sand Snakes—each a deadly shadow in their own right.

Oberyn let out a low whistle. "Even the water gardens of Sunspear seem humble now."

Ellaria raised a brow. "And you don't feel threatened?"

"Oh, I do," he replied with a grin. "But it is a pleasure to be threatened by beauty rather than steel."

The Dornish moved through the chamber like prowling cats, admiring the scale, the symmetry, the sheer confidence of it all. They noted the absence of thrones, of ostentation, and yet, no one mistook this place for anything but a seat of power.

As they took their seats, Oberyn lounged on the bench with the effortless grace of a snake sunning itself. Beside him, Ellaria drank slowly from her goblet, her eyes never leaving the line of guards along the far wall—tall, stone-faced warriors with spears at the ready.

"They do not move," she whispered. "Not even to drink."

"They're waiting," Oberyn replied. "For what, I don't know. But I think we'll find out soon enough."

The Sand Snakes sat further down, each with a different expression: curiosity, caution, admiration, even desire. The youngest, Tyene, reached out to touch the carvings on the table's edge, tracing the etched omega with one finger, her eyes narrowed in contemplation.

XXXX

Tyrion Lannister arrived shortly after, walking with his uncle Kevan and flanked by two gold-cloaked guards of Lannisport.

Tyrion froze the moment they entered.

"This… is a city of madmen," he murmured. "Madmen with discipline."

Kevan grunted. "It's a military empire. The sooner we accept that, the better."

Tyrion stepped forward slowly, eyes dancing across the mosaic floor. "And the food! Look! Spiced honey-roasted duck, and… gods, is that a cask of firewine from Dagger Lake? They don't even have servants. Do you think we're meant to serve ourselves?"

A Spartan escort nearby overheard and replied in clipped Common Tongue, "In Sparta, all serve themselves. Even kings."

Kevan's brows rose, but he nodded respectfully. "Then let's not offend our hosts."

XXXX

Throughout the room, tension mingled with awe. Everyone waited, whispered, and still, Kratos had not yet arrived.

The feast was in full swing. Roasted meats, overflowing amphorae of Spartan wine, fresh fruits, and bread covered the long tables. Dignitaries from across Essos and Westeros had been speaking in hushed awe at the marvels of the city around them, still trying to reconcile what they had seen since their arrival: a place of impossible discipline and unmatched architecture, order, and culture somehow fused with strength and purpose. But now the hall was quiet.

The sound of armored boots echoed from the shadowed corridor leading to the upper levels. Though no one had called for silence, the entire hall fell into a breathless hush as every gaze turned toward the towering doorway at the end of the chamber.

And then he stepped through.

Kratos.

The King of Sparta.

He wore full armor—the same shimmering silver-plated armor as the guards surrounding the hall—shaped and layered like the muscle beneath it. It caught the firelight and shimmered like quicksilver. Across his back sat the Leviathan Axe, gleaming with ancient runes, and at his hips, twin chains hung heavy—the Blades of Chaos resting against his thighs like silent warnings.

But it was not the armor or weapons that drew the room into stunned silence.

It was him.

He was enormous. Taller than any man most had ever seen; taller even than the Mountain That Rides. Broad-shouldered, muscle-bound, yet with a stillness and presence more terrifying than brute strength alone. His skin was pale, like stone, and the red tattoo that coiled from his left eye down across his chest marked him unmistakably as the god the Spartans claimed him to be.

And there was an aura around him. Not one of arrogance or indulgence.

But of power. Pure, restrained, lethal power.

Every step he took was measured. Controlled. Each footfall echoed like a war drum.

Tyrion Lannister sat frozen at the high table, wine forgotten in his goblet. His mouth was slightly open.

"Seven hells," Kevan whispered beside him, the words barely audible. "That's not a man… That's a bloody Titan."

Tyrion could only nod, his gaze fixed. He had once seen the Mountain in full armor. But this was something else. This was like watching a glacier wrapped in bronze, ready to move at will—and flatten anything in its path.

At another table, Ned Stark sat upright. His son Jon stared in wide-eyed wonder as Ned's eyes narrowed.

There was no mistaking it. This was not someone to challenge. This was not a man to provoke. Whatever doubts Ned had about Kratos being worshipped as a god by his people had evaporated.

He now understood.

Oberyn Martell leaned forward, wine forgotten in his cup. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were quiet for once, all eyes on the Spartan King. Nymeria whispered, "I didn't know men could grow that big…"

Oberyn exhaled slowly. "That is no ordinary man..."

Even the Red Priestess from Volantis, who had sneered at the feast's structure and lack of servants, now found herself silent. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she paled as the blood rushed from her face as a memory from years before returned to her when her god had spoken into the mind of every one of his followers in a bellowing voice.
Her lips moved in High Valyrian as the memory returned to her, and the words her god had used: "The pale god…"

Across the tables, nobles from Norvos, Lorath, Pentos, and Qarth whispered and muttered in stunned tones. Those who had come to Sparta with thoughts of manipulation or negotiation—the idea that perhaps this warrior-king was a brute to be outmaneuvered—now found such thoughts melting away like snow beneath flame.

Their plans did not survive the sight of him.

Kratos reached the center of the long, open aisle, flanked by torchlight and gazes. He did not raise a hand, he did not speak. He simply stood there, his gaze sweeping across the assembled dignitaries like a general assessing a battlefield.

The room remained silent. Every breath was held. Every throat tight.

He turned and slowly climbed the three steps to the raised dais at the end of the hall, where the head table sat.

He did not sit.

Instead, Kratos turned and faced the room.

The Spartan guards lining the chamber slammed their spears against the stone floor in perfect unison.

Thoom.

It was like thunder in the marrow.

Thoom.

Again. A declaration.

Thoom.

Then silence once more.

Kratos looked over the assembled foreign dignitaries. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and quiet, but it reached every ear with absolute clarity.

"You have come," he said, "to see what Sparta is."

No flourish. No greetings. No false warmth.

Only truth.

And somehow, it was more powerful than any speech.

"In the coming days," Kratos continued. "You will see with your own eyes just what this city is, and when you return to your masters, you will tell them what you saw."

He took a single step forward.

"Not what you thought Sparta was. Not the stories. Not the whispers."

Another step.

"You will speak of what you saw with your own eyes."

There was no roar in his voice. No need for volume. The weight of his words hung in the air like a hammer raised over an anvil.

Tyrion swallowed hard. Kevan grimaced as he wondered how his brother would respond to this report.

Oberyn smiled faintly, almost admiringly.

Ned inclined his head, recognizing discipline when he saw it.

Kratos turned toward the feast tables.

"Eat," he said, voice final. "You are guests, and Sparta honors its guests."

He gave a final glance toward the hall, then turned and walked to the far side of the dais, stepping around the table before taking his place where his council members waited—Neos, Kara, Floki, Cleitus, Bellatrix, Becker, and Cassandra.

The King had arrived. And in his presence, the world had changed.

XXXX

The great hall of Sparta still roared with life, but now the hall was also filled with hundreds of whispered conversations.

Kratos had not spoken again, but his presence at the head of the great table cast a long shadow across the room.

He sat in silence, armored in polished silver that glinted beneath the flickering torchlight. The Leviathan Axe rested at an angle beside his chair, and the Blades of Chaos curled around his hips like coiled serpents. Every now and then, a visiting noble or emissary would dare glance his way… but few dared hold his gaze. The aura around him—unspoken and thunderous—suffocated arrogance and melted pride.

On either side of Kratos, the Pillars of Sparta sat and enjoyed their individual meals, yet each stared around the hall with hawk-like gazes, missing nothing.

"Report," Kratos finally growled, eyes fixed ahead but attention fully turned to those seated around him. "The envoys. Are they behaving?"

General Neos leaned forward first. His red-crested helm had been set aside, and his face was serious. "For the most part. A few flared tempers from Volantis this morning. They resented the lack of luxury. Our guards reminded them they were guests, not masters."

Kratos didn't respond. He didn't need to.

Next to Neos sat Floki, his wiry frame fidgeting restlessly. His long hair was braided and shot through with iron rings, his eyes twitching with amusement. "The Norvosi stared at the harbor like starving children. Couldn't believe we built the dry docks in under a year. One of them actually kissed the prow of a trireme, no lie. Said the wood was better than their temples."

Neos smirked faintly.

Kratos said nothing, though the corner of his eye twitched. "And the others?"

Cassandra, tall and poised in her dark crimson robe, gave a dry smile. Her golden bracelets—gifts from freed artisans of Lys—clinked as she turned to face the King. "Qarth has sent silk and wine, and all their words are dipped in honey. But they ask too many questions about trade routes and coin flow. They're not just curious. They're weighing us. Measuring."

"As all cowards do," Kratos said.

"Aye," Cassandra nodded. "But even cowards can strike. Their eyes are on the vineyards, the silver mines, and the river routes we've claimed. They wonder how we've done so much in so little time."

"Because they do not work," muttered Neos. "They decorate."

A soft laugh rose from the end of the council bench. Kara, the high priestess, leaned forward with folded hands. Her long silver hair shimmered in the firelight. "Pentos brought books as offerings to the library. Copies, not originals. But at least they try. Their mages have spent half their time asking questions about you, Lord Kratos."

Kratos's eyes narrowed. "What questions?"

"They ask of your strength. Your divinity. Of the tales spread across the sea."

"And what did you tell them?"

Kara smiled, slow and serene. "The truth."

A hum of laughter passed through a few councilors. Kratos allowed it.

Cleitus, the Lord of Knowledge, was next. "The representative from Lorath is interesting, my Lord. Quiet. Observant. He walks the streets and speaks with the citizens. I believe he came not to measure our power, but our ideas."

"Let him," Kratos said.

Cleitus nodded. "He attended a lecture at one of the Academies today. Sat with the children. Asked a thousand questions. I believe we may gain a friend there, if not an ally."

Then came the voice of Bellatrix, Lord of Laws.

She did not bother to lean forward. She sat with perfect posture, arms folded, armor gleaming as though freshly polished. Her expression was as unyielding as her sword. "Volantis simmers like a pot left too long to boil. They resent the loss of their slaves. They fear our city more than they admit. But they've made no overt moves. Yet."

"I will not tolerate disrespect," Kratos said. "This city is not theirs to judge."

Bellatrix inclined her head. "Understood, my Lord. I've assigned extra guards to their quarters; should anything happen, we'll know before the blade leaves its sheath."

"Anything else?" Kratos asked.

At last, Becker, the Lord of Whispers, leaned forward.

Tall, dark-skinned, and dressed in shadow-colored robes, Becker's voice was low, smooth, and calm. "The emissary from Mantarys has said little. Her mask hides her face, and she speaks only when spoken to. But I've had eyes on her. She writes letters. Often. Too often."

"To whom?" Neos asked.

"Unclear," Becker replied. "But if I were to wager… I'd say to her masters back home. They fear what we are, what we represent."

"And what is that?" Kratos asked.

Becker met his eyes. "Freedom. Order. Power. The three things every tyrant fears most, my Lord."

A silence followed those words. From the open window behind them, Kratos and the others could hear music drifting on the breeze. In the distance, one could hear laughter, drinking, and even dancers' feet striking marble. But around the council, the air was tight.

Kratos looked slowly at each of them.

"Let them watch, let them wonder."

He shifted in his chair, not yet to address the feast. The red light of fire reflected off his armor as though he walked through flame itself.

"I did not build Sparta for them," he said quietly. "I did not end slavery to please their gods. We made this city from ash and blood and stone; they will not understand it. But they will respect it."

Kara bowed her head in reverence. "And if they do not, my Lord?"

"Then they will see what becomes of those who try to chain the free."

Silence followed again.

Until Neos chuckled softly.

"You should speak to them soon, my King."

Kratos grunted.

"I will," he said. "But not yet."

He turned his gaze back to the feast, at the rows of nobles from Braavos, Norvos, Qarth, Lorath, the Iron Bank, and beyond. Ned Stark sat beside his son Jon, speaking softly. Oberyn Martell laughed over a goblet of wine, his eyes sharp as ever. Tyrion Lannister leaned forward on his elbows, watching everything as his uncle tore into a leg of lamb.

They were all watching, but for now, Kratos sat. Silent. Watching them back.

XXXX

Tyrion Lannister leaned across the table toward his uncle Kevan, voice low. "By the gods, I thought Gregor Clegane was a monster. But this... Kratos makes him look like a milk-fed squire."

Kevan didn't look away from the distant figure of the Spartan King. "He hasn't said a word since entering. And yet I've never heard silence ring so loud."

Tyrion chuckled dryly. "Silence can scream, uncle. And tonight, it's telling us we're not in charge."

A few seats down, Lord Eddard Stark sipped from a wooden goblet, his eyes still tracking the armored titan at the head of the hall. Beside him sat young Jon, wide-eyed and stunned.

"Father," Jon whispered, "he's unlike any man I've ever seen. Do you think... is he… really a god?"

Ned didn't answer immediately. He looked around at the scarred warriors, the stone hall, and the discipline etched into every corner of this place. Then back to Kratos.

"I don't know what he is," Ned said. "But I know what he's built. And that may be more dangerous than any god."

On the far side, Oberyn Martell lounged like a serpent at rest. Ellaria beside him, swirling her wine. One of the Sand Snakes leaned in, whispering in awe, "I didn't believe the stories. I thought them inflated."

"They weren't," Oberyn stated. "This is far worse. Or far better, depending on which side of the spear you stand."

From Lorath's direction, an elderly man leaned toward a scribe. "Send word back home. Our masters need to be made aware of Sparta's king."

However, one Volantene noble seated nearby was no longer listening to the chatter around him. Barely into his twenties, he sat with his fists clenched under the table, rage seething in his bones.

He could see her.

A woman in armor stood across the chamber amongst the Spartan guard stationed along the colonnade. Silver greaves over muscled thighs. A red-enameled breastplate glinting under torchlight. A crimson cloak. Her head was high. Her posture straight.

And her face… her face he knew.

She had once been his pleasure slave.

Bought in the black markets of Lys. Trained in the brothels of Volantis. Her name had meant nothing to him. He had called her "Little Flame." She had disappeared years ago, escaped one night after smashing a priceless vase over his head.

And now… here she stood. Sword at her hip. Pride in her gaze.

A Spartan.

The Volantene noble's breath stilled. His jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened around his goblet.

But he did not move. Not here, not now. Not in this nest of wolves. He would wait. He would plan. And when the time came, she would be his again, or she would die.

He took a long drink of Spartan wine, lips red as blood.

XXXX

The firelight had long since mellowed to a deep orange glow. Wine had been poured and repoured, the great tables of the Spartan Grand Hall picked nearly clean of the roasted meats, stews, baked fruits, and hearth-cooked bread that had greeted the envoys upon their arrival. Now, hours later, the mood was one of cautious exhaustion.

Yet still… Kratos had not spoken.

He sat at the head of the great stone table upon the raised platform, his arms resting on the black wood of his chair, his expression unreadable. The silver of his Spartan armor caught the firelight like moonlight on a still lake. His axe rested against the side of the chair, his Blades of Chaos sheathed at his sides. And still, not a word.

Oberyn Martell leaned back, swirling the remnants of wine in his cup, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Well," he said softly to Ellaria and the Sand Snakes beside him, "he certainly knows how to unsettle a room. Not even Tywin could make a hall this quiet by doing nothing."

Sitting with his uncle Kevan not far from the Dornish delegation, Tyrion Lannister had grown increasingly quiet. The dwarf's earlier awe had given way to something more calculating now, though he still looked up occasionally at the silent god-king with a kind of morbid curiosity. Beside him, Kevan's jaw was tight.

"This man could crush a knight like an ant," Kevan muttered. "And yet he commands without saying a word. That is dangerous."

Ned Stark said nothing. He sat like a stone sentinel near the edge of the main dais, Jon beside him, eyes wide and still overwhelmed by the entire display. Ned's gaze never left Kratos.

Then, at last… Kratos stood.

The motion was not violent, nor dramatic. And yet it carried the weight of thunder. The scrape of armor, the soft click of the blades on his hips, the sound of wood creaking beneath his step—all filled the stillness of the chamber like cannon fire.

Silence fell like a sword across the neck of every thought.

He let it stretch a moment longer.

Then, his voice—a deep, graveled thing that seemed born from stone and storm—filled the hall.

"I hope the feast has left you all satisfied. In the coming days, you will walk the streets and see what we have built, but know this: you will be watched. This is not a threat; it is a promise. And any violence will be dealt with."

That was all.

He turned without another word.

The hall remained frozen as he walked down from the dais, each bootfall echoing like a drumbeat. The guards at the grand door parted before him without question. When the doors closed behind him, the air in the hall seemed to rush back in with a gasp.

Oberyn let out a low whistle. "Gods," he said, clearly impressed. "I believe I'm in love."

Ellaria smirked but said nothing, watching as others around the hall tried to regain their composure.

The envoy from Volantis leaned toward the Pentoshi diplomat, whispering harshly. "Did he just dismiss us? Like common swine?"

Tyrion grinned faintly at that, though his smile faded quickly. "This is not a king as we know them," he murmured. "This is something… different."

The Norvosi priest muttered a prayer under his breath.

Around the hall, the rest of the envoys and dignitaries slowly began to rise from their seats, not a soul daring to speak too loudly or too flippantly. Even those from faraway Yi Ti, whose yellow silks shimmered in the low light, moved with more deference than they'd shown at any other moment that evening.

They all knew.

This place was not theirs.

Sparta did not seek to impress them with gold or silks, with honeyed wine or dancing girls. It did not posture, or beg, or bluff. It merely stood.

Strong and unshakable.

The guests filed out one by one. The guards remained still, spears upright, armor gleaming.

Ned lingered at the threshold, his eyes briefly scanning the vast feasting chamber one more time. Then he turned to Jon, who had been quietly awestruck the entire time.

"Remember this," he said softly. "This is history."

Jon nodded.

XXXX

That night, a thousand conversations took place. Everywhere, voices murmured.

"Do you think they'll try to expand into the Stepstones?"

"They've already broken the Triarchy…"

"Can he really hold it together?"

"I heard he destroyed Tyrosh with a wave. A wave."

"Witchcraft. Sorcery. Madness."

"Freedom…"

"Blasphemy…"

Sparta was filled with a thousand quiet storms. And beneath it all, the city stood immovable.

A force. A fact. And no matter what the world thought of it… it was here to stay.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter because it's the last one you'll get for a little while. I really need to update my other stories before my other readers come for my blood, lol.

I think I set up the next few chapters nicely, but if there's something you think I could do better, then let me know.

Finally, to answer a question that many of you have been asking, I don't know if I'm going to include Freyja, Mimir, or Atreus in this story. It all depends on what people want to see.

Chapter Text

Ned Stark strode with purpose toward his destination, eyes narrowed against the rising morning sun as his thoughts whirled against all he had seen during the past week since arriving in Sparta.

King Kratos had not been lying when he had said that the envoys of Westeros and Essos would be giving free rein to tour the city at their leisure. No matter where Ned and his northern guard went, they were treated with respect, and any question they might have was swiftly answered; nothing was held back. They toured the Great Library, still under construction, yet already a behemoth of knowledge and power; though Ned was nowhere near what one would consider a 'learned man,' even he had to admit that the library was impressive and when completed would no doubt be known the world over.

They walked through one of the city's many academies and watched as Sparta's children sat on stone benches, listening with rapt attention as the teacher spoke of geometry, history, philosophy, and more. Even Jon, whom Ned had never been able to get sit still back in Winterfell, had listened with utmost attention when Ned and his entourage had sat in on a class, alongside the envoy from Lorath, discussing military history, and some place called 'Thermopylae.'

They were also warmly received at the House of Healing, which acted as both a healing center and school where students could learn firsthand how the body worked and how to repair all manner of injuries. Naturally, there were a few among the visiting envoys who saw the act of cutting open bodies while students watched as a reprehensible blasphemy. The envoys of Norvos and Volantis, in particular, were disgusted by the sight and had asked where the bodies had come from, only to learn that the corpses had been those slain in the cities of Tyrosh and Lys during the war against the Triarchy.

This had enraged the envoys of Volantis, and even Ned felt disgusted. He had seen horrors in the past; he'd fought alongside Robert in two wars and had seen the way that the Ironborn had treated the bodies of their victims. Yet, even those bastards hadn't used their victims' bodies to 'experiment' with.

Ned was immediately one of the first to step forward and demand by what right did Sparta think they could treat the bodies of the dead with such disrespect? The healer who had been giving them the tour had calmly, albeit coldly, responded that these bodies had once been enemies of Sparta, who had reveled in the suffering of others; now, they were helping Sparta stave off humanity's true enemy: death.

The answer hadn't done anything to quell the outrage of the envoys of Volantis and Norvos, yet Ned had paused as he reconsidered what the bodies of those who had been a part of the Triarchy were being used for. Though he still found the way the bodies were being used to be ghoulish and disrespectful, he could at least understand the reasons behind it.

After leaving the healing center, Ned and his entourage made their way toward the heart of the city. There, spread out before them lay the Agora, the city's great marketplace and the hub of its trade; what struck Ned most, however, was not its size (though it was vast) nor the variety of goods on display, but rather it was the order that surprised Ned. In King's Landing, the markets were a tangled knot of shouting merchants, jostling crowds, and the ever-present smell of spilled ale and rotting produce; deals were made in whispers, palms greased, and chaos, as well as corruption, was simply the way of things.

Here, there was no such chaos; stalls stood in neat rows, each merchant clearly marked, and their wares meticulously arranged. Buyers spoke in measured tones, transactions were swift and every exchange of coin was recorded with quiet precision, as though even commerce in Sparta obeyed the same discipline that ruled its soldiers; since arriving in Sparta, Ned had only witnessed one incident where a trader tried to swindle a buyer, and the result had been the man's immediate arrest and his stall turned into kindling seconds later. With each passing day, Ned's respect for what King Kratos had built steadily grew, along with his worry for the future, should Sparta's almost meteoric rise continue unchallenged.

After only a week in the city, Ned found himself reluctantly admitting that Sparta, built in just three short years, had already surpassed King's Landing in nearly every way. The difference was most apparent in the air itself; unlike the capital of Westeros, Sparta carried no stench that warned of its presence miles before its walls came into view. Yet, no matter where Ned and his northern guard went, they were shadowed by the Spartan assigned to guide them, along with three of the cities guards; a constant reminder that while they might be guests, they were still being watched.

But today, Ned was heading to the western part of the city, to see with his own eyes the thing that he had wanted to see from the start, the thing that he knew Robert and Jon Arryn wanted to know the most: how were these Spartans trained for war.

That was why Ned had risen at dawn and, after a hearty breakfast, had told his entourage that they would be visiting the Agoge fields; Jon's eyes had grown to the size of saucers at that, and the boy had nearly choked twice as he wolfed down his meal, eager to finish as quickly as possible.

The Agoge's entrance was not hidden, nor was it humble. A single colossal gate loomed ahead, its archway tall enough for a warship's mast to pass beneath. On either side stood statues that dwarfed even the tallest man. On the left was a Spartan warrior in full armor, a crest of horsehair flowing from his helmet, spear in hand, shield at his side, gazing down with an expression of unshakable resolve. The sculptor had caught him mid-stride, as though he were about to march into battle at that very moment.

On the right stood his equal, not in armor, but in the plain chiton of a citizen. Her head was unhelmed, hair tied back, but her stance was no less fierce; one hand was holding a rolled-up scroll, the other raised slightly, as though in greeting or warning. Her face bore the calm strength of a woman about to give a speech yet ready to fight for her home at a moment's notice, and above the gate, carved deep into the stone in letters as tall as a man, were the words: EVERY SPARTAN IS A WARRIOR FIRST.

Ned slowed his pace without realizing it; even in Winterfell, with its ancient walls and towers, he had never seen a statement made so plainly in stone; behind him, Ned could hear his guards shift nervously as though intimidated to enter such a gate.

Knowing what was expected of him, and remembering why Robert had sent him here, Ned straightened his back, shook off the feeling of unease that he was suddenly feeling and cautiously led his men inside. As Ned stepped through, the sight before him made him slow to a halt; he was no novice when it came to war or the training of warriors, war had been a constant in his life since he could remember, but what he saw before him left him speechless.

The field stretched wide, easily three times the size of Winterfell's yard, and every inch of it was alive with motion; lines of young men and women (some just a few years older than Jon, others old enough that Ned could see gray hair) trained with a discipline so sharp it almost felt like a weapon itself.

On one side, a row of spear-throwers stood poised. At a sharp command from their drillmaster, they launched their weapons in unison, and the spears cut through the air, striking the thick straw dummies with punishing force. Several punched clean through, their heads jutting out the far side of the wooden frames.

Jon muttered under his breath, eyes wide in wonder at what he was seeing, "Seven hells…"

Ned almost answered, then his eyes froze on one of the trainees retrieving his spear; a boy who looked to be just entering his teens, but what made this teenager stand out amongst his peers was his silver-blond hair.

As the boy straightened, turning just enough for the sunlight to catch on his sharp features, Ned felt his breath quicken in shock; even dressed in the plain training garb of the Agoge, there was no mistaking him: Viserys Targaryen.

As Ned struggled to control his rising heart rate, he watched as the boy took his place amongst his peers and prepared to throw the spear again, a look of intense concentration upon his face.

"Gods be good…" Ned thought, his mouth suddenly dry, "How is this possible!?"

For a moment, the noise of the training field seemed to fade as memories of the Rebellion surged unbidden; Robert's rage, his vows to wipe every last dragon spawn from the earth. If Robert knew the boy lived… and not only lived, but was here in Sparta, training to be one of them!

Ned forced his face into neutrality, though his mind raced at the implications of what he was seeing; this was not something he could speak of lightly. Not to his guards, not even to Jon.

The Stark men beside him were still watching the drills, oblivious to what Ned had seen; one of them gave a low whistle, "That lad's got bite, look at the way he plants his feet, dead center every time."

Jon's eyes followed the shield wall drill on the far side of the yard, "They're better than most men I've seen fight," he said, unaware of Ned's inner turmoil.

Nearby, older trainees slammed into each other in brutal shield work, boots thudding in unison; in the sparring ring, wooden swords cracked against shields and limbs with no quarter given. A boy with a split lip was knocked flat, only to be ordered back to his feet immediately.

"If the North trained like this," one of Ned's guard murmured, "we'd be unstoppable…"

"Or we'd be something else entirely," Ned replied, his voice tight, eyes repeatedly flicking back to the silver-haired boy moving through the drills with surprising determination.

As Jon and his guard continued to discuss what they were seeing, Ned moved a few steps ahead, then stepped closer to the Spartan escort who had been shadowing them since their arrival in the city.

"That boy," Ned said quietly, keeping his gaze on the field, "with the silver hair… who is he?"

The Spartan's expression didn't change as he looked over at the teenager at whom Ned was pointing; for a moment, the man didn't answer, just continued to stare with an unreadable expression, before finally saying simply,
"A trainee of the Agoge."

"I know who he is," Ned growled back immediately, stepping closer so that their conversation would not be overheard.

The guard's head turned slightly, enough for Ned to see the faintest glint in his eyes as he mentally weighed the Warden of the North, "Then you also know, Lord Stark, that he is under Spartan protection."

"That boy is the last living son of the Mad King," Ned pressed. "If word of this reaches King Robert—"

"It will not," the Spartan interrupted, tone calm but carrying an edge of steel. "In Sparta, we do not hand children over to their enemies; here, a child is shaped by the Agoge, not by the sins of their bloodline."

Ned studied the guard for a moment, his brow furrowed as he considered the Spartan's words. Every instinct in him was screaming at Ned to immediately send a raven to King's Landing and report to Robert what he saw, yet the practical side of Ned knew that there was no way that raven would reach King's Landing; it would be killed before it even left the city. "And if the King demands it?"

The guard's gaze drifted back to the field, where Viserys aimed his spear with the others and drove forward in perfect rhythm. "Then Sparta will answer him… in Sparta's way."

Ned swallowed nervously. The guardsman had not shouted or raised his voice in any way; he'd simply spoken as clearly as if he were discussing the weather, yet Ned felt the weight of the man's words as if they had been hammer blows.

As he opened his mouth to respond, Jon called to him from ahead, pointing out a line of trainees performing shield-bash drills, and Ned forced himself to move on. But the image of silver hair flashing in the sun stayed with him, heavy as the knowledge it carried.

XXXX

Oberyn Martell lounged back on the stone bench, a goblet of Spartan wine resting easily in his hand. A week in this city had done little to dull his fascination; if anything, it had sharpened it. Every street he walked, every building he toured, every innovation he saw told him the same thing: Sparta was not merely powerful; it was deliberate. Everything here had purpose, and that purpose was strength.

Today, he and his entourage found themselves lazily enjoying a play at one of Sparta's amphitheaters. Like the rest of the city, the theatre was a marvel in and of itself; it was built into the slope of a low hill, its stone seating cut in precise, even rows that curved around the stage. The benches were wide and smooth, worn in places from use but kept clean; the stage itself was a simple semicircle of polished stone, backed by a tall wall painted with scenes from old battles and myths.

Behind it, the open sky served as the backdrop, allowing the light to shift with the hours; there were no hanging banners or ornate decoration; everything was built for function and visibility. Yet, despite its simplicity, the place felt imposing; every word spoken on stage carried clearly to the highest seats, and every face in the crowd was visible from the center. Today's play centered around something called 'the Trojan War,' and what had caused it to occur, and the longer Oberyn watched, the more he seemed to enjoy the tale.

He swirled his wine lazily, watching the actress playing Eris, goddess of discord, strut across the stage with the golden apple held high. "I like this," Oberyn drawled, lips curling in amusement. "Deception, vanity, the promise of beauty… It all feels very familiar."

Tyene, seated beside him, tilted her head. "All this over fruit?" she asked, her expression one of genuine confusion. "They start a war because of an apple?"

Nymeria smirked. "Not just any apple. A golden one. Apparently, that makes it worth killing for."

Onstage, the actors had reached the part where Paris of Troy was forced to choose which goddess was most beautiful. Hera stepped forward first, regal and stern; Athena followed, with her helm tucked under one arm; and then came Aphrodite, draped in crimson silks, moving with slow, deliberate grace.

Obara snorted, shaking her head. "So, he starts a war because he wanted the prettiest woman alive? And she was already married?" She leaned back with a disbelieving chuckle. "What kind of idiots were these people if that was their prince?"

Ellaria, seated on Oberyn's other side, leaned forward slightly, her gaze shifting to the Spartan guard who had been their constant shadow since they'd first set foot in the city. "Where does this story come from?" Ellaria asked, watching with interest as Paris gave the apple to Aphrodite, causing the actress to smile in victory as the other two goddesses hissed and cursed in defeat.

The guard's voice was steady, easily overpowering the crowd's murmur: "From the homeland of Lord Kratos, a place called Greece."

Oberyn's brow arched. "Greece?" he repeated, "I've never heard of such a land before…"

"You wouldn't have," the guard replied simply, "It lies far from here, so far it might as well be another world. According to lord Kratos, the old gods there were cruel, vain, and quick to anger; they used mortals as playthings, setting brother against brother, king against king, all for their own amusement."

Nymeria's smile thinned at that, her voice going cold as she replied with, "sounds like most rulers I've met."

"Lord Kratos told us this story, and we adapted it into a play," the guard continued, her voice as hard as her expression, "because it is as much warning as it is entertainment… He wanted us to know what too much power can turn you into…"

"If the gods of King Kratos's homeland were so cruel, then why do you tell their tales?" Ellaria asked in confusion, "Why not just let them fade into obscurity?"

"Because Spartans believe in learning from the past," the guard said. "Even from blood-soaked legends."

Oberyn sipped his wine slowly, eyes returning to the stage as Aphrodite told Paris where his prize could be found. "An interesting way of seeing things, I suppose…"

The Sand Snakes laughed, though Tyene muttered, "It's still ridiculous. A war for a woman? In Dorne, we'd just share her…"

Oberyn chuckled, lifting his goblet toward the stage. "And that, little one, is why Dorne will never fall to a golden apple."

XXXX

Tyrion lounged lazily in his chair, a goblet of Spartan wine held in his grip as he watched his uncle pace back and forth with only the barest amount of attention necessary to satisfy the man; the reason for his uncle's newest feeling of unease was due to the previous night's tour of the city, where they, along with representatives from Pentos, Volantis, and the Iron Bank, had been escorted by half a dozen guardsmen into the Spartan vaults. For the last few days, the Lannister party had been requesting permission to view the vaults, but every request had been denied; then, last night, for apparently no reason at all, they had suddenly been told to get dressed and follow the guard who had been their constant shadow.

Descending far below the city, the group had at first thought that they were being led to the city's dungeons for some supposed crime, only to come to a stop before an enormous door made of what appeared to be solid black iron with fiery-red omega carved into it. Waiting for them there was a smirking Cassandra, the Lord of Coin, who apologized to the group for forcing them from their beds so late, but that King Kratos had finally given his permission to allow them to view the vault, and that she thought that was something they might not want to wait until dawn for.

Any trace of tiredness promptly vanished, and the men seemed to stand straighter as Cassandra pulled a heavy set of keys from her robe, fitting one into the hole in the center of the door before nodding at the two men standing on either side of the vault door. Striding forward, the two men pulled long wooden staffs from their place on the wall, fitting them into holes in the door with a soft 'click,' before pulling back with groans. A moment later, the vault door, as well as the omega symbol on it, split down the middle with a loud rumble as the doors slowly pulled apart while the envoys watched with barely contained excitement.

For the past week, Tyrion had thought he'd seen all that Sparta had to offer and that nothing more could be shown that would surprise him; that thought vanished a moment later as the vault doors opened fully. The vault stretched nearly two hundred feet from one end to the other, a cavern of stone and shadow, lit only by several stone braziers that were placed here and there; towering columns ran the length of the chamber, disappearing in the dark ceiling above.

Every inch of the floor was buried beneath treasure; drifts of gold coins heaped so high that they looked like sand dunes spilling into one another like glittering waves. Spread out amongst the gold, glittering gemstones winked out, rubies the size of a man's fist, and sapphires as blue as the ocean. Among the riches, weapons jutted out at odd angles, swords, spears, and daggers of Valyrian steel, their shining blades in contrast to the gold surrounding them.

"By the gods…" Tyrion whispered as the envoys took a shocked step into the chamber; being born a Lannister, Tyrion had been around a wealth all his life, and as such had seemingly grown an indifference to it, but what he saw before him was more gold than even Tyrion had ever seen.

"This is impossible…" The representative from the Iron Bank whispered, his eyes the size of saucers, "How can this city possibly have this much gold!"

"That would be because of the generous donations to the city made by Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr," Cassandra smirked, from where she stood by the door, causing the representative from Volantis to turn to her in outrage.

"Donations? Is that what you barbarians call the destruction of three cities that have existed long before your ancestors crawled out of their filthy caves! This is a horde of theft! And every coin is drenched in innocent blood!"

"Innocent…?" Cassandra breathed as the guards beside her gripped their spear shafts so tightly that their knuckles whitened, "You dare call those monsters who lived in Tyrosh and Lys innocent!"

The representative of Volantis took a nervous step back while Tyrion and the others watched with interest as Cassandra's eyes seemed to darken with rage.

"Do you even know what went on in those so-called 'innocent cities?' What happened to me personally! If anyone was innocent, it was ME! I was framed for a crime I didn't commit and sold into slavery as a result! The man who bought me forced me to do things that no man should EVER have the right to make a woman do! I was actually planning on killing myself, but then Lord Kratos came and set me free! He gave me my life back, gave me my honor and pride back; every single man and woman in this city has a similar story, and yet you stand there in your fancy clothes and DARE to accuse our king of theft! Of murder!"

By the end of her rant, Cassandra had stepped right into the man's face and was hissing with fury while the envoy shook with fear, his face as pale as a ghost; the other envoys were watching with silent relief that they hadn't been the ones to provoke the woman's fury, all except the envoy from the Iron Bank, who was watching with a look of guilt and shame.

Cassandra drew in a slow breath and stepped back, her hands brushing the wrinkles from her dress; when she looked at the envoys again, her voice was steady, and her expression composed.

"I regret my outburst, my lords, but I will not deny it, when the honor of King Kratos is questioned, I take it personally. As no doubt does everyone who was saved by his hand…"

The two guards standing behind Cassandra nodded as one, each glaring daggers at the envoy from Volantis, who swallowed nervously, a bead of sweat running down his face.

As she led the envoys from the vault, she calmly told them that if they wished to look over the city's financial ledger in order to see whether or not they wished to invest in Sparta, they would be allowed, but only under very careful observation; they were then led back to their rooms.

Needless to say, neither Tyrion nor Kevan Lannister got much sleep that night as they thought over what they had seen; when they had first arrived in Sparta, both Lannister men had expected to see a city barely being built, run by ignorant slaves. What they had found instead was a city more impressive than anything that could be found in Westeros.

Draining his cup, Tyrion turned his attention back to his uncle just in time to catch the man finishing up his pacing and turning to look out the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"You've been pacing for the better part of an hour, Uncle; If you keep at it, you'll wear a trench in this fine Spartan stone. Then the masons will have to fix it, and I doubt they'd thank you for the work."

"You think this is all a game, don't you?" Kevan snapped back at once, not even bothering to turn away from the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"I think," Tyrion replied, "that you're wound tighter than a crossbow string, and for no good reason. We've been here a week and not once have I felt threatened. Impressed? Absolutely. Threatened? Hardly."

Kevan turned sharply, his voice edged with steel as he gazed at his fool of a nephew, "Not threatened? You stood beside me last night; you saw the vault."

Tyrion raised his brows at that as he refilled his cup, "Ah, yes, the vault. Two hundred feet of gold, jewels, and enough Valyrian steel to outfit an army twice their size; a dragon's hoard without the dragon, quite the sight. I'll admit, it made Casterly Rock's treasury look… modest."

Kevan stepped closer, his clenched fists almost shaking with quiet fury at this point, "Modest? It made Casterly Rock look like a beggar's purse! That hoard is the spoils of three cities, and it's just sitting there waiting to be put to use! Do you know what that means?"

"It means," Tyrion said dryly, "that they're richer than we are, which I imagine will gall Father more than anything else I write in my report."

Kevan's eyes narrowed at his nephew's flippant behavior, "It means they have the coin to buy every sellsword in Essos. It means they can feed armies for years. It means they don't need the Iron Bank or anyone else to finance them! And it means, Tyrion, that if they decide they want Westeros, they'll have both the gold and the steel to take it! Are you so foolish that you can't see the danger that this city represents!"

Tyrion leaned back, swirling his cup and staring at the red wine within, as he considered his uncle's words. "And yet, for all that gold, their king dresses like a soldier, not a prince. Their city is clean, ordered, and full of people who work rather than wallow like those that live in Flea Bottom."

"That's exactly what makes them dangerous!" Kevan shot back, "They're not wasting their wealth on feasts and frippery; they're building ships, training soldiers, fortifying their walls. You think Tywin Lannister will sleep easy knowing that?"

Tyrion smirked faintly for a moment before draining his cup and reaching to refill it for the third time in less than an hour, "Father doesn't sleep easy knowing the kitchen's run out of lemons for his tea, I suspect Sparta will rank slightly higher on his list of irritations…"

Kevan ignored the jab, choosing instead to fill his own cup, "When he reads my report, he'll see what I see, an empire with the will and the means to challenge us. And he'll start preparing for the day they do."

"And when he reads mine?" Tyrion asked, feigning innocence as he lounged lazily in his chair, swirling his wine.

"He'll dismiss it as clever wordplay from a man who refuses to take the world seriously," Kevan said bluntly. "And I'll be the one he listens to, as usual."

Tyrion drained his cup again, using the motion to hide his scowling face as he imagined breaking the cup over his uncle's head, "Perhaps. But suppose Father takes your advice and strikes first. In that case, I suspect we'll be staring down the largest army either of us has ever seen, one that fights with the discipline of the Kingsguard and the numbers of the Reach."

Kevan's jaw tightened as he considered his nephew's words. Turning back to the window, he gazed at the city stretching beneath him into the distance: "If it comes to that, we'll do what we must… The Rock has never fallen."

Tyrion gave a humorless chuckle at that as he stared at his uncle's back, "Let's hope, Uncle, that we never see the day Sparta decides to test that boast…"

Chapter Text

The clang of training swords rang out across the Agoge yard, but Viserys barely noticed anymore; months ago, every blow that sent him sprawling had felt like an insult, one more reminder that he was the last rightful King of Westeros being treated like a nameless recruit. He'd fought every command, snarled at every correction, wearing his pride like armor; but the Agoge had no room for pride, and every day since his arrival had chipped away at him, sometimes with the crack of a staff against his ribs, sometimes with the quiet shame of being outmatched by boys his own age. What was left was… different. The fire hadn't gone out, but it no longer burned wild. It was sharper now… controlled.

When the final horn sounded, ending the day's training, he was exhausted but steady; sweat ran down his neck, his arms ached from endless shield drills, and his shoulders burned from the spear work. Yet he fell easily into step with the other trainees heading toward the mess hall, where those in the Agoge ate together if they had no other home to return to, the smell of roasting meat already drifting in from beyond the walls.

That was when he saw him.

A boy standing just beyond the entrance gate, watching the trainees file past. Dark hair, grey eyes, and a face that froze Viserys where he stood. For a heartbeat, the Agoge faded away, the dust, the shouting, the clatter of weapons, gone. In its place came the image of a man he had loved and lost a decade earlier.

"…Rhaegar?" Viserys asked before he could stop it, his voice coming out ragged with loss, yet barely more than a whisper.

The boy tilted his head in confusion at Viserys's question, as though not understanding it, before replying in a soft voice. "My name's Jon," he said, stepping closer. "I—uh—I snuck away from my father's group. I just wanted to say… You were incredible out there!"

Viserys stared in silent shock as the boy continued to babble, unable to take his eyes off the boy who so resembled his older brother that, for a moment, Viserys thought he was staring at a ghost. The jawline, the way the boy carried himself… Seven Hells, even the way his hair fell into his eyes! It was Rhaegar as he had been before the rebellion, before Lyanna Stark, before the war had taken everything from his family; the resemblance was so sharp it almost hurt to look at him; in fact, the only difference between Rhaegar and the boy was the hair. Viserys may have only been five name days old the last time he had seen his older brother, but the man had been such a hero to him that even now, Viserys could still remember him as vividly as if it were that same day.

Jon, oblivious to the storm behind Viserys' eyes, went on, words spilling in a rush. "The shield wall… seven Hells, I've never seen anything like it! And that spear throw? You hit the target dead center like it was nothing!"

Viserys found his voice at last, though it came out rough. "Thank you."

As Jon smiled and kept talking about the rhythm of the drills, the force of the shield pushes, and the speed of the sparring matches, Viserys only half-heard him. His mind kept slipping away to memory: Rhaegar's quiet voice in the training yard at Dragonstone, his patient smile, the way he had once clapped Viserys on the shoulder after a rare, good strike and said, "You'll be a fine swordsman yet, little brother."

Viserys swallowed hard as he made a silent vow; whoever this Jon was, he would find out. He had to!

XXXX

As the sun slowly sank beyond the Spartan hills, Ned sat at the heavy table near the window of his chambers, a half-finished goblet of wine in front of him, his thoughts miles away.

He'd seen much that day; the Agoge training had been harsher and more relentless than anything he had known, the discipline beyond even the Night's Watch. And among the lines of armored youths, he had seen him. Viserys Targaryen, older, harder, but unmistakable, and almost immediately, Ned heard Robert's voice echo in his mind: "The dragon spawn must die."

As the door creaked open behind him, Ned turned just in time to see Jon slip inside, trying and failing to look casual; his cheeks flushed, and his hair windswept.

"And where have you been?" Ned asked, his tone even but carrying the weight of command, making Jon shuffle nervously as he approached his father.

"I just… wanted to take another look around the city…" Jon said.

Ned's eyes narrowed at the obvious lie, "The guards said you weren't with them."

Jon hesitated, looking guilty at his feet momentarily before babbling. "I saw one of the older trainees and had to speak to him… He was… Father, he was remarkable! The way he moved, the way he fought, I've never seen anyone near my age train like that!"

Ned set down his goblet at that, "Which one?"

Jon's expression softened, almost in awe, as he recalled the teenager he had encountered. "Fair hair; about my height… he said his name was Viserys. He—" Jon stopped when he saw the look in his Ned's eyes; a look he had never seen in his father's eyes before: fear. "Father? What is it? …Do you know him?"

Ned's jaw tightened at Jon's question, and he quickly placed his shaking hands beneath the table to avoid the boy seeing. "Enough to know you will not speak to him again. Not here. Not anywhere. Is that clear?"

Jon frowned at that, confused as to why his father was acting so strangely. "Why? He was—"

"Because I said so!" Ned cut him off as he slammed his fist down on the table, his voice sharp enough to end the conversation, as well as making Jon flinch slightly.

Jon's mouth closed, but his confusion was plain as he turned away toward his own chamber, leaving Ned alone with the gnawing certainty that this could spiral into a storm far greater than Jon could imagine.

As Jon softly closed the door to his chamber behind him, Ned stepped into the hall where a Spartan guard stood watch, a tall man with the red crest of rank down his helmet.

"I must speak with your king," Ned said, his voice low but steady. "It's a matter of great urgency."

The guard regarded him briefly before replying, "I'll ask the king if he will see you," the guard said finally. "If he agrees, you'll have your audience before the day is done."

Without another word, the guard turned and strode quietly away, leaving Ned in the quiet corridor, the weight of the coming conversation pressing heavily on his shoulders.

XXXX

An hour later, Ned was summoned from his room and swallowed nervously as he made his way down the darkened corridor. Each shadow seemed to give the path an eerie feeling, as if he were being watched.

As he was led into the throne room, Ned found himself stopping in surprise, not because of how grand it was, but rather due to its simplicity; whereas the throne room in King's Landing was designed for ostentation, this one seemed to have been built with the opposite idea in mind. Even the throne itself was simple, appearing to be made of simple wood and hide, resting on a dais that rose only perhaps two to three feet above the marble floor; seated on the inornate throne was the man with whom Ned had come to speak to, his left arm cocked at the elbow and resting on the arm of his chair while his fist rested against the side of his jaw.

As Ned stepped inside, the guard who escorted him pressed his fist against his chest before stepping back; the heavy doors closing with a deep, echoing thud and leaving Ned alone with the ruler of Sparta. Taking a deep breath to quiet the tremors that were running unbidden up his spine, Ned quickly and quietly strode down the lit path, only stopping once he was a respectful distance from Kratos.

For a few tense moments, neither man spoke, just eyed the other as though trying to measure the other; finally, Kratos broke the silence in a deep voice that seemed drawn from the earth itself: "You sought an audience…"

Ned nodded at once, his tone measured but edged as he replied, "I did. I've seen your Agoge, and I've seen who you train..."

"You speak of the boy..."

"Viserys Targaryen," Ned nodded. "Alive. And you're forging him into a warrior."

Kratos leaned forward on his throne, "And this troubles you…?"

"It should trouble any man who remembers the Mad King!" Ned shot back. "It should trouble anyone who knows what the Targaryens have done! My King swore to see their line end! If Robert learns of this—"

"He would demand the boy's death," Kratos sneered, "and you would obey…"

"I keep my oaths," Ned said, his voice firm.

Kratos's eyes narrowed slightly. "Even when they are born from hatred, not justice?"

Ned's reply came quickly, refusing to be shamed by this man, no matter how intimidating Ned might find him. "This is not about hatred, it's about protecting the realm!"

Kratos rose at that, causing the wood to groan with relief as his weight left the chair, and descended the throne's steps slowly, his footsteps echoing against the stone. "And yet you shelter another of that same blood… A boy you call son."

Ned's jaw tightened as the blood rushed from his face in an instant, leaving him pale. "I don't know what you think you know…"

Kratos stopped before him, towering close so that Ned was draped in the pale giant's shadow. "I know the truth... Jon Snow is no son of Eddard Stark. He is the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen and your sister, Lyanna, and you have buried that truth for years; you would see one Targaryen spared yet condemn another… That is hypocrisy."

Ned's voice went low, even as the terror of his secret reaching beyond this hall washed over him, "You speak as if you are all-seeing..."

"I am," Kratos said simply, yet Ned met his gaze without flinching.

"I don't believe you're a god... You may have your people believing in such a thing, but I don't. Gods do not walk amongst men; that is what makes them gods."

Kratos's expression and voice didn't change. "Your belief is irrelevant. I do not need your faith, Stark; truth remains truth all the same..."

For a moment, silence filled the hall, thick as smoke, as Kratos turned slightly, stepping toward one of the nearby braziers. "The boy Jon… he may remain in Sparta if he wishes…"

Ned's brow furrowed at that, even as shock ran through his system like a bolt of lightning. "Why would you make such an offer?"

Kratos looked over his shoulder, the faintest sneer touching his lips. "Because I have been told how 'bastards' are treated in Westeros… In Sparta, no one is judged by the accident of their birth, only by their worth. Their strength. If the boy is treated in Winterfell as I think he is—looked down on, kept at the edge of the table—then perhaps it would be better to offer him a place where he could be more than just a 'bastard.'"

Ned's hands curled into fists, anger overrunning his reason as the thought of Kratos 'stealing' his 'son' from him. "Jon is my blood…"

Kratos turned fully back to Ned and stepped closer again, his voice dropping to something quieter but sharper, sending goosebumps up and down Ned's skin. "Blood means little in the North, does it not? You know how men speak of him; you know the truth of his mother, and still, you let him live under the shadow of a name that will never claim him…"

Ned's voice was tight. "It is not your choice to make; you have no right to dictate how a son of the North is reared!"

Kratos's gaze was hard as stone in the face of Ned's growing anger, utterly unaffected by it, much to Ned's annoyance; in the North, when Ned spoke, his word was law, but he held no such power here, and worse, Ned knew it.

"Perhaps…" Kratos growled, finally. "But if the boy wished it, I would give him a life here; one of discipline, honor, and purpose, free of your King's hatred. And if he asked you to grant him this gift, would you really be able to deny him? Would your 'oath' and your supposed 'honor' really be worth more than a child's chance at freedom?"

Ned exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing on him; even as he hated the very idea of leaving Jon behind, Ned could recognize the truth in the pale King's words. "If... If I were to allow this…" Ned finally replied, his voice coming out rough with pain, "I would have your word that Robert never knows about Jon... That he would be safe in your city..."

Kratos's reply was immediate, coming out hard as the marble beneath Ned's feet. "If you truly want your blood to live, Ned Stark, then keep your King far from my gates; if he comes for the heads of these children, he will not leave with them; nor will he leave with his own… And Stark—" Kratos's voice deepened, carrying like a hammer blow, "—you would do well to decide if your loyalty lies with your king… or with your blood."

The two men stared at one another, the air taut as a drawn bowstring between them. At last, Ned gave a short, stiff nod and turned toward the door, Kratos's words following him out like the tolling of a war drum.

XXXX

When Ned returned to the quarters set aside for him and his men, it was long past dark. The stone corridors of the Spartan palace were quiet now, lit only by the occasional torch, its flames swaying in the faint draft.

As Ned entered his chambers, he stopped outside Jon's room; the door was ajar, just enough to show the faint orange glow of a single candle guttering low on the table inside as Ned pushed it open slowly, entering the boy's room like a shadow.

Jon lay on the bed, sprawled half under the blanket, his dark hair falling across his face. The boy's breathing was deep and even, and his small hands curled loosely on the pillow. In the dim light, he looked far younger than ten, peaceful in a way Ned rarely saw, and Ned couldn't help but smile softly at the boy he had raised as his own, even as he knew the boy never would be.

Ned stood in the doorway for a long moment, his thoughts refusing to settle; Kratos's words still echoed in his skull: "No one is judged by their birth, only by their worth."

He remembered Jon's earliest years in Winterfell, how the boy had smiled at his siblings but never quite fit among them; how the servants treated him with polite distance, and how Catelyn's gaze would grow cold when it fell upon him.

Ned's original plan had been clear in his mind for years: when Jon was old enough, he would go to the Night's Watch; it was an honorable life, if hard, and it would keep him safe, away from the politics of the realm, away from questions that could never be answered.

But now… now Ned had seen Sparta. He had seen the Agoge. He had seen Viserys, alive, thriving, and the kind of warriors this place forged. The discipline that drove its citizens to push themselves further than most of the knights could ever dream; the unity and pride that every man and woman in this city seemed to share, that made them all walk tall without fear of some corrupt noble seeing their behavior as offensive and striking them down for it. Would Jon find more here than he ever could at the Wall?

Could he be more than just Ned Stark's bastard in a place that valued strength above name? Ned stepped quietly into the room, moving to Jon's bedside. The boy shifted slightly, murmuring something in his sleep, but did not wake, and Ned reached down and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
For the first time in years, the Lord of Winterfell felt truly unsure, and he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Back in his own quarters, Ned sat heavily on the edge of the bed; the brazier's embers glowed faintly in the corner, casting long, slow shadows on the walls as his mind kept circling back to the same question, over and over: Night's Watch… or Sparta?
When sleep finally came to him, it was restless, and the question remained unanswered…

XXXX

While Ned Stark sat in his quarters wrestling with the weight of Kratos's offer, the city beyond the palace walls had settled into its own nocturnal rhythm; in a dim, smoky tavern near the Agora, a man sat slouched over a rough wooden table. His hair was matted from the day's work; his calloused hands stained with dust and splinters. His name mattered little now; months ago, he'd been a sellsword in the Triarchy's great mercenary host, one of Daario Naharis's men. Back then, he'd lived for the clash of steel, for the promise of plunder; now, he spent his days hauling timber, stacking stone, and sweating under the Spartan overseers' sharp eyes.

When they surrendered, Daario told them all the same thing: "Sparta will welcome us, brothers. Lay down your arms, and we will live."

It was true enough… in a way. They lived, but their swords were gone, and their glory with it; now, they were no better than slaves, and the truth of it filled the former mercenary with a bitter hatred for the city that had spared his life.

He drained the last of his third cup of wine, the bitter taste doing little to drown the resentment boiling in his gut. Daario didn't seem to mind their new station. The peacock of Tyrosh smiled through the work, muttering about how "their time would come" in that infuriatingly confident way of his. But the man didn't share that patience; he wanted what he was promised when he gave up his sword and fine horse, not to spend the rest of his days serving former slaves…

As the man's mind slowly slid further into drunkenness, a shadow fell across his table, causing him to look up in annoyance to see who had interrupted his plans to drink himself into insensibility. Standing before him was one of the Volantene noblemen he'd glimpsed once before at the docks a week past; like all his ilk, this one was dressed in fine purple robes and had several expensive-looking rings decorating his fingers.

The noble didn't bother with pleasantries as he pulled out a chair and sat without asking, before leaning forward slightly and speaking mockingly. "You look as though Sparta has… diminished you."

The sellsword snorted at that and bitterly swallowed the urge to break his cup over the noble bastard's head before answering. "It's not hard to feel diminished when you go from a blade in your hand to a hammer… I was a warrior, now I'm a laborer, but even that is better than being nailed to a cross…

"Perhaps," the noble replied with a thin smile. "But surely you see the insult of it, a man reduced to a low state, stripped of his place, his worth decided by others. It is unfair if you ask me… Unjust."

The sellsword narrowed his eyes against the slight buzzing in his skull as he took in the nobleman's arrogant façade. "You didn't come over here just to sympathize with me, Volantene. I may be slightly drunk, but I'm not stupid… what do you want?"

The noble's expression hardened into a sneer at that, dropping his affable façade instantly as he spoke again in a cold tone. "I want what was stolen from me. A certain… piece of property, if you will... One I saw at the feast, wearing Spartan armor as though she were free; she was mine once, and I intend to have her again!"

The sellsword sat back, eyes narrowing further as his mind raced at just what the man was asking for; finally, after a few seconds of thought, the answer seemed to come to him. "Property? You mean a former slave?"

The noble's eyes glittered cruelly, and the sellsword couldn't help but swallow nervously at the expression. "I mean my property. And I will pay, handsomely, if you help me reclaim it… Gold enough to buy back your sword, and your freedom from this… construction life…"

The wine had loosened the sellsword's tongue but not dulled his instincts entirely, and for a moment, he felt as if he could feel King Kratos's axe hovering over his neck. "You're asking me to risk my neck in a city where I'm already watched. This isn't the Triarchy, Sparta doesn't take kindly to treachery..."

The noble leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, poisonous whisper that sent goosebumps up and down the man's arms. "Every man has a price, even in Sparta… So, why don't we stop this charade where you pretend not to be interested, and we just skip to the end, shall we? I will pay you three times your weight in gold for the return of my property. Do we have a deal?"

The sellsword stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath as he thought of what such riches could buy him. Passage out of Sparta at the very least; perhaps even a lordship in one of the smaller lands of Westeros. Finally, after a long moment of tense silence, the man replied in a tight voice, "…What's your plan?"

The noble smiled thinly, knowing he had turned the man, in a city that said it was impossible to do so. "We'll discuss that. But not here… pay for your drinks and follow me."

So focused on their own schemes that both men failed to notice the young man at the far corner table, his back to them, nursing the same cup of ale for the past hour; to anyone else, he looked like another tired laborer, but in truth, he was so much more, and his ears caught every word. He didn't even glance at the pair as the sellsword slammed a few coins down onto the tabletop; when the two men rose and left together, Becker's spy drained the last of his drink, set down his coin, and disappeared into the night.

XXXX

An hour later, in one of the smaller chambers of the palace, Becker sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, his expression unreadable as he scratched out notes on a small square of parchment. A moment later, the door opened just enough for a slim figure to slip inside and close it quickly behind him.

"Speak," Becker said without looking up. His tone wasn't impatient; it was steady, measured, and it brooked no delay.

The young spy stepped forward and placed his fist over his chest in salute, "One of the Tyroshi laborers, my lord, one of Daario's men, spent the evening in the Green Dragon tavern. He drank heavily; after his third cup of wine, a Volantene noble approached him. The same one whose eyes were fastened on Drusilla at the feast."

Becker's head tilted slightly at that, yet he did not look up from his work; he had seen the way that the Volantene nobleman had been staring at the Spartan guard during the feast; he'd hardly looked at anything else the entire night, in fact. And that had immediately set alarm bells ringing in Becker's head, hence the reason he had doubled the number of spies around the city. "And?"

"The sellsword resents his loss of status, and the noble stoked it, calling his current work beneath him. Then the Volantene offered gold, an impressive amount, if the Tyroshi would help him reclaim his 'property,' Drusilla."

As he heard the words, Becker finally looked up, eyes sharp as a dagger's point, and the room seemed to darken with Becker's black rage. "Did the Tyroshi agree?"

"He asked for the details, and they left together..."

Becker leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers once on the desk; his mind was already moving through the possibilities, the danger, and the insult such an act would be to Kratos himself. A Spartan taken and returned to slavery? Kratos would burn Volantis to the ground if he were made aware…

"You will keep watching," Becker said at last, his voice coming out in a hiss that made the spy twitch slightly. "I want to know everyone they speak to, every move they make. Quietly. They must not know they're being followed."

The spy hesitated momentarily before asking softly, worriedly, "Should we… tell the King?"

Becker's gaze locked on him, cold and certain. "No. Not yet."

The spy looked uneasy, but Becker's voice softened, just enough to clarify the reason and assuage the spy's worries about things being kept from their King. "The King is burdened with matters that decide the fate of thousands; he does not need to be interrupted with whispers until I can put the truth before him whole. When I speak to him of this, it will be with names, proof, and the guilty party ready for judgment."

As the spy stared at him, Becker noticed that the young man was worrying his lip, as though still not at ease with the thought of keeping things from the King, and Becker's eyes hardened again. "Understand this, there is nothing in this world I will keep from King Kratos. He will know everything, but he will know it at the right time; until then, I will deal with the shadows."

The spy nodded firmly now, sensing the conviction behind the words. Throughout the city, it was known that no one was more loyal to Sparta and her King than the Pillars; that was why Kratos himself had given them their position.

"Go," Becker ordered after a moment of tense silence. "And remember, this is not about protecting them; it's about protecting our city and our king…"

The young man left without another word. Alone once more, Becker leaned forward, snuffed out the candle, and let the darkness settle around him like a cloak of darkness. His loyalty to Kratos was absolute, and in that loyalty, he would make certain no serpent could coil near the throne without his knowledge, and no arrogant lord would return so much as a single citizen to bondage...

XXXX

Author's Note:

I want to thank all of you who left messages saying you enjoy my story. Against the tide of trolls and bad reviews, it was a nice change of pace to see so many people enjoying what I'm writing. I know I promised you that I would bring the Volantene delegation to heel in this chapter, but I couldn't help setting this subplot in motion to make the following chapter even better. I hope it holds up to your expectations.

As always, if you would like to view pictures that accompany this story, you're more than welcome to join my Discord:

https: (double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) qu7DXXsW

Chapter Text

The steam curled like mist along the smooth marble floor, catching the firelight from the torches mounted in iron sconces along the walls; the air smelled of cedar and salt, and the slow dripping of water echoed softly in the vast chamber.

Ned Stark entered the bathhouse with quiet steps, his towel folded over one arm and his brow creased with thought; sleep had eluded him once again, chased away by memories, worries, and the weight of Kratos's offer the previous night echoing in his skull like the toll of a distant bell.

He needed to clear his mind, or at least find a moment of silence to sort through the chaos; that was what brought him to the palace baths, which were thankfully empty. Or so he thought…

"Lord Stark," a voice called lazily through the mist, making Ned blink. He turned to see Oberyn Martell reclining against the far side of one of the deep pools, his arms spread across the rim like a lounging serpent. He was naked, save for the steam and a half-drained cup of wine dangling from one hand, and Ned sighed wearily as his plan of silence and solitude seemed to disappear in an instant.

"I was beginning to think the North didn't bathe," Oberyn added with a smirk as he lazily swirled his cup and the wine within. "I've visited this bath house every day this week and have yet to see you even once…"

Ned exhaled through his nose, unamused, but walked over and descended into the water; it was hotter than he liked—like soaking in a hearth—but it helped his sore shoulders begin to unwind, and he replied in a tired voice. "We are not animals, no matter how the rest of the realm might view us… We simply enjoy a more… temperate climate to our baths."

"And that's why you've only now decided to enjoy what is possibly Sparta's best feature?" Oberyn smirked before taking another sip from his cup as Ned lowered himself deeper into the water and lay his head against the stone rim behind him.

"No…" Ned finally answered, "I had trouble finding sleep last night… My mind is weary, and I had hoped to find some peace here. But I see now that was a hopeless quest…"

Oberyn raised his cup in mock salute at that, not even troubled by the subtle insult. "To unspoken thoughts and unslept nights, then."

Ned shot him a glance as he raised himself back up and extended his arms along the bath's rim. "You're drunk already? The sun has barely risen!"

"Please. I've only just begun," Oberyn replied, setting his goblet on the stone beside him. "Ellaria is still abed; no doubt exhausted from the night's festivities, the Sand Snakes have scattered like foxes into this city, and I… I thought I'd enjoy the quiet until you wandered in with that depressing face."

Ned rubbed his temples at that, already feeling a headache coming despite the relaxing warmth of the bath. "What face?"

"The one that says the world is ending and it's all your fault…"

Ned didn't respond, and the steam filled the pause between them, creating an almost suffocating blanket of heat; taking advantage of the silence, Ned allowed his eyes to move up one of the nearby marble columns, once again marveling at the skill that the builders of Sparta possessed.

"I must admit," Oberyn said after a time, "I didn't expect you to come here, not just to Sparta, I mean here." He gestured to the bath. "You don't strike me as the sort who seeks out comfort…"

"I'm not," Ned said flatly, ignoring the subtle insult. "But I'm not fool enough to ignore pain either…"

Oberyn chuckled, though there was something darker beneath the sound that made Ned tense slightly. "You Northerners always speak of pain as though it were virtue, but perhaps that's why your lands are so cold; like your people…"

The silence settled again for a moment before Oberyn continued, once again lazily swirling his cup.

"This place… Sparta… What do you make of it?"

Ned brought his eyes slowly back down the column and fixed them on the man who was seated across from him. "It is… unlike anything I've ever seen."

"Yes… And yet not so foreign." Oberyn's fingers traced a line through the water as his eyes glazed slightly, as though he was lost in memory. "They are a people who value strength, discipline, sacrifice… I understand that."

"You understand sacrifice?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow; if there was one thing he could safely assume, it was that sacrifice was as foreign a word in Dorne as monogamy.

Oberyn's smirk vanished in an instant, and Ned was once again left with a feeling of wariness, as though he was seated across from an enemy.

"I lost my sister and her children to Lannister knives," he said quietly. "The Mountain crushed her skull while she screamed for mercy… My niece was stabbed over a dozen times, and Tywin Lannister wrapped it all in gold and called it justice… And your King let it happen!"

Ned's jaw clenched as a wave of guilt overcame him at the memory of what had occurred during the Sack of King's Landing, "I tried to stop it..."

"But you didn't," Oberyn replied, not unkindly, but without letting him off the hook; his gaze was one of barely contained fury.

"No," Ned admitted in a shameful whisper as he lowered his head against the rim of the bath again. "By the time I arrived, it was too late…"

For a long moment, nothing moved but the water lapping at the edges of the pool as both men allowed their minds to travel back to the day when a city was razed and a woman and her children butchered…

"I don't care if Robert's kingdom falls," Oberyn said suddenly, causing Ned to start with surprise at the declaration. "Let the lions tear it apart, while the other 'noble' houses fight over the scraps; the sooner it crumbles, the better…"

Ned raised his head toward him, his voice low but sharp. "And Dorne? Will you pretend you're not part of that kingdom, too? That your lands won't also suffer should civil war ensue!"

Oberyn smiled at Ned's fury, as though amused by the man's anger. "Dorne has always stood apart; we bend the knee, yes, but we do not break. We endured dragons, Baratheons, and Targaryens back when the name actually meant something. We'll endure the fall of the Iron Throne, if it comes to that..."

"You sound as though you're welcoming it," Ned said, his voice as hard as the winters of his homeland.

Oberyn's eyes glittered with amusement, as though speaking treason out loud before the King's closest friend was all a game, "Maybe I am…"

Ned shook his head, unwilling to let the matter end. "And what then? Let Sparta take the realm?"

"Would that be so bad?" Oberyn countered with a raised brow, "Tell me, have you seen crime here? Starving children in the gutters? Lords using smallfolk as toys? I haven't. Whatever Kratos is, he rules with certainty; there is no doubt in his law."

"I don't believe he's a god," Ned muttered, his voice barely carrying across the bath; last night's conversation seemed to echo in his head, and he shook himself slightly to be rid of it.

Oberyn shrugged, "Neither do I. But that doesn't change what he is, or what he's built… Even you must agree on that, Stark. There hasn't been a city like Sparta since the Valyrian Freehold… This city will one day be the seat of an empire, and we're lucky because we will be able to say we saw it at the beginning."

Ned didn't respond, but his thoughts churned as Oberyn finished his cup and placed it on the ground behind him before leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. "Do you know what frightens me most about this place?"

Ned looked at him warily, already assuming some sarcastic remark from the man before him; Ned had only encountered Oberyn Martell a few times in his life, but he had never openly admitted being afraid of anything as far as Ned could recall.

"It's not the army, nor the red tattoos or the talk of the ruler of this city being a god... It's the belief. These people believe in him, Sparta, and in each other; that kind of unity is dangerous… In Westeros, we squabble over scraps; here, they build..."

Ned stared into the water at that, unable to refute Oberyn's words, no matter how much he might want to; Westeros was 'united' in name only, but in reality, the seven kingdoms might as well have been entirely separate realms. "You sound envious..."

"I am envious," Oberyn said as he gazed up at the ceiling, his hands still behind his head. "Imagine if Dorne had this unity… This strength… Instead of bitter memories and empty revenge…"

After a moment of tense silence, Oberyn sighed and reached for a large pitcher that sat close by. He then poured more wine into his cup, filling it almost to overflowing, before placing the pitcher back on the ground.

"You'll have to choose, Lord Stark. Whether to protect a kingdom that's already rotting… or stand aside and let something new rise from the ashes..."

Ned rose from the water, the heat clinging to his skin like guilt as water dripped from his naked body, "I don't get to choose," he said, grabbing his towel. "I only get to act… or fail."

As he turned to leave, Oberyn called after him. "Tell your king that if he wishes to keep his throne, he'll have to prove to the rest of Westeros that he deserves it, and so far, based on what I've seen, his record is already against him..."

Ned's fists clenched angrily at that as he stormed out of the bath house at the insult to his oldest friend, yet despite the urge to retaliate, he didn't look back as Oberyn's mocking laughter trailed behind him.

XXXX

On the opposite side of the city from the high stone terrace overlooking the Agoge Training Fields, the Sand Snakes stood frozen in awe; the field below wasn't a yard or even a square, it was a continent unto itself, stretching so far into the distance it blurred into the horizon. Nearly one hundred thousand Spartans—men and women, some barely older than children, others hardened warriors—moved in vast coordinated waves, their drills arranged in staggered formations so wide and efficient it never once looked crowded.

From this vantage, it was like staring at a living tapestry of war, rows of shield bearers locking and advancing; spear lines throwing in deadly rhythm; bare-chested runners weaving through obstacle courses; armored warriors hammering against one another in relentless sparring. There was no wasted space, no idle movement, and every inch of the land had purpose; among the thousands, scattered throughout the formations, some warriors bore a crimson tattoo, bold and unmistakable. It adorned their arms and shoulders like blood made flesh, curling down biceps and slashing across backs and chests.

Obara Sand, arms folded, her sun-darkened skin gleaming beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin, watched the movements below with undisguised interest. Not far to their right, Nymeria leaned against a pillar, her sly smile betraying thoughts she didn't voice. And beside her, Tyene, veiled in pale linen, simply looked delighted by everything she saw.

"Gods," Nymeria murmured. "I thought we were coming to see a training yard… This is more akin to a battlefield..."

"As far as the eye can see," Tyene agreed in a whisper, her blue eyes darting across the never-ending rows. Obara didn't speak, her jaw clenched slightly, her hands tightening from where they were folded. She wasn't overwhelmed; she was alive in a way she hadn't felt in years. Even her pulse seemed to drum in time with the drills, and her breath caught, not just at the sheer scale but at what moved within it.

Tyene clutched the rail excitedly, her blue eyes gleaming as she stared at a few of the trainees doing shield drills. "They're beautiful…" she whispered, lust evident in her voice. "So precise… So strong…"

As they watched, the Dornish women began to notice something else: the red mark.

At first, it was subtle, just a flicker of crimson on a shoulder or bicep, but the more they observed, the clearer it became. Some of the warriors bore it, a bold, blood-red tattoo curling down one arm, vivid even against sweat-slicked skin; others did not.

Obara pointed with her chin at a group of warriors standing close together, watching trainees practice swordplay. "That mark... the red one, only a few have it..."

"I've heard that only those who pass the Agoge are allowed to wear it…" Nymeria replied.

As Obara opened her mouth to respond, she saw him: Leon; tall, bare-chested, and wearing only a pair of dark trousers that clung to his hips like second skin as sweat glistened under the sun, muscles rippling with every movement as he strode between rows of trainees, correcting posture, repositioning blades, barking orders that carried even across the wind. But it was the crimson mark that drew the eye, running down his left shoulder, and wrapping his upper arm like a streak of fire.

Obara's lip curled into a hungry grin as she continued to stare at the man, like a lion eyeing their next meal. "Well. Look at you… Mmm. I think I've just found my next sparring partner…"

Nymeria chuckled as she looked at just who had caught her sister's eye, nodding in appreciation at the excellent choice that Obara had made. "Are you planning to use your spear or just mount him where he stands...?"

Obara glanced sideways at her sister before flashing a mischievous smile, "Why not both?"

Tyene leaned in closer to the stone rail, eyes alight. "He's gorgeous," she sighed, almost dreamily. "So… intense, like a lion caged in iron discipline..."

"I'd wager he fights like one, too," Nymeria added while the three women continued to watch as Leon directed the trainees on how to move correctly. "Fast. Brutal. No hesitation..."

Obara's eyes narrowed with interest as Leon began sparring with one of the more advanced trainees, easily disarming the boy in three swift moves before stepping back and barking for him to try again.

Tyene giggled behind her hand, suddenly, before winking at Obara mischievously. "Careful, sister… He looks like he bites…"

"Gods, I hope he does…" Obara said with a spark in her eye that made both her sisters laugh at her wanton lust.

Leon suddenly paused and turned as though he could sense their attention on him; his gaze traveled upward, past the sparring trainees, past the command lines, and landed directly on the three Dornish women. He didn't flinch or smile, just stared for a long moment… and then turned back to the field as though completely uninterested.

Obara exhaled slowly as a wicked smile began to spread across her face. "Oh yes…" she whispered, "Definitely my next sparring partner... He moves like he knows what I'm thinking."

Nymeria raised a brow at that, a smile of her own forming, "Which is?"

Obara's voice dropped as she replied, heated with lust and need, "That I want to see if that tattoo of his runs all the way down…"

Tyene laughed outright at that, and Nymeria even released a small snort of amusement as they watched Leon yelling orders at a group of spear trainees, correcting their stances, slapping one across the shoulder to shift a shield into proper position, and dragging another to his feet when he fell.

"Well, instead of watching up here like a bunch of perverts," Tyene snarked, "How about we go down there and get a more 'in-depth' view of how these Spartans train?"

With a nod of agreement, the three sisters descended from the terrace. The full weight of Sparta surrounded them: discipline, sweat, fire, and steel. Though ten thousand bore the red mark, one in particular had claimed their attention.

The hunt had begun.

XXXX

Two days later:

Tyrion Lannister had reached his limit; after two straight days of listening to his uncle Kevan drone on with the Iron Bank's representative about Sparta's financial records, tax ledgers, and storage logs, Tyrion had decided he would rather swallow hot coals than endure another hour of it. Kevan, ever dutiful, had insisted that Tywin Lannister would expect a full and accurate account, and while Tyrion did not doubt that for a second, he had his own priorities.

"Let the old boars roll in numbers and gold," he muttered under his breath. "I'd rather see what makes this place breathe…"

And so, while Kevan sat elbow-to-elbow with the Iron Bank's scribe in one of Sparta's administrative halls, Tyrion slipped away into the upper quarter of the city, into the marble-wrapped learning halls that Kratos had allegedly built with the aid of the freed scholars of Lys and Myr; he'd been told knowledge was as valuable as coin here.

Now, seated within a gently sloped, open-air amphitheater, Tyrion began to understand why; the academy wasn't grand in appearance—no golden domes or ornate scrollwork like the Citadel—but it didn't need such things. It was alive. The children around him were focused, thoughtful, and unafraid to question. The instructor—an older woman with a hawkish gaze and braided silver hair—was as sharp as any sword Tyrion had seen forged in Casterly Rock.

She paced before a wall of slate etched with ideas written in multiple tongues, and pointed to a word written boldly in red chalk: "Rule."

"Why was Kratos made king?" she asked suddenly, halting in her steps. "Who here can answer?"

A dozen hands shot up, and she pointed to a boy seated near the front, "You."

The boy stood tall and proud, answering in a shaky voice, "Because he is a god."

There were murmurs of agreement among the others, and Tyrion smiled indulgently at the answer. Though he still refused to believe that the tall, imposing ruler of Sparta was a god, he could well understand the cult that King Kratos was creating around himself.

But to Tyrion's surprise, the instructor only nodded mildly. "Yes… that is one reason. But is being a god enough?"

The boy hesitated. "I… I thought so…"

The instructor turned to the others. "Let us consider: the Red God is said to be a god, yet he demands blood. Demands sacrifice; his priests burn men and women alive… Would you follow such a god?"

The room went quiet as she stepped closer to the children and spoke again in a firm voice: "Kratos is a god. But unlike others, he does not demand submission; he did not ask to be King. He built this city not to rule but to free. And when the people came to him, begging for leadership, he refused twice. Do you know why?"

Tyrion leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. He had not heard that King Kratos had refused his crown twice before. That news would definitely intrigue Tywin and make the old bastard wonder just what type of man he was dealing with.

Another girl, with flowing black hair, raised her hand and said carefully, "Because… he didn't believe he should rule… ?"

The instructor smiled proudly at the girl, "Exactly! Because he did not desire power, but purpose. And that—" she jabbed a finger at the word on the board, "—is why he was chosen. Not because he wanted the throne, but because he had earned the trust of those of us who had nothing left to give but our loyalty."

The room was silent again, and every child, including Tyrion, listened with rapt attention.

"In Sparta," she continued, "we are not ruled by blood or crowns. We are ruled by merit; one day, you will all enter the Agoge, and the most important lesson you will learn is that a man or woman who cannot lead themselves cannot lead others. A god who demands fear instead of offering strength is not a god we follow."

She turned back to the word on the slate. "Rule. The right to rule must be earned, every day, by action…"

Tyrion exhaled slowly as his mind went over everything he had just heard; Gods, the Citadel would lose their minds if they heard this! They'd have a conniption at how freely knowledge was being given away, but to see that knowledge tempered with ethics, sharpened by discussion, and wielded by common children? Not the sons and daughters of highborn nobles, but simple common children? They'd be frothing at the mouth with rage!

This wasn't education, it was revolution!

The boy beside him—perhaps eleven, maybe twelve—turned and asked shyly, "Do they teach this in your kingdom?"

Tyrion snorted. "No, in mine, only those of 'noble blood' are given an education like this… And I doubt even what they're taught can be compared to this…"

The boy nodded solemnly as he digested that information, before finally replying, "We're taught that our minds must be as sharp as our blades… That's what Lord Cleitus says."

Tyrion smiled despite himself. "Remind me to visit this Lord Cleitus and shake his hand. The Citadel would have a seizure if they heard you speaking like that."

The boy blinked, tilting his head before asking, "What's a Citadel?"

Tyrion chuckled once before taking a deep drink from his cup and replying. "A dusty tower full of old men who hoard books and call it wisdom…"

The child frowned thoughtfully. "Here, we share books… And challenge wisdom."

As the teacher began speaking again, Tyrion looked around again, at the stonework, the open sky, and the scent of warm parchment and ink in the air; this was Sparta's true weapon, he realized—not their spears, not their soldiers.

Their weapon was children, taught not what to think but how to think, how to make their minds as sharp and deadly as the swords that they would one day wield when they completed the Agoge.

With a sigh, Tyrion leaned back again, letting that truth settle deep into his bones; Westeros was crumbling, and yet here, here was a city teaching its children how to rebuild the world better than the one they inherited.

He thought of the Citadel again, of the maesters guarding their scrolls like dragons hoarding gold. If they knew that Sparta wasn't just freely giving out knowledge but giving out better knowledge, they would be apoplectic; they'd likely call it heresy or treason.

And he wasn't sure they'd be wrong…

XXXX

Later that night:

The night air clung to the Spartan docks like damp silk, thick with brine and the low groan of moored ships shifting against the tide; the stars above were pale and distant, swallowed by the towering black hulls of warships and merchant vessels anchored at the edge of the docks.

Lanterns swayed with the sea breeze, casting fractured pools of golden light across the water-slicked planks; two men stood in the shadows just beyond the reach of the torchlight: One was tall, dressed in fine robes dark enough to pass for a shadow themselves; Volantene silk, tailored perfectly, though travel-worn at the hem. His jeweled fingers glittered even in the low light, and the sharp, calculating glint in his eyes betrayed a man used to power… and used to getting what he wanted.

The other was leaner, harder, his shoulders tight beneath a worn leather vest, his arms folded across his chest. His once-proud armor had long since been stripped from him, leaving him unbearably ordinary; once he was a mercenary, now he was nothing but an ordinary citizen, albeit an incredibly bitter one…

"She'll be alone tonight," the mercenary said at last, glancing over his shoulder toward the darkened path leading to the north dock. "Same as always, just her and a pair of torches. Her rotation begins in the next twenty minutes and will last three hours before she is relieved…

The Volantene noble inhaled slowly, letting the salty wind fill his lungs before replying arrogantly. "Then it's done… My men will be waiting just beyond the stone archway; they'll escort her aboard the Red Siren when you bring her to them."

He nodded toward the ship anchored furthest from the light, its black sail folded like a shroud, its deck quiet but not deserted.

"The crew's been ordered to cast off the moment the girl's aboard," he added. "No delay. No questions…"

The mercenary frowned at that, "And if she fights… ?"

"Do what you must," the noble said coolly. "So long as she's alive when we cross the Rhoyne. Dead women are far harder to sell…"

"You said nothing about selling her," the mercenary growled. "You said you wanted your property back!"

The noble gave a mirthless smile, as though finding the man's anger amusing, "What I want… is to remind that bitch that no matter how far she tries to run, no matter how much she tries to pretend she is free, she will always be mine!"

The mercenary's eyes narrowed angrily at how he'd been misled. "I held up my end of the deal," he growled. "I found out when her rotation was and where she would be, and trust me, that wasn't cheap! I want my gold!"

"You'll have it." The noble turned, the faintest sneer on his lips. "When we arrive in Volantis."

"Bullshit," the mercenary snapped, stepping closer. "You think I'm that much of a fool?"

"No," the noble said, not flinching. "I think you're a man who wants more than coin; you want purpose again. Blood. War. I can offer that in Volantis… Serve me well, and you'll have gold, power, women, whatever it is you miss from your pitiful little life before the Spartans crushed your pride."

The merc's mouth twisted, caught between rage and the raw desperation he couldn't quite hide, which was causing the noble's face to light up in amusement. "Just don't forget your end of the deal."

The noble's eyes glinted like daggers at the prospect of breaking whatever pride his former slave had accrued since he had last seen her. "I never do..."

They stood in silence a moment longer, the only sounds the soft creak of ropes and the hiss of waves licking the stone dock; then they parted, one toward the ship, the other toward the shadows, where a quiet, armored woman stood, unaware that tonight, she was the prize in a game of vengeance and gold.

Neither of them noticed the soft rustle above, where a figure crouched in the rafters of the dockyard warehouse, cloaked in shadow; Becker's spy narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight. Then, just as quietly as she'd come, she vanished into the dark, off to report what she had seen, and across the city, in the depths of the palace, Becker was already waiting.

XXXX

A half hour later, Drusilla stood alone beneath a flickering brazier, spear in hand, her

sharp eyes scanning the darkness beyond the dock's edge; she had served with honor in the War of the Triarchy. She had bled on foreign sand, watched friends die with steel in their guts, and held the line when others broke.

And now they had her guarding crates and silence…

The footsteps reached her ears long before the man came into view, and she turned her head slightly, her jaw tightening when she saw who it was.

"You," she said coldly, causing the mercenary to shrug, offering a lazy, smug smile.
"Me," he replied. "Fancy meeting you here, Drusilla..."

"I remember your face," she said with disgust. "You were one of those who laid down your arms and begged for mercy. You're lucky you weren't crucified like the others, scum!"

The man raised an eyebrow. "Daario vouched for us…"

Drusilla's grip on her spear didn't loosen, even as her eyes shone with distaste. "Lord Kratos may have forgiven Daario and all those who rode with him, but Sparta hasn't..."

"I don't need forgiveness," the mercenary said, taking a casual step forward. "Just a little conversation."

Drusilla's eyes narrowed. Something in the way he moved was off; relaxed, but too relaxed. And his shadow… no, there was something else. A whisper of movement behind her made her instincts scream, and in one fluid motion, Drusilla spun.

The thug behind her had just begun to raise his crude wooden club when the tip of her spear lanced upward, catching him under the chin; the blade punched through the soft flesh of his open mouth and burst out the back of his skull in a gout of red; he collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

Drusilla yanked the spear free and whirled again just as four more shadows surged from the alley behind the dock, blades drawn and teeth bared; the first came in low, she stepped back and drove the butt of her spear into his knee, then slammed the blade through his throat as he screamed.

Another came from her right, and she pivoted, slicing across his gut with her short sword, which she had drawn in the blink between strikes; blood sprayed the dock. A third thug ducked her swing and tried to grab her from behind; she stomped on his foot and elbowed him hard in the face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch, but even Spartan reflexes had limits.

As she struck the third man down with a savage thrust of her sword, the mercenary struck; with a wordless roar, he slammed a full amphora of wine across the back of her skull. The ceramic shattered, and so did her balance; Drusilla collapsed to one knee, vision blurring, blood and wine pouring down her scalp. Her spear clattered to the wood. Through the haze of pain, she turned her head toward the mercenary, hatred burning in her gaze.

"Ephialtes…" she hissed, causing the mercenary to freeze; her voice was weak, but the word hit him like a hammer and made him visibly flinch.

Ephialtes, the traitor who betrayed Leonidas, the most reviled name in all of Sparta; every child knew the story, and every soldier spat at the name.

The mercenary's stomach twisted, but there was no time for hesitation; that ship had long since set sail…

"Tie the bitch up!" he barked, his voice shaking more than he wanted to admit. "Now! We need to be gone before someone hears this!"

The last surviving thug, eyes wide with fear and hands trembling, scrambled to obey as blood soaked the boards of the docks and the sea whispered below; somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, but not an alarm. Not yet.

As the two men hauled the unconscious Spartan woman between them, the mercenary cast one last look toward the dockyard's torchlight and swallowed his fear, hoping beyond hope that the plan he had set in motion to secure his future would succeed without any more problems.

XXXX

The Red Siren rocked gently in the waters of Sparta's northern harbor, its dark sails hanging loose under the shroud of night. The lanterns along the deck glowed faintly, offering little warmth to the venomous grin curling the lips of the Volantene noble as he stood at the bow, his fur-lined cloak rippling in the sea breeze.

From the shadows beyond the dock, the mercenary appeared, dragging the limp form of Drusilla between himself and the thug who had helped, her wrists were bound, her head slumped forward, a stream of blood still trailing down from her scalp, and her armor was stained with blood and gore; proof she had not gone down easily.

The noble's smile deepened as he stepped forward, descending the steps toward them like a cat welcoming a caged bird.

"My, my," he said smoothly, his voice oily with satisfaction. "It's so good to see you again, my dear. I told them you Spartans could bleed."

Drusilla stirred slightly, groaning, but her body remained slack as the noble snapped his fingers, causing two sailors to rush forward from the shadows.

"Take her below," he commanded. "Strip that armor off her; a whore needs no steel, and it will make a fine trophy for my return to Volantis."

The sailors hesitated—perhaps it was fear or shame—but the noble glared, and they obeyed. As they hoisted Drusilla and carried her toward the hatch, the noble turned to the mercenary and the remaining thug. "Well done," he said. You've done your part; now I believe it's time we leave before Sparta awakens. The tide is on our side; we sail within the next ten minutes..."

But five shadows dropped from above with silent, lethal grace before the mercenary could reply.

Becker's agents.

Clad in deep gray, faces masked, the shadows descended upon the ship like wraiths from the underworld, each holding nothing more than a pair of twin daggers, which they were using with lethal efficiency; steel hissed in the dark, and the nearest sailor didn't even have time to scream before his throat opened wide and blood sprayed across the deck.

Chaos erupted as the noble shouted, stumbling back as screams echoed across the darkened deck and more of his men fell. The thugs tried to run, only to be cut down by blades flashing in the torchlight.

The noble spun, only to freeze as he saw the mercenary holding a curved dagger to his throat.

"You!" the noble snarled, face twisted in betrayal. "What is the meaning of this?!"

The mercenary smiled coldly. "Did you really think I would betray Sparta?" he said, his voice deadly calm. I've seen what King Kratos is capable of; there's no running from him..."

"I offered you your life back!" the noble spat, nearly frothing at the mouth in rage, which just seemed to make the mercenary laugh.

"Oh, I'll have my life back… thanks to you! What better way to prove my loyalty than delivering the man who tried to kidnap one of Sparta's warriors?"

The noble's face paled as he realized just how completely he had been betrayed; as he opened his mouth to respond, the mercenary slammed his fist into the man's jaw, dropping him like a sack of flour.

At that moment, Becker emerged from the shadows of one of the dock's nearby alleys; cloaked in black, his eyes scanned the scene as the last of the sailors were cut down and blood pooled on the planks; the air reeking of steel and salt and death…

Two of his shadows carried Drusilla back onto the deck. She was groggy but conscious now, her eyes burning with fury and lips flecked with blood. The noble groaned beneath her as Becker stopped to look down at him with silent contempt. He didn't speak to the noble; instead, he turned to the mercenary.

"Well done," Becker said simply before turning to the shadows behind him: "Take him to the palace. The King will deal with him at first light."

With a nod, they hauled the unconscious noble to his feet and began to drag the man down the gangplank and back to Sparta; as they gave a sudden jerk, the noble cried out in pain, only for one of the shadows to slap the man hard across the face, silencing him as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

As Drusilla was helped past Becker and the mercenary, she levelled a hate-filled glare at the man, before hissing: "I won't forget the blow you gave me, scum… And I promise it will be returned in kind..."

The mercenary swallowed nervously at that as Drusilla limped away; as he turned back to Becker, he saw the man creepily smirking at him.

"I would watch my back if I were you…"

"Why?" The mercenary replied in confusion, "I… I helped! Surely, she must see that it was all to sell the betrayal!"

"I can see that," Becker nodded, "But you still cracked open her skull…"

Without another word, Becker turned and stepped into the darkness of one of the nearby alleys, leaving the mercenary alone with a dizzying sense that he might be in more danger than he had before…

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you didn't know, there was a poll on my Discord that decided whether or not the mercenary would end up betraying Sparta, and the winner was the NOs. In the future, I want more polls so that you all can have a say in how the story will be written. As always, if there is something you wish to see changed or something about this chapter you didn't like, I look forward to hearing from you.
If you would like to join my Discord, where you can view pictures that accompany this story, as well as join in future polls, you can find it here:
(double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) ryTEa8tJ

Chapter Text

The throne room was thick with unease. The envoys had been herded from their beds just before dawn, stripped of comfort and certainty, and now stood clustered in uneasy groups beneath the towering columns. Whispers darted like shadows from mouth to ear, echoing against the vast marble walls.

Tyrion Lannister stood with his uncle Kevan and Lord Eddard Stark, exchanging glances as they tried to divine some meaning from the summons. Kevan leaned close to Ned, his voice kept low.

"Do you know what this is?"

Ned shook his head, jaw tight; his sword and daggers had been left behind at the Spartans' command when they arrived in the city, and now he felt the absence of steel at his side like a missing limb. "No," he muttered, "but I do not like it…"

The only relief that Ned felt in that moment was that the guards had allowed his son, Jon, to remain in his chambers, saying that only Ned's presence was required.

Across the chamber, Oberyn Martell stood with Ellaria and his daughters; his eyes were narrowed, and his stance relaxed but sharp, as though he were coiled to spring. Beside him, Ellaria rested a hand lightly on his arm, though her own gaze swept the room like a hunting cat, and from her simple touch, she could tell how even her beloved Oberyn, famed for his pride and defiance, looked unsettled here.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed like the march of doom, and the whispers ended in an instant as Kratos entered the hall, his towering frame seeming to fill the space, his scarred face carved into a mask of cold rage instant send warning bells ringing in the heads of everyone present, and even the dimmest in the room could tell that something was wrong.

He strode to the throne and sat heavily, resting his massive hands on the armrests. The quiet stretched, taut and strangling, until every heartbeat sounded too loud in the ears of those assembled.

Then he spoke, a single word that rang like the toll of a funeral bell:

"Bring him..."

The doors opened a moment later, and the guards entered, dragging in a man between them, the Volantene noble. His once-rich robes hung in rags, his fine silks stained with blood. His face was swollen and bruised, his lip split, one eye nearly closed. He stumbled as the guards forced him forward, chains clinking against the stone; as they reached the center of the hall, the guards threw the noble to the floor, making the man cry out as he fell.

The delegation from Volantis erupted at once at the sight of their comrade in such a state, and a moment later, the hall echoed with cries of fury:

"You cannot do this!"

"He is nobility of Volantis!"

"This is a crime against the Free Cities!"

Despite the crashing noise, Kratos did not rise; he merely lifted one hand, and a moment later, the guards slammed their spears down in unison, the thunder of iron striking marble, shaking the chamber like a battlefield drum, cutting every voice short. The sudden silence felt like a blade pressed against the throat, and more than one of the men and women gathered in the room suddenly swallowed nervously as they gazed around at the glaring guards, each one suddenly distinctly aware that they were unarmed.

Kratos's gaze swept the hall, his voice low, but edged like steel as he levelled an enraged eye on the envoys from Volantis:

"You were brought into my city under the banner of hospitality. And yet…" He gestured to the chained noble who had slowly climbed to a kneeling position. "…this man spat upon that banner! He sought to break my peace! He sought to take what is mine…"

The envoys shifted uneasily; Tyrion's mind raced, piecing together fragments, while beside him, Kevan frowned, sweat beading at his brow. Ned's hands clenched into fists, instinct urging him to reach for a sword that was not there, and he once again breathed a prayer to the Old Gods that Jon was not here. On the opposite side of the room, Oberyn's lips curved in a cold smile, though his eyes burned with calculation.

Kratos let the silence linger, heavy with menace, before turning his head slightly.

"Becker…"

From the edge of the dais, a figure moved forward. His pitch-black robe whispered across the stone, and the torches seemed to dim as he stepped into their glow. His skin was so dark he seemed carved of midnight itself. His face was unmasked and unflinching, and his eyes, hard and unblinking, carried the weight of death.

The envoys shrank back instinctively, their breath catching in their throats. They had seen assassins before, spies, whispers in silk. But this was different. This man radiated loyalty like a blade radiates sharpness, and his presence said one thing only: any one of you could die here if the King willed it…

Becker nodded once at Kratos before turning to the watching hall and speaking; his voice was smooth but not warm, and more than one person shifted nervously.

"My King, the reason your guests stand before you is simple… The man in chains conspired to break your law of hospitality; he hired blades, plotted in shadows, and his crime was nothing less than an insult to Sparta itself!"

The noble tried to speak then, but Becker's gaze cut to him like a knife, and the words died in his throat.

Becker looked back at the gathered envoys, his tone deepening into a warning as he continued:

"Understand this: Sparta opened its gates to you in trust… To betray that trust is not just a crime against our King. It is a death sentence!"

Becker let the silence coil around the chamber like a tightening noose before stepping forward. His black robes whispered across the floor, and when he spoke again, his voice was iron.

"The man you see before you conspired to seize one of Sparta's own; he sought to drag her from her post, strip her of her honor, and carry her across the sea as though she were spoils of war! For this crime, he promised more gold than most men would see in a hundred lifetimes."

Ned's jaw tightened as the words sank in. The sheer folly of it—trying to kidnap a Spartan warrior, in Sparta, under Kratos's gaze—was beyond comprehension! His mouth parted slightly, though he had no words.

Tyrion, however, found his tongue and gave a short, incredulous laugh before whispering to the two men beside him. "Gods be good… Of all the idiotic schemes… abducting a Spartan, here, of all places? Did he think her comrades would simply shrug and let her vanish!"

Kevan said nothing; he simply stared at the kneeling noble with the heavy stillness of a man watching the condemned march to the headsman's block, as dozens of whispers buzzed around him at the stupidity that the Volantene noble had shown.

"And yet, even that was not enough…" Becker continued as he began to walk around the kneeling noble. "For the man he tried to buy was a mercenary, a sellsword who fought against us in the war with the Triarchy. A man who has seen Spartans fight, and bleed, and die, yet rise again stronger. When the noble approached him with this scheme, the mercenary did not hesitate. He came to me. Immediately."

The revelation stiffened several envoys, even Ned's brows rose. Besides him, Tyrion's eyes widened, his mouth twitching into a sharp smile.

Becker's voice sharpened, carrying to every corner of the hall as he continued speaking. "I instructed him to play along… Letting this fool believe his bribe had bought loyalty, leading him on, until the moment Sparta would have proof of his crime came. And last night, it was done, and his plot was laid bare, his hands stained in betrayal…"

Becker's hand lifted, a slow, deliberate gesture toward the kneeling noble. "He tried to steal a daughter of Sparta, and what did he find? That no son or daughter of Sparta will ever betray her. Not for gold. Not for crowns. Not for life itself. Even a sellsword, once our enemy, would sooner die at our side than betray this city!"

The weight of his words hit like a hammer, and the hall was rendered silent as each looked at the kneeling man in the center of the room, some with pity, others with looks of incredulity that the man could possibly be so stupid as to think his scheme would work.

Ned's lips parted, stunned at both the noble's arrogance and the mercenary's choice as Tyrion gave a short, incredulous laugh beside him. "By the gods… bought by Volantis, yet loyal to Sparta? There's a lesson in that."

Across the chamber, Oberyn Martell smirked as he leaned toward Ellaria, his voice carrying a note of dark amusement. "So… even traitors prefer Sparta to Volantis… That is… delicious."

Ellaria's smile was sharp as a blade as she responded, "And this one thought he could play the wolf in a lion's den… Now he learns what it is to be prey…"

The Sand Snakes chuckled quietly from behind the pair, eyes glittering with hungry amusement at the spectacle before them, like lionesses savoring a meal to come.

The Volantene envoys had gone pale; one's lips trembled as he tried to form words, another's hands shook openly. It was not just the noble who had been condemned; it was the shadow of judgment falling over all Volantis itself. With the noble's single stupid action, he had all but guaranteed that Volantis would be held responsible! An envoy on a mission of peace, trying to kidnap a citizen of the city they had been sent to? It was tantamount to an act of war!

Becker, having finished his account, stepped back into the shadows, disappearing in an instant, yet his presence lingered like smoke, making more than one envoy stare at where he had vanished with a tremor of fear. The silence he left behind was not empty but heavy and dangerous, and every envoy present could feel it pressing down on their throats.

The Volantene noble, forced to his knees in chains, trembled, but it was not with fear; his face twisted in rage, and when Kratos gave him the opening, he exploded.

"Explain yourself," Kratos's voice boomed, echoing against the stone walls of the throne room.

The noble's lips peeled back into a sneer. "Explain? There is nothing to explain! That woman—Drusilla—she is mine! She was my pleasure slave before you fucking savages stole her! And by Volantene law, she remains mine! She belongs to me!"

Gasps broke out in the chamber; the delegates from Volantis went bone white, several exchanging frantic glances. They knew—every envoy in the hall knew—what Sparta's creed was on slavery. They knew that each word their countryman spat was not only sealing his own doom but perhaps damning them all as well!

Ned Stark's mouth twitched, his hand unconsciously flexing at his side where his sword would usually rest, once again reminding him that he was unarmed; leaning close to Kevan Lannister, Ned whispered. "The fool is a dead man already..."

Tyrion gave a sharp, incredulous laugh under his breath. "Dead? He's digging his grave with a spade of solid gold! Gods, I almost admire the stupidity..."

Oberyn Martell, across the hall, smirked like a wolf watching a crippled deer. "Listen well, Ellaria," he murmured, his dark eyes gleaming. "The man does not beg, he condemns himself… It's almost enough to make me respect the bastard."

Ellaria's lips curled at that, "Respect? The man has killed himself with his stupidity! And dragged Volantis down with him…"

The noble's voice grew louder, his fury boiling over as he continued his rant, "You dare lecture us about honor? You dare claim my property! Your entire city, your way of life, is an affront to the natural order! Men rule, slaves obey, gods demand! That is how it has always been. What you build here is blasphemy! This… this is madness!"

For a long, terrible moment, the chamber held its breath; a moment later, Kratos rose from his throne. The giant's movements were deliberate, each step like the fall of a war drum as he descended the dais. He came to stand before the kneeling noble, towering over him, his scarred face twisted with fury held barely in check as his voice dropped to a low growl that made the air itself vibrate. "Madness?"

The noble sneered up at him, baring his teeth. "Yes. Madness!"

Then Kratos roared, his voice like thunder cracking across the heavens so that even the floor beneath the watching men and women's feet seemed to vibrate with the giant's rage.

"THIS—IS—SPARTA!"

His leg shot forward in a blur, faster than a man his size should be able to move; his boot collided with the noble's chest with such devastating force that the man was hurled backward across the chamber and slammed into the far wall with a sickening crack, the impact sending spiderweb fissures racing across the stone. The noble's body crumpled to the floor a second later, coughing blood, too stunned even to scream as the hall fell into shocked silence.

The envoys stared, pale and wide-eyed. None of them—no matter how seasoned or jaded—could comprehend such raw power contained in mortal flesh. No one should be that strong! It must have been nearly fifty feet from where Kratos stood to where the noble now lay groaning in agony!

Tyrion's wine cup slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Kevan swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. Ned Stark's jaw tightened as he exhaled slowly, shaken despite his years of war.

Oberyn only grinned wider, his eyes alight with something between awe and delight. "By the gods…" he whispered, almost reverently. "No lion, stag, or wolf… could ever match that..."

Ellaria shivered and leaned close, a feeling of awe and lust coursing through her. "Now you see why they call him god."

Around them, silence reigned, save for the noble's wet gasps and the echo of Kratos's words still rolling through the hall like thunder as the Volantene noble writhed weakly where he had fallen, his body shattered, his fine silks stained with blood and filth; he tried to form words, but his jaw worked soundlessly, his courage spent.

Kratos slowly stalked toward the groaning man, his face carved in wrath. The silence of the hall was suffocating—every envoy, guard, and soul inside Sparta's throne room felt it pressing down on their chest.

From his hip, Kratos drew them: The Blades of Chaos.

The chains hissed as they unraveled, glowing as though stoked by the fires of some infernal forge; sparks leapt when steel struck stone, and then the blades ignited, twin tongues of flame licking upward as Kratos lifted his arms, and the chains spun into a blur above his head.

A whirlwind of fire and steel filled the hall. The sound was a nightmare. Screams seemed to echo within the torrent, and voices of the damned carried on the fire. Some envoys swore later that they saw faces writhing in the flame, jaws open in eternal torment!

The noble found his voice at last, shrieking in terror as Kratos advanced; with one swing, the first blade fell, and the noble's arms were severed at the shoulders in a burst of blood and flame. His scream shook the hall, high and raw, echoing off marble and stone; in a sudden burst of strength, or madness, the noble managed to climb to his feet before attempting to run for his life as the bloody stumps that were once his arms dripped with gore.

The second strike took his legs, cutting him down at the knees, and his shrieks rose to a pitch that curdled the stomach, sounding more like a broken animal than a man of noble birth.

In the second it took the man to fall towards the floor, Kratos struck again and crossed his arms over his chest, moving the blades in a brutal X pattern as he swung them upwards. Flame flared, steel sang, and the noble was torn into four bloody pieces…

The smell of scorched flesh filled the air as Kratos gave the chains one final shake, sending embers spiraling. With a thought, the flames died. The Blades of Chaos returned to his hips a moment later, chains clinking faintly like a death knell.

Silence.

Every envoy stared in mute horror, unable to look away from the ruin at Kratos's feet. Nothing in their histories, their wars, or their nightmares had prepared them for such raw, divine brutality.

Kratos turned, his eyes burning with godlike fury, and fixed his gaze on the delegation of Volantis. They were pale as corpses; one clutched at his chest as if the heart might burst, another looked ready to faint.

"You will leave my city before the sun sets," Kratos said, his voice echoing like thunder. "Or you will join him..."

The Volantene entourage shook as though before the jaws of a lion.

"And when you return to Volantis…" Kratos's voice dropped to a growl, heavy as the weight of doom itself, "You will tell your masters this: Sparta will remember this affront…"

The envoys stumbled, bowed, and all but fled from the hall, their robes catching on the bloodied stone as they tripped over one another in their haste.

Only when the doors slammed behind them did the throne room stir again, envoys whispering feverishly, eyes darting to the blades at Kratos's hips, still shuddering at the screams that lingered in their ears.

Sparta had given its warning to the rest of the world… And no one who stood there would ever forget it.

XXXX

Later that night:

The chamber was small, tucked away in one of the quieter wings of the Spartan palace. Its walls were bare stone, and the only light was an oil lamp set on a rough wooden table. The three men of Westeros had chosen the room precisely for its austerity: too plain for spies to bother with, too humble for servants to intrude.

Kevan Lannister sat stiff-backed, staring into the lamp's flame as if seeking answers there. Ned Stark leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the weight of his thoughts heavy upon him. Tyrion, by contrast, sat with a cup of Spartan wine in his hand, though he drank more for the distraction than the taste.

They had not spoken for a long while, and the silence was thick, broken only when Tyrion finally let out a humorless laugh.

"Well," he said, his voice sharp but subdued, "I've seen men executed before… King's Landing has its share of heads on spikes… But never have I seen a man carved apart piece by piece, not by ordinary steel, but by blades that should not exist. Blades that screamed as they drank his life..." He sipped his wine and set the cup down. "If this is Sparta's justice, then the Seven preserve us all."

Kevan exhaled heavily. "Those swords…" He shook his head, struggling for words. "They burned with fire yet did not melt. They moved as though they were alive. No smith in Casterly Rock, Braavos, or Valyria in its prime could have made such things." He looked at Ned with troubled eyes. "If Kratos is not a god, then he is something close enough. That alone should terrify us..."

Ned's jaw tightened. "Gods do not bleed," he said, though there was little conviction in his tone. He remembered too vividly the sight of the Volantene noble being hacked apart, the Blades of Chaos carving through flesh and bone as though it were nothing. "But those weapons… I have never heard of their like. Not even in Old Nan's tales..."

Tyrion leaned back, eyes glittering in the lamplight. "Weapons are only half the story. Did you not see the delegation from Volantis? They looked as if the Stranger himself had entered the hall! They know what we know: Volantis is marked for war. And if Kratos truly sets his empire against them…" He let the thought trail off, but the implication hung heavy.

Kevan finished it. "Then Volantis will burn. None of its walls, legions, or fleets will matter. Sparta has no need of sellswords or slaves… They fight with discipline, and worse, with belief. Every Spartan we have seen would gladly die for him, I do not think even the Unsullied would stand against that…"

Ned's brow furrowed. "King Kratos did not declare war on Volantis, though! He simply banished the Volantene delegation from his city; that is not an act of war…"

"Perhaps not," Tyrion nodded. "But the message that King Kratos sent in how he killed that noble… It will leave a lasting effect on Volantis… And fear often makes men do foolish things…"

The room descended into an uneasy silence at that as each man recognized the truth in the words.

"And if Volantis falls, the rest of Essos will bend the knee in fear…" Ned said at last, his words echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

Tyrion nodded. "Which brings us to Westeros..." He spread his hands. "We sit here, watching the birth of something far greater than a city. Perhaps even greater than the Valyrian Freehold at its height, today it is Volantis. Tomorrow? Why not King's Landing?"

Kevan shifted uncomfortably at his nephew's words. "You think he would turn his eyes west…?"

"Empires always do," Tyrion replied. "The Rhoynar fled Essos and came to Dorne to escape one empire. The Targaryens crossed the Narrow Sea with dragons to build another. And now Kratos has forged an empire not with dragons, but with his own two hands." He looked at both men, his tone quieter, almost reverent. "How long before he tests if Westeros is worth the trouble…?"

For a long moment, no one spoke. The lamplight flickered, shadows stretching across the stone.

At last, Ned said, "We came here to measure Sparta. But after what we witnessed… it is Sparta that has measured us…"

"And what happens if this city finds us lacking…?" Tyrion half asked, half joked.

"I need to send a raven to Casterly Rock…" After a moment of tense silence, Kevan said, "Tywin needs to be informed about what has happened; this is beyond what we were sent here to do."

"Aye, I need to do the same," Ned replied with a nod, "Jon Arryn and the King need to be kept apprised, and if there is soon to be another war in Essos, the crown must be informed."

Without another word, the three men quietly walked out of the chamber, each one's mind heavier than a mountain at the future, and what it meant for their homes…

XXXX

Across the palace, in more lavish quarters, another group spoke in hushed voices; Oberyn Martell reclined with his usual feline grace, a cup of wine in hand as Ellaria sat beside him. At the same time, the Sand Snakes—Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene—lingered close, their eyes bright with the thrill of what they had seen.

Obara broke the silence first, her voice low with excitement. "Did you see how the blades tore him apart? I've seen battles. I've killed men. But never… never like that." Her lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. "The Volantene thought himself a predator… Instead, he was prey."

Nymeria laughed softly. "Prey indeed… And we all saw what happens to prey in Sparta…"

Ellaria leaned closer to Oberyn, whispering in his ear. "The others were pale as milk. Even the lion's brother looked shaken. But you…" She smiled faintly. "You looked as though you enjoyed the show…"

Oberyn's dark eyes glittered with something dangerous as he sipped his wine, then said, "Enjoyed? No. Admired? Yes. Men like that Volantene noble are a copper a dozen. Arrogant, cruel, blind. They think the world theirs by birthright. And yet—" he gestured with his cup toward the window, where the distant roar of Sparta still lingered—"we are witnessing something greater. Do you know how rare it is, to see an empire born? To see the moment history turns upon its heel!"

Tyene tilted her head. "You think Sparta is an empire already?"

Oberyn smiled thinly. "No. I think it is the seed of one… And few men or women ever live to see such a seed planted. Fewer still live to see it take root." He set down his cup, his voice dropping into a murmur of steel and silk. "But I think we will…"

Ellaria's hand tightened on his. "And what then, my love? Do we bow to this new god-king?"

Oberyn chuckled softly, a dangerous sound. "Bow? No. But we will watch. We will learn. And when the time comes, we will choose whether to ride the storm… or be broken by it, just as Dorne always has…"

XXXX

The ship cut through black waters, its sails sagging under a weak wind. No one spoke at first. The only sounds were the creak of wood and the hiss of waves against the hull. The once-proud delegation of Volantis sat scattered across the deck like beaten dogs, their silks wrinkled, their faces pale. Even the youngest among them, who had blustered with pride when they departed, now kept his eyes fixed on the boards beneath his feet.

At last, one of them broke. A younger noble with a hawk-like nose spat onto the deck, his voice cracking with fury.

"All this—for a whore?!" He stood, shaking with rage. "One damned whore! That fool's pride has thrown us into ruin!"

Several others muttered in agreement, some clenching fists, others burying their faces in their hands.

"He has doomed us," another said bitterly. "We came to bargain, to measure Sparta. Instead, we are cast out like dogs. And for what? His lust? His delusion that a Spartan warrior could be treated as chattel?!"

Lord Rhogar Maerys, the oldest among them, leaned heavily against the rail. His beard was white as seafoam, but his eyes burned sharp with the fire of survival. He spat into the sea, then growled low.

"No. He has not doomed us yet. Not if we act."

The others turned to him, desperate and fearful as Rhogar straightened, his voice gaining strength. "When we return, we will prepare for war. First, we buy every Unsullied in Astapor, Yunkai, and beyond. Every last one. If we must drain our coffers dry, so be it. Then, we will draft every citizen of Volantis fit to hold a spear or draw a bow. They will be trained, armed, and bled until they are soldiers. That is the only way."

One of the younger nobles swallowed hard. "Draft… the citizens? The tiger families will never agree. The elephant faction will riot! It will tear Volantis apart before Sparta even arrives."

Rhogar rounded on him, his old voice snapping like a whip. "And what choice do we have?! Did you not see that man cleaved apart? Did you not hear the chains scream as they burned? If we do nothing, Sparta will march into Volantis as they did Tyrosh, and we will hang from our own gates!" He jabbed a gnarled finger at the younger lord. "Even the tigers and elephants will see it, because there is no other choice! Either we fight, or we kneel!"

The deck fell silent again, but this time not from despair; this was the silence of men staring into the abyss and realizing they had no path but forward.

Finally, one muttered hoarsely, "Then may the gods pity us. For Sparta surely will not if we lose this war…"

The waves carried their ship onward into the night, back toward Volantis, and a war that would reshape the world.

XXXX

The following day:

The throne room's doors groaned open, and the mercenary who had helped ensnare the Volantene noble was shoved forward. He stumbled once, then caught himself, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword, only to remember it had been stripped from him. The hall was silent, empty save for the massive figure seated on the throne: Kratos.

The God of War sat like a statue of wrath given flesh, his golden-red gaze fixed upon the man who now felt the weight of the entire palace pressing down on his shoulders.

The mercenary swallowed, his mouth dry as sand as he bowed stiffly, half mocking, half respectful. "You wanted to see me, your… majesty?"

Kratos did not move; his voice rumbled like distant thunder:

"You were offered more gold than you could ever spend. Enough to vanish, to live as a king among men; yet you chose not to betray Sparta… Why?"

The mercenary licked his lips; his tongue felt heavy. He could lie—he was good at lies—but looking into those burning eyes, he knew lies would shrivel to ash before they left his mouth. So he answered truthfully.

"I saw what twelve thousand Spartans did to the Triarchy..." His voice grew steadier as he spoke. "I watched your men tear apart armies ten times their number, while the rest of us prayed not to be trampled. And now…" He gave a wry smile, though his hands trembled faintly. "Now you command a hundred times that number. Only a bloody fool would stand in the way of that."

For a long moment, silence hung in the air. The mercenary wondered if he'd doomed himself anyway; then, a soft sound: the faint scrape of leather on stone.

From the deepest shadows, Becker stepped into the torchlight, silent as death. His pitch-dark skin and black robes seemed to drink in the light itself, his gaze never leaving the mercenary.

Kratos finally shifted, his voice low but sharp.

"Becker… The cavalry taken at the battle, the man Daario and his riders. They fought for coin, but they will fight for Sparta now. Put them into the Agoge, let them be broken and remade."

Becker inclined his head, his eerie stillness sending a shiver down the mercenary's spine as Kratos's gaze returned, searing, unrelenting. "You have proven yours. But tell me, what is your name?"

The mercenary hesitated, then squared his shoulders; if he was to live, he would live as himself.

"Bronn."

XXXX

Author's Note:

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Chapter Text

It had been a week since the throne room ran red with blood, but the echoes of that day still thundered through Sparta. Word of what had happened spread faster than wildfire, from mouth to mouth, tavern to tavern, from the training fields to the farthest vineyards beyond the gates. Every man, woman, and child in Sparta knew the story: a Volantene noble had tried to claim one of their own as a slave, and Kratos had torn him apart with fire and steel before the eyes of the world.

Now, it was all they spoke of.

In the Agoge, young trainees sparred harder, their eyes burning with fresh fire. Every boy and girl, man and woman, knew that their King would stand behind them, blade in hand, if the world ever tried to chain them again. Rhosene barked to her charges, "You think those Volantenes will come for us? Let them! The Blades our lord wields will cut them down! And so will you!" The children roared back in unison, spears raised, their voices echoing across the field.

The veterans, men and women who had already earned the right to call themselves Spartans, marched with their red marks bared proudly, as if daring the world to challenge them. In taverns, they spoke of Kratos not just as a general, not just as a king, but as the protector who had proven with blood that every Spartan life mattered.

In the streets, merchants, builders, and smiths repeated the tale like a holy scripture: "Did you hear how he cut the man apart? Into four pieces, with fire blazing off his chains?" one said, wide-eyed. "That noble thought he could drag her away like property, and our king showed the whole world what happens to slavers in Sparta." The others would nod, some laughing, others whispering prayers of gratitude, but all of them carried the same truth in their hearts: Kratos's wrath was not reserved for his enemies on the battlefield. It was for anyone who dared harm a Spartan.

Even in the temple still under construction, the priests and priestesses (those chosen by Kara herself) wove the event into their sermons. Kara herself spoke once to a gathering crowd, her voice steady and proud:

"There are kings who say they love their people. There are lords who claim to protect them. But only here does a king kill for you! Only here does our god take the blood of your enemies with his own hands! This is why you are Spartans, this is why you are free!"

And so it spread, from the tattooed warriors to the children still learning their letters, the people of Sparta were bound tighter than ever before. Their loyalty to Kratos was not a matter of fear, nor of duty, but of certainty. He had proven it beyond doubt: he would burn the world before he let a single one of them be returned to chains. But it wasn't just the citizens who spoke of what had occurred with awe and fear; across the city, the envoys from the other cities of Essos and Westeros spoke of what they had seen…

XXXX

In the chamber that had been set aside for them in the palace, the envoys from the Iron Bank were pacing and speaking in panicked tones:

"It is not the wealth that frightens me!" One of the envoys growled as he stopped pacing and stood at the window, gazing out at the city. "Others have gold, vaults overflowing. What frightens me is that they no longer need ours! A king who does not borrow cannot be bent…"

"And worse—" another of the envoys added as he poured himself some wine, "—a king who does not fear debt cannot be controlled; if Sparta becomes empire, the Bank loses its hand on the scales, and the world shifts without us…"

The men in the room exchanged a look at that, and all knew the truth in that moment: Braavos, for all its riches, could not buy what Sparta had built.

XXXX

In a separate chamber of the palace, the Pentoshi delegation argued less subtly:

"You saw it, we all saw it!" The leader of the Pentoshi delegation argued for what seemed the third time in a week. "If he would unleash that power for one woman, what chance does Pentos have if we stand against him?"

"Then we don't stand against him." A leaner, colder voice answered. "We stand with him. At least then we can say it was choice, not conquest, it will matter in the histories..."

The others murmured agreement at that, fear thick in every word…

XXXX

The Norvoshi envoys sat in a Spartan tavern, untouched wine between them as they discussed what they had seen:

"He cut the man apart without hesitation," one man with a head of long blonde hair said softly. "Not for war, not for conquest. For justice. And if he does that for his own, what will he do to cities that defy him…?"

"Then Norvos must adapt," another said in a strong tone. "Or we'll share Tyrosh's fate..."

They raised their cups grimly at that, a toast not to victory, but to survival.

XXXX

Even Lorath's philosophers, men known for eccentric rambling, were quiet as the weight of what they had seen settled upon them like a stone on their back, pressing them into the ground:

"Empires rise and empires fall. But this Sparta… this feels different," the delegation leader said softly. "Better to be remembered as one who joined it than one erased by it..."

The others nodded, for once without argument, as they all realized the truth of their leader's words.

XXXX

The whispers bled together; everywhere the envoys from Essos gathered, they reached the same conclusion: the world was changing, and Sparta was the axis.

From a nearby table, Ned Stark listened with Kevan and Tyrion close by as the Norvoshi envoys spoke; none of the three spoke for a long time.

"They're breaking before him without a fight…" Kevan said as he raised his cup to drink, his face tight and worried. "Even the Iron Bank is afraid. Tell me, how long before Westeros faces the same choice…?"

Ned's jaw tightened at that; he had no answer, only the memory of Kratos's chains of fire and the certainty that no army in Westeros could have stopped him…

On the other side of Ned, Tyrion swirled his wine cup, voice lighter but edged.

"No Westerosi king will ever bend the knee so quickly… But I wonder, when the storm comes, how long will they last before they break all the same…?"

Kevan shot him a dark look but said nothing; Ned's silence spoke louder still as the Warden of the North drained his cup and waved at a passing barmaid for another pitcher for the table.

"No matter how powerful Kratos is, no lord of Westeros would follow him once they learn that he uses magic…" Ned added once the maid went off to fulfil their order.

"And what proof of that do you have, Lord Stark?" Tyrion smirked before finishing the last of his cup.

"Those Blades of his, for a start!" Ned retorted at once, "Those things aren't natural, and if King Kratos is not a sorcerer, then those blades of his were certainly made by one!"

"You think that would matter in the end?" Kevan sneered as the maid dropped off their pitcher, took Kevan's gold, and moved on, "Power is the only thing that matters, Stark. That's the truth that you Northerners have never understood… The truth is that Kratos and the city he rules are now the most powerful forces in Essos. Do you really think people will care if the King of this city wields magic or not, if they can find something here that no other kingdom can offer them?"

"And just what might that be, Lannister?" Ned sneered back, his temper rising at the slander to his people.

"Purpose." Kevan stated simply, "In Westeros, the smallfolk have to fight for each and every advantage they can find, but here? Here, every citizen is given a purpose from the moment they can stand… such a civilization is dangerous."

"My uncle has a point…" Tyrion said as he refilled his cup, "This city is a revolution against the old world… And people will willingly follow any man who offers them something better, regardless of their religious beliefs… You say that the people of Westeros will never willingly follow a King who can wield magic, but the truth is that such a little thing will not matter to someone who has to choose between watching their family starve and seeing them into the next generation."

Ned fell silent at that as he tried to find some argument, but try as he might, his mind remained blank, and so he decided to drink deep from his cup.

XXXX

Two Days Later:

The throne room of Sparta was not silent; it hummed. The torches along the walls crackled, their light catching on the polished stone, while the low murmur of armored guards and waiting envoys filled the vast space. Then Kratos entered, and every sound died.

The God of War strode to his throne, silver armor glinting in the firelight, the Blades of Chaos hanging heavy at his hips. He sat, his expression carved from stone, and spoke only two words: "You asked…"

The leaders of the three delegations—envoys from Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath—stepped forward together, their fear was plain, but so was their resolve.

The Pentoshi spokesman, red-faced and sweating beneath his fine robes, cleared his throat. "Great King… we come with no lies, no illusions. After what we have seen, it is clear to us all: Sparta is no longer a city. It is an empire. If not in name, then in truth. And we—Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath—wish to be the first to join it."

The chamber stirred, and even the Spartan guards turned their eyes toward Kratos, waiting for his reply. But the King said nothing. His silence was a weight, forcing the envoys to stumble forward with more words as he stared at them.

The Norvoshi added, his voice gravelly, but firm: "We are not fools, my lord; Sparta crushed Tyrosh in a night, it destroyed the Triarchy with twelve thousand blades. If we resist, our cities will fall. Better to stand with you, than against you..."

The Lorathi envoy bowed his head deeply as he considered his words, knowing that they would decide the fate of his city: "History will remember this day, my lord... We would rather it remember us as allies than corpses..."

Still, Kratos did not answer. His crimson gaze lingered on the Pentoshi alone, but his silence was not hesitation; it was the storm within him. He had long known that Sparta's strength, iron discipline, and swelling power might one day draw others to it, demanding more than he ever intended to give. And now that day had come…

He had not forged Sparta to be a throne upon which empires rose; he had built it to be a sanctuary for the broken, a home for the chained to become free, a crucible where men and women could rise above what the world told them they were. But this, this was something else. If he accepted these pledges and bound foreign cities to Sparta's banner, there would be no turning back. From that moment forward, every road would lead outward, every choice demanding expansion, conquest, and control.

It was not what he wanted. Yet, as the envoys knelt, Kratos saw no hesitation in them. They were already choosing for him, and he knew immediately that the decision had already been made for him, whether he liked it or not.

Finally, Kratos spoke, his voice coming out rough, like stone rolling down a mountain.

"Pentos, I have heard your city still keeps slaves… You do not name them so, but I know the truth. If you bind yourselves to Sparta, that ends. At once. Is your city willing to make such a decision?"

The Pentoshi's face paled, his body trembling with its weight; he thought of his city, its wealth built on those silent bonds, and its families fat with the profit of forced labor. To lose it would be to remake Pentos entirely. For a moment, it seemed the man might collapse under the decision; but then, with a visible swallow, he lifted his chin and replied, "We… we accept. Slavery will end in Pentos, we will change, or we will die. And better to change than to be broken…"

A murmur ran through the watching envoys from other lands; some with awe, some with fear. But none with disbelief.

Kratos leaned back, his face unreadable, his silence heavier than iron; then, slowly, he gave a single nod.

"Then your pledges are accepted. From this day, you are under Sparta's protection; in the days to come, we will speak again and decide what your cities will become..."

The three envoys bowed low, relief and terror etched into their faces as they realized that they had reached a pivotal moment in history; years from now, historians would speak of this day as the moment when the Spartan Empire was born, and these three cities would be honored as the first to accept its sovereignty.

XXXX

Later that night:

The palace was quiet that night; most of Sparta still celebrated as news that the city's territory had more than tripled in a day, spread to every corner of the city, but in the throne room, only a single torch burned, its light flickering against stone walls as Kratos sat on the simple chair that served as his throne. A moment later, two women were ushered in: Kara, High Priestess of Sparta, her eyes sharp as flint; and beside her, cloaked in crimson, the only envoy from Volantis still remaining in the city, the red priestess.

"You demanded an audience…" Kratos growled as the women stopped before him. "Speak."

The woman bowed her head, but her eyes gleamed like embers as she replied softly, "Three years ago, I knelt in the temple of the Lord of Light… I prayed, as I always did… and for the first time in my life, he answered."

Kara stiffened at the woman's side, but Kratos said nothing, watching her with his unreadable gaze as the woman kept speaking, her voice trembling slightly.

"He screamed into my head... A roar that struck me to the ground and left me unconscious. Only one sentence he gave me: 'The Pale One has come.'"

Her eyes lifted now, locking on Kratos: "I saw you with my own eyes when you cut the Volantene noble to pieces. The fire, the chains, the fury… it was you. I knew then what my god had meant. You are no pretender; you are a god... a true one…"

For a long moment, Kratos was silent, then his gravelly voice cut through the room like a whip: "What do you want?"

"To remain." The woman replied at once with a smirk. "To serve you."

A moment later, Kara's voice snapped like a whip as she turned toward the red woman, her eyes flashing with fury.

"There is only one God in Sparta, and it is not yours! The Lord of Light has no place here! You will take your false flames elsewhere!"

The priestess only smirked, folding her hands as she turned to the old woman, as though finding her fury amusing.

"You misunderstand. I do not say the Lord of Light must be worshipped here; I say he has commanded me to serve your god. To serve you. There is only one God in Sparta, and he sits before me."

Kara bristled at that, and her hands clenched at her sides, as though she wanted nothing more than to attack the woman before her and claw her eyes out; the red woman seemed to sense it for her smirk seemed to grow as a result.

"Blasphemy wrapped in honeyed words!" Kara hissed in fury. "You seek to worm your way into his favor, but I will not allow it! My people have awaited Lord Kratos for over five centuries. I will not allow you to poison my god with your honeyed words! Your kind deals in fire, shadows, sacrifices, and blood; I will not see it here!"

"And yet here I am," the woman replied cooly, "sent by fire to stand at his side…"

Their voices rose, sharp as daggers, for several moments as each woman argued as to whether they should leave, and why they should go, until Kratos lifted his hand, causing the sound to die instantly. He leaned forward, his voice low but carrying the weight of thunder as he finally spoke:

"Enough. I do not care for your quarrels, I know nothing of your 'Lord of Light,' nor do I wish to… I have had enough dealings with gods to last me a lifetime…"

He fixed his gaze on the red priestess, and for an instant, the woman felt as though she were prey trapped in the gaze of a predator, one who could and WOULD destroy her in an instant if she so much as breathed without his permission.

"If you wish to remain, you will obey Sparta's laws." Kratos continued, his voice coming out as hard as iron. "You will take no slaves, you will not kill for your flames, and you will serve this city as any citizen does. Nothing more."

The priestess bowed her head, the faintest smile tugging her lips as Kara's teeth ground in fury. "As you command."

"Get up." Kratos snarled at once, causing the woman to rise with a raised brow. "The first lesson you will learn in Sparta is that no one in this city bows. If you wish to stay, you will also learn this lesson."

"Of course, my lord," the woman replied, filing away the information for later while Kara smirked beside her at the woman's castigation.

"Do not worry, my King. I will watch her… Closely." Kara hissed, her voice as cold as ice as she turned to the red woman. "And should you even attempt to poison this city with your god's filth, I will personally see if you are fireproof, witch!"

Kratos, silent once more, leaned back in his chair. He would not say it aloud, but he felt it already, Sparta's destiny was drawing more than soldiers and kings. Even gods, old and new, were circling, and somewhere in the deepest part of Kratos's mind, he thought he could hear the mocking laughter of an old enemy…

XXXX

The sounds of celebration still carried even this high in the palace. Drums, laughter, songs sung in a language Ned could barely follow. Sparta roared with pride tonight, for they had been present at their city's birth as an empire. But inside his chamber, the world was quiet.

Ned sat slouched in a plain chair, a goblet of Spartan wine in his hand. The fire burned low in the hearth, shadows creeping long across the walls. His guards had taken the chance to slip away hours ago, eager to drink and see what wonders the city still had to offer. He hadn't begrudged them. Even dour Northmen deserved a night's respite.

Only Jory Cassel remained, silent as always, standing sentinel by the door with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Ned took another slow sip, staring at nothing. 'Yesterday, the world was one way. Today it is another.' He thought with a grimace as the weight of the last twenty-four hours weighed down on him.

He had already sent a raven to Robert and Jon Arryn; his duty demanded no less. But now another would have to fly, carrying the words no one in Westeros expected to hear: Sparta is now an empire.

Ned rubbed a hand over his beard, tiredness etched into his face; he had lived through rebellion, seen crowns topple and thrones remade, but never had he felt the weight of change like this. Not even Robert's Rebellion had shifted the world so sharply…

Finally, he set the goblet down, the sound of wood on stone breaking the silence as he lifted his eyes to Jory.

"Bring the boy..."

"My lord?" Jory responded, straightening slightly.

"Jon. I need to speak with him..."

Jory inclined his head at once and slipped from the room, leaving Ned alone with his thoughts once more as he leaned back in his chair and let the noise of the distant celebrations wash over him. He had thought of Jon's future a thousand times before: Winterfell's walls, the Night's Watch, a bastard's path in a bastard's world. But here… here in Sparta, that future might look very different, and as the fire crackled, Ned Stark felt the terrible weight of choice pressing down upon him.

A moment later, there was a loud knock on Ned's door, causing the Northern lord to start out of his rambling thoughts and return to the present, turning his head to the door just in time to see Jory return with Jon, who looked tired and confused as to why he had been woken from his bed and brought to his father, his hair still messy from sleep.

"Thank you," Ned nodded, "Now, leave us… I must speak to my son alone…"

With a sharp nod, Jory stepped out of the door and closed it smartly behind him, leaving Jon standing awkwardly by the chamber door.

"Sit, Jon," Ned said quietly, gesturing to the chair opposite. "There's something I would speak with you about…"

Jon frowned at his father's tone but obeyed, taking a seat with a confused expression. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Ned replied as he studied the boy momentarily, the firelight flickering across his face. "Not wrong. I only… need to know how you've found this place. Sparta. Are you happy here?"

Jon blinked, caught off guard by the question, his hands twisted together in his lap as he tried to find the words. "It's… different. Everything I've seen here… It's nothing like Winterfell, or anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. The training, the schools, and the way they all live. Even the bast—"

He stopped suddenly, his cheeks coloring. "…forgive me, Father. I didn't mean—"

"There's no offense in speaking the truth," Ned said evenly. "Go on..."

Jon swallowed. "The bastards here aren't hated… No one whispers about them or treats them as though they're less. They're just… Spartans. No one cares who their father was, or whether they were born in wedlock. They care if you fight, if you endure. That's all…"

Ned's gaze lingered on him in silence for a moment. Then he asked, "And if you had the choice, Jon… would you stay here?"

Jon stared at him, eyes wide. "Stay? What… What do you mean…?"

"Exactly that," Ned said, his voice coming out rough as though the words were physically hurting him. "If you could remain in Sparta, make a life here… would you?"

The boy opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked down at his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "I… I would. Seven hells, I would. But—" He faltered, then looked up again. "I wouldn't want to leave you… Or Robb, or Arya. You're my family! If I stayed here, I'd lose you!"

For the first time that night, Ned's expression softened. "You wouldn't lose me, Jon... Or them. Family remains, no matter the distance..." He leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "But you do have a future here. One you'll never have in Westeros… No whispers, no half-looks... No 'bastard' for a name. Here, you'd be judged by your own hand, by what you make of yourself…"

Jon's throat worked as though he wanted to say more, but no words came; instead, he nodded slowly, struggling to balance the spark of hope with the weight of loyalty.

"Think on it," Ned said at last, leaning back in his chair. "The world is changing, boy. And it may be that your path lies where you least expected…"

"But what about you, father…?" Jon asked, his voice coming out pitifully small despite his attempt to act strong. "Will you stay?"

"I cannot…" Ned said after a moment as he turned back toward the window, the sounds of celebration wafting in from the city below. "My duty lies in the North… And I will be returning to Westeros within the month, to submit my final report to the King. You must decide before then where your future lies, son…"

Jon nodded again, the firelight catching in his eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke, their minds consumed by the future.

XXXX

The following morning, the council chamber was already full when Kratos entered, his heavy steps echoing across the stone floor. The members of Sparta's council—Neos, Floki, Cassandra, Cleitus, Kara, Bellatrix, and Becker—rose to their feet in silence. When Kratos lowered himself into his seat, they did the same.

"Three cities bent the knee yesterday," Kratos said without preamble, his gravelly voice carrying in the chamber. "Speak. What does it mean for Sparta?"

General Neos leaned forward, his face as hard as the steel of his armor. "It means our borders grow without lifting a blade. Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath now look to us for protection. But it also means our enemies multiply. Volantis will not sit idle. And Westeros will soon take notice."

Cassandra, robed in dark green, gave a faint smirk. "Notice, yes. But can they afford to act? Sparta is richer than half the Free Cities combined. Our vaults overflow. The Iron Bank already circles us like sharks, because even they know a fortune when they see one."

Cleitus, the old scholar, stroked his long white beard. "Riches are nothing if we cannot guard them. Remember, the Valyrian Freehold once spanned the world, and even their empire burned. If we accept these cities, we must ensure their people are bound by loyalty, not fear…"

Neos's voice cut through the chamber like a drawn blade. "Then we bind them as Spartans. I will send three of my generals, one to each city. Each will take a thousand warriors, not just to enforce order, but to protect it. With them will go engineers, healers, and scholars, to tear out the old rot and shape these cities into something worthy of Sparta. Their walls will be rebuilt, their streets made whole, and their people taught what it means to be free under discipline."

He paused, his eyes hardening. "All children above the age of fourteen will be brought here, to enter the Agoge. Those between seven and fourteen will be placed into the academies, as is our law. In time, these cities will no longer be Pentoshi, Norvosi, or Lorathi; they will be Spartans. Their sons and daughters will fight beside ours, their scholars will study beside ours, and their healers will heal beside ours. That is how we secure loyalty, not through gold or fear, but through blood and unity."

A murmur rippled through the chamber at his words, some approving, others uneasy at the scale of what he suggested. But no one doubted the conviction in Neos's voice.

"A well thought-out plan, to be sure…" Cleitus replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "But we must be wary about using such means… The parents of those children will not willingly give up their children to a foreign city. They could rebel if we're not careful, and instead of expanding our borders, we will end up fighting the greatest war that Essos has ever seen…"

The Pillars grumbled at that, each seeing the truth in the old man's words; even Neos was forced to admit that such a plan as his might have the opposite effect that he had planned.

"Very well, then…" Neos growled, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back, "Then we simply take the eldest, those fourteen and older, to be trained in the Agoge. The children can learn from the scholars we send…"

"And what of the adults?" Bellatrix asked after a moment, "In Sparta, everyone is required to enter the Agoge to become a citizen, but I doubt those fat fucks are even worthy to join our city, let alone enter something like that… Half of them will be dead in the first month if we follow proper protocol."

"We can discuss that at a later date," Kratos stated simply, ending the argument between his Pillars. "Once the cities are secure and in our hands…"

Bellatrix crossed her arms before continuing in a tight voice, "We also need to ensure that these new cities will recognize that their days of autonomy are at an end. We will need stronger laws and clear decrees. These cities will not become parasites feeding off Sparta. They will live as we live… or not at all."

Becker's voice, smooth as silk, carried from the shadows where he stood. "And what they plot in secret, I will know. No whisper will escape me, no betrayal will take root…"

Kratos let the words settle, his gaze passing over each of them. "Then we prepare. Floki, how long before our fleet is ready?"

The shipwright grinned, his eyes wild in their way. "Seven months, maybe less. Give me the timber, the iron, and men to work, and I'll give you ships the world has never seen. Wolves and owls carved into their prows, sails black as the void, and when they move together, it will look as if the sea itself marches with Sparta."

Neos nodded. "By then, the first class of the Agoge will have graduated. Thirty thousand new warriors, those who were left behind when our army marched against the Triarchy; trained, hardened, and ready to serve Sparta, in peace and war..."

The chamber filled with a quiet murmur of approval. Sparta had gone to war with twelve thousand and brought down the Triarchy. Now, with thrice that number, their reach would be unmatched.

There was a silence after, the council absorbing the weight of it; and then, as if to break it, Floki leaned back in his chair, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

"Speaking of ships," he said, "a merchant came in this morning with a tale. Claimed he sailed too close to the Valyrian ruins and came upon a woman with a talking head strapped to her belt."

There were scoffs around the table, but Kratos sat forward, his eyes sharpening as the pressure in the room grew so fierce that each member of the Pillar actually leaned forward for a moment as though a great weight had suddenly landed on their backs.

"Repeat that," he said, his voice suddenly dangerous.

Floki blinked, his grin faltering at the look on Kratos's face. "…a woman. In the ruins. A head that talked. The merchant swore by it, though I laughed in his face."

Kratos's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair, the faintest flicker of recognition flashing in his crimson gaze.

"Find that merchant," Kratos growled. "Bring him to me at once!"

The council looked to one another, confused, but none dared question. For the first time in many months, there was something in Kratos's eyes not of war or empire, but of memory.

XXXX

Author's Note:

The polls have spoken! Your favorite witch and talking head are in Essos and will soon meet with Sparta's ruler. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and what comes next!

Chapter Text

The throne room was silent save for the echo of the merchant's boots as he was escorted inside. He was not a proud man, nor a foolish one; his back was slightly bent from decades at sea, and his hands were calloused with the scars of ropes and salt. He had spent nearly forty years ferrying goods between Westeros and Essos, his father before him, and his father's father before him. Never once had he imagined being summoned before a king, let alone this king.

At the far end of the chamber sat Kratos. He did not rise, nor did he need to. One arm was cocked at the elbow, his fist resting against his cheek as though carved from stone. The crimson tattoo on his pale skin burned like fresh blood, and the faint firelight reflected off the Blades of Chaos strapped to his hips.

The merchant swallowed hard as Kratos's hard eye turned toward him. 'Seven save me.' The man thought as sweat began to pour off his brow. 'He's bigger than any man I've ever seen…

Kratos's eyes narrowed. "You told one of my Pillars that you encountered a woman with a talking head attached to her belt..." His voice was low, rumbling like thunder behind a distant mountain. "Is this true?"

The merchant nodded quickly. "Aye, my lord. I… I did."

"Then tell me," Kratos said, his tone sharper, more dangerous. "Tell me exactly what you saw..."

The man drew a shuddering breath and began:

"It was two weeks past when we were making a run up from Meereen. The sea was calm, but as we passed near the ruins of Valyria, a storm came upon us faster than any I've ever known. Black clouds, thunder that split the sky, and a wind that near tore our sails from the mast. We had no choice but to turn closer to the ruins, though no sailor with his wits would dare it…"

He licked his lips, eyes darting to Kratos's impassive face as he took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing.

"And then… then it happened. A light. Blinding, brighter than the sun itself, it cracked open the clouds and struck the cliffs. And out of it stepped a woman… Beautiful beyond any words I know… Hair dark as midnight, armor shining though no smith I know could've made it. She looked lost at first, but when she saw us, she leapt—by the gods, she leapt—from the cliffs to our ship as though she weighed no more than a feather!"

The chamber stirred, but Kratos raised one hand, and the whispers died as the merchant continued, his voice gaining momentum.

"She pointed her sword at me—at us—and demanded we tell her where she was. When I told her it was Valyria, she only looked more confused. Then…" He paused, glancing uneasily at Kratos. "Then we saw it… Hanging from her belt was a head! A man's head! And it spoke."

Even the guards shifted at that, but Kratos's expression did not change.

"The head told her it felt like magic in the ruins—strong magic. The woman nodded and said it might be what they were searching for. Then the head asked if she thought he was here, too. And she answered… yes. She said the power she felt could not be anyone else."

The merchant rubbed his trembling hands together. "Without another word, she leapt again—off the ship this time—and vanished into the fog of the ruins. We never saw her again, only the storm and that cursed light fading."

Silence stretched across the chamber. The merchant felt his knees wobble under Kratos's stare, but still he forced himself to stand straight.

At last, Kratos spoke. "Guards. Escort him back to his ship." His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it that made the hair rise on the back of the merchant's neck. "And give him one hundred gold pieces. For his service."

The man blinked at that, thinking he had surely misheard. "My… my lord?"

"You heard me."

The merchant bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the floor, making Kratos growl slightly at the act; by the time the merchant was led from the hall, his head was spinning. He had come expecting perhaps death, or at best a dismissal from the city. Instead, he would return home with a fortune, more wealth than he had ever dreamed. But even that did not stop the fear.

For the rest of his days, he would remember the look in the Spartan King's eyes when he spoke of the woman and her talking head, eyes that suggested the story was no jest, no sailor's fancy. The King of Sparta knew who that woman was; the merchant would bet his hundred new gold coins on it!

XXXX

The merchant all but stumbled from the hall. As the doors closed behind him, the guards turned toward Ned Stark, who was waiting with Jory Cassel at his side. Each looked at the grinning merchant in confusion as he passed by.

"This way, Lord Stark," one of the guards said in an icy voice.

Ned hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping forward, Jory gave him a last, uncertain glance before remaining by the door, as ordered. Ned crossed the vast chamber alone, each step echoing against the marble floor until he stood before the throne where Kratos sat unmoving, his chin still resting against his fist, his crimson tattoo catching the firelight like a wound that never healed. His eyes tracked Ned with a weight that made the Lord of Winterfell feel as if every secret he carried was already laid bare.

"You asked to speak," Kratos rumbled, his voice filling the chamber. "About the boy..."

Ned drew a steadying breath at that. "Aye, about Jon..."

For a moment, Kratos was silent. Then he leaned forward, his gaze hard as iron. "Have you decided to be a parent instead of a lord? To think of what is best for your nephew, rather than your lands?"

The words cut deep, and Ned's jaw tightened as he grimaced, torn between pride and the truth he could not speak aloud. "If I were to leave him here," Ned said carefully, "I would want assurances. Assurances that he would be happy and not be used as… as a bargaining chip."

Kratos's eyes narrowed at that, and his hands clenched into fists on the arms of his throne as he growled: "Explain."

Ned exhaled, the weight of his fear pressing on his chest. "After what I have seen here… after what you did to the Volantene noble… I know the strength of Sparta. The power of this empire you claim not to want. But what assurance do I have that Jon would not be used against me? That he would not become a hostage to force my hand against my king?"

The hall was silent save for the crackling of torches as Kratos rose slowly from his throne, each step toward Ned echoing like thunder; he finally stopped only a few feet away, towering over the northern lord.

"This is not Westeros," Kratos growled. "In Sparta, children are not pawns in the games of men… They are not bartered; they are not sacrificed. Here they are Spartans, and they are free…"

Ned found no words in answer, and stood stiff, staring up at the god-king before him, unable to deny the weight of his conviction as Kratos lingered a moment longer before turning back toward his throne. "I leave this city in a few days," he said over his shoulder. "When I return, I hope you will have a clearer head..."

The dismissal was unmistakable, and Ned inclined his head in silence, then turned and strode from the chamber. Jory Cassel fell into step behind him without a word, and though Ned's face was calm, his thoughts were a storm.

XXXX

A few hours later, the Pillars of Sparta gathered in the great chamber, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the carved murals that told the city's rise; Kratos sat at the head, silent until the last of his councilors had taken their place.

When he finally spoke, his words landed like hammer blows:

"In six days, I leave the city."

The reaction was immediate, and murmurs spread like fire through the chamber. The Pillars looked to one another in disbelief; Neos leaned forward, his hand pressed to the stone table.

"My lord, you mean to leave Sparta…?" he asked sharply. "Where will you go?"

Kratos's crimson-marked face betrayed nothing as he growled out a single word: "Valyria."

The murmurs became open shock, and for a moment, the chamber was as silent as a grave; Neos rose a second later, from his seat, before he could stop himself. "Then grant me permission to accompany you! Such a journey would be legendary, but more than that, Sparta's king should not go without an escort."

Floki let out a rough laugh, leaning back in his chair as he smiled at Neos, as though the general had just told the world's greatest joke. "Escort? What moron would attack a god?"

Neos shot him a hard look at that, "God though our lord may be, until he is willing to reveal himself fully to the world, he should not walk into danger alone. An entourage worthy of Sparta's king must sail with him!"

Several of the others nodded at that; Cassandra folded her hands across her chest. "Neos is right… Even legends can be undone by treachery if left unguarded…"

Kratos's silence stretched, and then at last he inclined his head. "One thousand. No more. We will sail in five days. The rest of the army remains here, to keep Sparta safe."

That settled the immediate protests, though unease lingered. Finally, Kara leaned forward, her bright green eyes narrowing.

"Why Valyria, my lord?" she asked. "Does this have to do with the tale the merchant spoke of? The woman... The talking head...?"

The chamber fell still at that as each Pillar seemed to hold their breath; Kratos's gaze drifted from Kara to the far wall, before he finally replied, "Yes."

That single word carried enough weight to draw whispers from the council, and Kara pressed again. "Who are they, then? Are they gods as well, my lord?"

Kratos was quiet for a long moment before giving the faintest nod. "Yes..."

Excitement rippled through the room. The thought of more gods arriving from Kratos's homeland filled the air like an electric current, and Kara's eyes actually watered at the thought that Sparta might soon have more deities to look after the city.

"Then we must prepare," Kara said quickly, her voice rising with conviction. "If such figures are to set foot in our city, they will find it worthy of them. I will see to it personally!"

The others began talking at once, Becker's voice low and dangerous, promising his Shadows would scour every whisper of danger before the fleet departed. Cassandra was already calculating what it would mean to host more divine beings, and Floki was muttering about what Valyria might hold in secrets of shipcraft and steel. Cleitus's old eyes were bright with excitement as he thought of the thousands of untouched books and scrolls that might soon be in Sparta's hands.

Throughout it all, Kratos remained still, letting the storm of speculation rage; when at last he rose, the chamber fell into silence once more. "Prepare the city," he said. "Make ready the fleet. In six days, we sail... In my absence, I expect you to look after this city; you will rule in my stead. Is that clear?"

The Pillars rose as one, each nodding that they understood the tremendous trust that their king was placing in them, and determined not to fail him; excitement glinted in their eyes, not only at the thought of gods walking among them, but at what secrets Valyria itself might reveal. As they filed out into the night, leaving their king alone in the chamber, the torchlight casting his shadow long across the stone floor, Kratos stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on nothing, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the path before him pressed heavier than the chains of his blades.

XXXX

The following day:

The news spread through Sparta like wildfire; word of King Kratos's decree—his plan to sail to the cursed ruins of Valyria and plunder whatever secrets it still held—had gripped every street, every bathhouse, every tavern. Veterans who had marched through fire and war during the conquest of the Triarchy now jostled like eager children, each one begging to be chosen among the one thousand who would follow their king. To fight for Sparta was one thing; to walk at Kratos's side into Valyria itself was glory beyond imagining.

Elsewhere in the city, panic had replaced awe; the representatives of the Iron Bank of Braavos gathered in their appointed quarters, the air heavy with wine and tension.

"This cannot be allowed," muttered the envoy leader, a sharp-eyed man with a voice like sandpaper. "Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath already bent the knee... Our city is trapped now between the Narrow Sea and this… this Spartan Empire!"

One of his companions leaned forward anxiously. "We've already sent ravens to Braavos. Instructions will come… But what do we do if the Spartan king returns from Valyria with its secrets? If he brings back Valyrian steel for every Spartan soldier? If he masters whatever sorcery lies rotting there?"

The elder envoy slammed his hand against the table. "Then Braavos itself will fall! No fleet, no vault of gold, no army of faceless men will stop him! We must act before that day comes…"

But his words carried little confidence; each of them had seen the Blades of Chaos cleave a man into pieces, each of them had felt the weight of Kratos's fury, a god wrapped in mortal flesh. And though they feared him, they also knew the truth: if he returned from Valyria with even half of what the legends promised, Sparta would become unstoppable.

XXXX

In a different chamber of the palace, Becker's office was a sparse chamber, lit only by two braziers and filled with maps, reports, and scrolls stacked neatly in rows; shadows clung to the corners like living things, but Becker himself stood behind his desk, tall and motionless, his dark eyes sharp.

"You asked to see me," Becker said, his deep voice quiet but heavy as he viewed the man before him.

Oberyn leaned lazily against the desk, but there was fire in his eyes. "I did… I want you to put my name forward to your king. When he sails for Valyria, I intend to go with him."

"Why?"

"Because," Oberyn said with a smirk, "I have lived a life of pleasure and blood, I have seen all the corners of this world worth seeing. But Valyria? The ruins of the dragonlords? That is legend. And legend is what men like me are meant to chase!"

Becker studied him for a long moment before replying. "You understand what you are asking? To follow our king into a place where even the air kills, where the strongest ships burn at sea…?"

"Better to die in Valyria," Oberyn said smoothly, "than live a hundred years without ever seeing it…"

For the first time, Becker's lips curled in something like amusement. "You Dornish are mad… I will tell him of your request, but whether you join us, that is his choice alone..."

XXXX

Later that night, Oberyn returned to his chambers; Ellaria was seated on a low couch, a robe loosely tied around her, her hair unbound. As Oberyn entered the chamber, she looked up at him, her eyes narrowing when she saw the gleam in his.

"You've asked to go with him, haven't you?" she said flatly as Oberyn spread his arms. "Of course! How could I not? To stand where the dragonlords once stood? To drink in their ruins and see what secrets remain?"

Ellaria rose, her expression hard. "And leave us behind? Your daughters? Me? Do you think I came all this way to watch you chase death while we wait like widows?"

Oberyn cupped her face with both hands, drawing her close. "You will not be widows. I will return. This is Sparta, Ellaria. You and my daughters will be safer here than anywhere else in the world! And when I come back, it will be with stories that no other man can tell!"

Her lips trembled between anger and fear; finally, she whispered, "Promise me… Promise me you will come back…"

"I promise," Oberyn said, and kissed her fiercely before dragging her to their bed; the night was still young and there was still five days left before the expedition to Valyria departed, plenty of time to ensure both of them had fresh memories and even fresher bruises to keep them warm until Oberyn returned…

XXXX

The following morning, the whole city was shaken by another announcement; General Neos, clad in his crimson-crested helm, strode onto the steps of the training field as hundreds gathered to hear him, his voice boomed like thunder:

"In three days, Sparta will host a tournament unlike any before it. Only veterans—only those who have earned the red mark—may compete. The thousand who prove themselves best will accompany our king and myself to Valyria."

A roar erupted from the crowd; Spartans who had marched through fire and death now shouted like children at a festival.

Neos raised his hand, silencing them. "The rules are simple. You will fight, not to the death, but to prove your strength, your endurance, your will. Sparta will not send the weak to walk beside the God of War. Only the best, the fiercest, the truest will go!"

By nightfall, the gyms and training fields of the city were overflowing. Warriors pushed their bodies to the breaking point. Shields clashed, swords rang, sweat poured like rain. Men and women who had already bled for Sparta now bled again, desperate to be counted among the thousand; every rooftop whispered of the tournament, every child mimicked the fighters in the streets, and all of Sparta burned with the fever of glory.

Chapter Text

Neos's order was simple: three days from now, a tournament for veterans only; the thousand best would sail with the king to Valyria. That was all it took. Every gymnasium, every sand circle, every wrestling pit, and spear lane was full until the torches burned low.

Meera, Rhosene, Pindaros, and Leon were scattered across the grounds, each chasing the same thing with all they had left.

XXXX

Meera:

Meera stood at the spear lane, feet planted, shield strapped tight to her forearm. A line of moving targets creaked along ropes fifty paces away, spinning on rigged pulleys—wooden torsos ringed with bronze bands that chimed when struck true. She'd already sent her first dozen throws; sweat slicked her palms; her arms shook from the weight. The drillmaster, Lykaon, said nothing. He rarely did. He only watched and chalked a mark when the bronze rang.

Meera inhaled, set the butt of the spear against the ground, and rolled her shoulder until the joint popped. "Again," she told the boy working the winch.

He cranked, the targets slid, Meera stepped, shield high, and hurled, a snarl of fury ripping from her throat as she released the shaft.

The spear flew low, nipped the hip of a dummy, and thudded into the soil. No ring…

"Too hungry," Lykaon said without looking at her.

She fetched the spear at a run, came back breathing hard; she knew what he meant. Since Neos had spoken, something had crawled under her skin and refused to leave—excitement, fear, stubborn pride. Don't be overlooked. Don't let them say you're too young. She'd heard it before, when she first bled in the field and wanted a real blade. Not this time.

She shook out her arms, found her stance, and let the shield settle against the hinge of her wrist. The targets rolled again. She watched the middle one, let it pass, then snapped her eyes to the trailing dummy, stepped forward, and let the spear go like she was throwing the thought out of her head; bronze rang clear, and Lykaon chalked his slate.

Meera didn't smile. She gathered the spear, set again. Ten more throws. Twelve. Her shoulder burned fire; the muscles at her neck felt like cords about to tear. The bronze sang seven times.

On the thirteenth throw, her elbow gave a dull, hot stab, and the spear skated wide, causing her to bite down on a curse.

Lykaon clicked his tongue. "Stop cheating."

Meera glared. "I'm not—"

"You're trying to trick the target," he said. "Watch your mark, not your fear!"

She wiped her forearm with the edge of her tunic, leaving a smear of dust. "Again."

She stayed until her arm was numb and her hand barely closed around the shaft. When Lykaon finally lowered the slate, she leaned on her spear and fought to steady her breath.

"That's enough," he said.

"It isn't!"

"For today, it is, you want a shoulder you can use in three days?"

She hated that he was right, hated that the hate meant she was still thinking too much. "How many rings?"

He showed the slate. "Twenty-one of thirty."

"Not good enough..."

"Good enough to get eyes," he said. "The rest is what you do when someone tries to take your throat..."

XXXX

Rhosene:

At the sparring pits, Rhosene chose the meanest circle with the worst rules: no breaks until someone couldn't stand, no strikes to the knee or eye, and everything else legal.

She was already bleeding from the lip when she stepped back in; across from her stood a thick-shouldered woman with a black eye and a grin too big for the pain in her face.

"You look tired," the woman said.

"I feel fine," Rhosene said, and waited for the lie to pass. "Again."

Wood cracked on wood; the first exchange was ugly; both of them were thinking about the tournament even as they tried to pretend they weren't. Rhosene caught a cut on her shoulder, rolled it with the shield, and snapped a backhand that smashed into the woman's collarbone. They separated, circled, stepped in, and traded again. Splinters flew. A cheer went up from another circle where two men brawled in a clinch, kneeing each other's hips and ribs in short, sick thuds.

"Why do you fight like a drunk?" the woman laughed.

"Because drunks don't care how it looks," Rhosene said, and drove a straight thrust into the meat below the woman's ribs.

The woman grunted, brought her shield up too late, and Rhosene turned the thrust into a shove, sent her stumbling. Someone tossed Rhosene a fresh training sword; her own had a crack running down the wooden blade.

"Name," the woman panted as she reset,

"Rhosene."

"Try not to die, Rhosene. I want to fight you in the tournament."

"Try to be there," Rhosene returned, and moved first.

They fought until the dust tasted like iron and her eyes burned. She lost the next exchange and took a hook across the ear that sent the world to a high, shrill whistle. She dropped to a knee, shook her head, and stood back up. The woman grinned again, pleased to see her on her feet. Rhosene loved her for that, hated her, too.

When the drillmaster finally cut them off—"Break, break, you hard-headed fools!"—Rhosene spat blood into the sand and strapped her shield tighter.

"Again," she said.

The drillmaster pinched the bridge of his nose. "You just failed to understand my clear words..."

"Again," Rhosene said, and lifted her sword.

The woman laughed, threw an arm around Rhosene's shoulders, and pulled her toward the water trough. "Drink," she said. "We can try to kill each other after."

They hung there with their elbows on the wooden rim, breathing steam, watching the next circle. A big man with red ink coiling over his shoulder knocked his opponent flat, then waited for him to rise without so much as a twitch of impatience.

"It's all anyone talks about," the woman said. "Valyria… You think you'll make it?"

Rhosene sipped. "I think I'll either win my place with the army going, or I will die..."

The woman snorted. "Spoken like a Spartan."

Rhosene set the dipper down, rolled her neck, and glanced at the far end of the pit where Leon was beginning his round. A small crowd had formed, and she could hear Obara Sand's laugh from all the way across the field; Rhosene smirked, then looked back at her partner.

"Let's give them something to watch," she said, and went back in.

XXXX

Pindaros:

Pindaros ran.

He preferred that to almost everything else. Endurance was his oath; one he'd made to himself the night he'd watched men he admired fall and had sworn he'd never be the one who couldn't get back to his feet.

He ran the perimeter with a weighted vest under his cuirass, greaves strapped tight, and a pack on his shoulders. The sun burned his eyes, and the dust turned to paste in his mouth. His calves were knots, and his lungs were knives. Every time his mind suggested he stop, he added another half lap.

"Pindaros," a drillmaster called as he thundered past, "your form is turning to goat shit."

"Goat shit still runs!" Pindaros croaked and kept moving.

He cut past the wrestling circles, the stone-throw pits, and the javelin lanes where Meera was stripping off her half-armor and tying on a breastband, cheeks flushed, braid soaked. He didn't slow. He liked the way the world narrowed when he ran. The edges of his vision went gray; the ground became a drum. His thoughts lined up like soldiers and shut their mouths.

After his twentieth lap, his knee buckled, and he caught himself on a post and cursed softly.

"Slow it," the drillmaster said when he passed again. "Walk it out."

Pindaros didn't.

He gritted his teeth and shortened his stride, counting breaths. Five in, five out. Don't be clever. Be stubborn. He imagined the lists in three days, the brackets chalked on big slate boards, the way Neos's voice would carry through the arena when he called the names of the thousand. He pictured himself at the back of a gangplank, smelling tar and salt, looking over a deck at sails black as night. He pictured Valyria like a challenge—you don't belong here—and the answer he'd give with his feet.

On the twenty-fifth lap, he finally slowed, stripped the vest off, and dropped it with a thump that made the dust spit. The drillmaster handed him a cup, and Pindaros drained it without tasting it.

"Why?" the drillmaster asked. "You've run enough for three men..."

Pindaros leaned forward, hands on his thighs, breathing hard. "Because the dead don't rest," he said. "So, neither do I."

The drillmaster watched him for a beat, then nodded once. "Come back at dusk," he said. "You and six others. Weighted drag. Hill repeats. We'll see if your mouth keeps up with your feet."

Pindaros grinned despite the stitch in his side, and couldn't help the retort, "You'll find, sir, that my mouth is almost as fast…"

He went to the pull-up bars next, then to the stone lift, then to mock tower climbs on the tall wooden wall Neos had ordered built two months before. At each station, he found the same thing: a line of veterans who were already very good at what they were doing and still worked like their lives depended on getting better. No one complained about the wait. No one drifted. People paired off to coach each other, count reps, hold feet, and spot shoulders. Every man and woman there understood the same simple truth: there were only a thousand places, and ten thousand hands were reaching for the same rail.

Pindaros finished the day on his back in the dust, vest balanced on his chest, the sky a flat, bright blade above. Someone's shadow fell over him.

"You're going to die if you keep that up," Meera said.

He cracked one eye. "Not before the tournament..."

With a sigh. she dropped a water skin onto his stomach. "Drink. Then come pull..."

He gave it one more breath, then sat up with a groan and did as he was told. They walked to the bars side by side, sweat-salted and filthy, and didn't bother filling the space with talk. They didn't need to.

XXXX

Leon:

When Leon stepped into the sand, the noise changed. It wasn't that the others trained less hard around him. It was that his presence tugged eyes like a magnet. Even those who didn't like him—there were a few—couldn't help watching when he moved.

He stripped off his shirt and tied his hair tight, red ink a bright slash over the curve of his shoulder. Obara Sand lounged on the low wall with a smirk and a bruise blooming on her collarbone from her own morning fun with the man; Nymeria and Tyene were with her, their commentary wicked and appreciative in equal measure.

"Go on," Obara said under her breath when Leon picked up two wooden swords and tossed one to a veteran across from him. "Make a mess…"

They opened with two-on-one. Leon didn't mind. He liked the math of it—angles, timing, space. The first man rushed high. Leon let him—stepped inside his strike, banged his forearm into the man's bicep, rode the blow off-line, cracked him in the ribs with the butt of his sword. The second tried to catch him with a sweep; Leon hopped it, landed inside the arc, and boxed his ear with the flat.

"Again," he said.

They added a third. Fine. He went lower, knees and hips and feet, cutting their triangle apart with mean little checks and smacks that didn't look like much until you were the one eating them. He let one of them clip his jaw on purpose just to feel the weight of it, tasted copper, grinned, and paid it back with change.

Obara laughed. "Oh, I am going to ruin you tonight…" she murmured to no one in particular.

He finished the set, nodded to his partners, and turned to face the next group. Then the next. He didn't keep score. He didn't look to the edge of the circle to see who was watching. He wanted the work more than the eyes—because even being very good meant nothing if you weren't better three days from now.

Between rounds, he drank, spat, and stretched. Rhosene swaggered by with a split lip and a grin. He knocked his fist against her shield, and she returned the tap against his shoulder, where the ink curled.

His last drill of the afternoon was a blur fight—ten breaths, four opponents, no pause. He gave himself to it without thought, without mercy. When the horn blew to end the set, he stood with his chest jumping and his forearms burning and felt a clean, bright happiness unspool in his ribs.

Obara slid off the wall and sauntered over; she ran a finger along the red mark on his shoulder and leaned in like she might bite it. "You'll make the thousand," she said.

"Maybe," he said.

"You will," she said, like she was making a promise he didn't know he wanted. "And when you do, you'll bring me back something sharp from Valyria."

"A story?" he asked.

"A knife," she said sweetly, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "And perhaps the story after…"

He shook his head, smiling despite himself, wiped his face with a rag, and pulled the woman in close, kissing her deeply and making her moan; for two whole days, she had tried to seduce him. At first, Leon had ignored her, thinking that she only waned to fuck him, and on the third day, Leon had finally decided to just give the woman what she wanted. To the surprise of both, they found something… more there as well. Neither of them could quiet explain what it was, but both were enjoying it very much.

XXXX

By evening, the sun dropped to a hard red coin, and the torches came out. The fields didn't empty; they shifted. Wrestling bouts turned into slow matches where each combatant helped the other with their form. Heavy lifts slowed to form work; the last, stubborn sparring pairs got peeled apart by drillmasters who finally lost patience with their fighters pretending to hear nothing.

On the long terrace above the main ground, Neos and a knot of captains walked the line and made notes. They didn't talk much; they watched. Occasionally, a captain would point, Neos would grunt, and a name would go on a slate.

At the baths, veterans lowered themselves into cold pools with groans and laughter, comparing bruises and times and the stupidest thing they'd seen that day. A woman at the next bench swore she'd watched two men run into each other because neither would cede the inside track at the final bend. Everyone believed it. Someone else swore Leon had disarmed three in a blink. No one argued that one.

Kara visited the temple scaffolds before night prayers and listened without comment as a group of scholars debated how many copies of existing maps of the Valyrian peninsula existed in the library and how quickly they could produce better ones from the merchant's description. Cassandra made a list of the extra rations and kit the thousand would need and told three stewards to start pulling it from stores. Floki stood on the harbor wall with his hands on his hips and grinned at the half-finished ships below like a madman.

Meera found Rhosene near the mess hall, both of them chewing mechanically and staring at nothing.

"Arms?" Meera asked.

"Dead," Rhosene said around a mouthful of stewed beans. "You?"

"Same."

"Good."

They ate in silence for a while. A boy ran past with a torch and nearly tripped over a helmet; Meera reached out and snagged him by the collar before he face-planted and set his hair on fire, causing him to squeak, laugh, and sprint on to deliver his flame to the next brazier.

"Are you scared, sister?" Meera asked finally.

Rhosene chewed, swallowed. "I haven't felt fear in a very long time, sister... In the pits, fear is a luxury that gets fighters killed…"

Meera nodded. She thought about her grandmother's hand on her cheek the night she'd gotten her mark. Stand where you belong, Kara had said. Do not ask, do not wait. Take it! She thought about Valyria like a door she'd wanted to open since she'd learned the word. She thought about the thousand places like a myth you could touch.

Not long after, Leon limped past bare-chested again, carrying two broken swords and a grin that hadn't dimmed with the light. Obara's laugh floated from the shade, and Nymeria's voice followed, drier. Tyene hummed to herself like a cat with a new knife.

"Tomorrow?" Leon asked Meera and Rhosene before he disappeared into the crowd. It wasn't a question, not really.

"Tomorrow…" Meera nodded.

"Tomorrow," Rhosene echoed, and popped her shoulder with a grimace.

They all slept like stones when they finally let themselves. The city didn't. The city talked in its sleep—rumbled, rolled, shifted. Somewhere a smith hammered; somewhere a scribe sharpened a quill; somewhere a child gave a speech to his blanket about why he should be allowed to enter a tournament that would never take him.

XXXX

Author's Note:

This will be the last chapter y'all are gonna get for a little while, so I hope it lived up to your expectations. In the next chapter, Sparta will host its tournament to decide the thousand that will go to Valyria with Kratos, and I'll try to make it as epic as possible. Until next time, my lovelies.

Chapter Text

The night was silent over Sparta. The torches lining the marble avenues burned low, their glow dimming as the city finally slept; not even the watchmen patrolling the streets heard the heavy footsteps that carried their king northward, toward the unbroken ground at the city's edge.

Kratos walked alone. No guards, no generals, no priests. Only the night and the steady rhythm of his boots against stone.

When he reached the rise overlooking the open field, he stopped and took a deep breath as he gazed at the emptiness before him; this part of the city was still a wasteland of ruin, and its intended purpose had yet to be decided. The land stretched vast and empty before him, a dark canvas beneath the moon, and he stood still for a long moment, his massive frame rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. The Tournament that would take place in a few hours would be something that would be talked about for generations, and needed something just as awe-inspiring for his people to watch it in, and so Kratos would give his Spartans just what they wanted.

He did not need to pray. There was no god above to answer him. There was only the fire within — the power he carried and the power his people gave him; he could feel it as he breathed in the night air: the weight of their belief. Every whispered prayer at dusk, every act of reverence, every oath sworn in his name. It coursed through him like molten iron, and as Kratos exhaled, he spread his arms wide, causing the ground to rumble. A moment later, Kratos shot both arms into the air, and the work began:

From the earth itself, stone began to shift; blocks the size of oxen rose from nothing, slamming into place with thunderous force as the ruined manses that had once belonged to the nobles of Myr disappeared as if they had never even been there. Arches bent upward toward the sky, forming tier upon tier of gleaming marble. Columns sprouted like trees in spring, smooth and perfect, carved with Spartan sigils as though sculpted by unseen hands. And yet, despite the astronomical amount of noise around him, not a single sound slipped past Kratos and into the city, for he was not only forcing the building to birth before him but was also keeping the area completely silent.

As the amphitheater continued to grow ever larger before him, stretching up so high that it seemed it might touch the moon above, Kratos did not move. His eyes remained closed, his arms raised above his head, and his jaw set as the power surged through him. He could feel the strain of it — every prayer burning like kindling in his chest, every heartbeat in Sparta adding to the storm within.

The sound grew deafening. Stone ground against stone as the coliseum took shape, impossibly vast and impossibly precise. Statues erupted from the walls: warriors with shields raised, healers cradling the wounded, scholars bearing scrolls, engineers and blacksmiths, traders and sailors; thousands of different statues, each bearing a different face, appeared along the walls. A moment later, the arena floor spread wide, ringing with gates, its sand glowing pale under the moonlight.

When the final keystone slammed into place, the earth stilled, and Kratos opened his eyes to view his work. A bead of sweat ran down his face from the amount of power he had been forced to use to will this building into existence.

Before him stood the coliseum — a monument that should have taken decades, born in a single night; it gleamed with cold majesty, its sheer size dwarfing the city walls.

Slowly, he lowered his arms, his breathing heavy, the glow of power fading from his skin. For a moment, he simply stared, not in pride, but in recognition. This was no triumph. This was a necessity. His people demanded spectacle, his warriors demanded a crucible. And so, he had given it to them…. But more than that, Kratos knew that he had given his people something that would last for centuries to come, and would be spoken across the world as something magnificent that all would want to come to Sparta and see for themselves.

As the God of War turned and walked back toward the sleeping city, the shadow of the coliseum stretched long behind him. By dawn, when the people awoke and saw the impossible rise where empty ground had been, they would know once again: their god was with them.

XXXX

The first rays of dawn crept over the marble city, chasing shadows from its streets. Sparta stirred as it always did — bakers stoking their ovens, smiths hammering sparks from hot iron, merchants preparing their stalls. And then the city looked north.

And the world stopped.

No one had gone to sleep thinking they would wake to this; yesterday, the north quarter beyond the training grounds had been partially destroyed, manses, scaffolds, and the stumps of future walls. This morning, an arena the size of a small city sat where nothing had been, white as bone and clean as a new coin.

The coliseum stood where yesterday there had been nothing but empty ground. Its white marble walls towered into the sky, arches gleaming, Statues ringed the exterior — warriors, scholars, healers, citizens — carved with such precision it seemed they might step down from their pedestals and join the gawking crowd.

To the people of Sparta, there was no disbelief, no fear, only joy. Their god had given them another gift. Some clasped hands and laughed, others bowed their heads in reverence. The Agoge trainees broke into cheers, veterans touched the red tattoos on their shoulders with pride.

"Another gift from our king," one woman said, smiling at her daughter.

"He watches us always," an old veteran replied, tears glinting in his eyes.

The citizens packed the coliseum without hesitation, their faith absolute. By midmorning, every seat was filled; when those ran out, the people sat on the stairs, and when those too were filled, the walkways crowded as well until nearly two hundred thousand voices shook the city with their chants as they viewed the interior of the coliseum, which was just as magnificent as the exterior. A thousand feet of white sand lay upon the arena floor from one end to the other. In the direct center lay the Royal box, which had a single seat in it, Kratos's seat. A few feet beneath that lay the box where the Pillars of Sparta would sit, seven stone chairs sitting next to each other, each somehow modest yet magnificent. Below that, lay the box reserved for special guests and envoys, large enough to house at least fifty people if necessary.

The remaining citizens, those who could not find a spot to sit, were forced to wait outside the coliseum's gates by the thousands, as they awaited word of who would earn the right to stand beside their king as he conquered Valyria.

Yet even those who had been unable to find somewhere to sit and watch the Tournament were filled with an almost fanatic energy.

The envoys, however, saw only the impossible…

Men from Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath exchanged uneasy looks in their reserved box. They had sworn allegiance only days before, and now their choice seemed not only wise, but inevitable. If Sparta could raise such a monument in a single night, what hope did any city have of resisting?

Others were less at ease. The delegates from Qohor whispered furiously among themselves. "Sorcery," one hissed. "Somewhere in this city, a mage of terrible power exists!"

"No," another muttered, voice hoarse. "It is their king… It must be…" He swallowed. "God or demon, it matters not. Nothing mortal could build this!"

The Iron Bank envoys sat silently, their pale faces betraying their dread. One finally leaned to another, his voice low. "If this is what they can do in a single night… then Braavos is unsafe! No vault, army, or bank is strong enough to hold against this!"

"The Iron Bank does not fear anyone…" his colleague tried to say, but his voice trembled. They all knew the truth: if Sparta wished, it could one day come for them. And nothing would stop it.

XXXX

Ned Stark stood with Jory Cassel and his guards at the edge of the agora; his grey eyes fixed on the coliseum. His mouth was a thin line, but inside, his thoughts churned. 'This cannot be.' Ned thought in awe. 'A structure of this size should take decades… And yet there it was. Jon stared in open awe beside him, his breath caught in his throat.

A few feet behind the Northmen, Kevan Lannister leaned close to his nephew. "I would swear this place was empty ground yesterday…" he muttered.

Tyrion did not take his eyes from the monument; he couldn't, it was as if his eyes had been fixed to the arena with a force he wouldn't fight against. "No need to swear, uncle… I was there as well. I saw nothing. And now…" He lifted his cup, though it was far too early for wine; drinking had been all Tyrion had done since arriving in Sparta in the absence of a single brothel. "Now this. If it is sorcery, I should like to know what other tricks their king keeps up his sleeve..."

Kevan's mind whirled with the implications of such a magnificent arena; Tywin would no doubt be forced to change whatever plans he had concocted regarding Sparta. And once word reached Westeros that the king of Sparta was a sorcerer, the noble houses would immediately be forced to choose whether to ally with Sparta or declare it a city of heretics as the Faith of the Seven demanded. With a nervous swallow, Kevan stepped toward the massive arena, torn between fear and excitement as Tyrion followed close behind.

Across the way, Oberyn Martell's lips curved into a grin. "Now this," he said, gesturing with a flourish of his hand, "is spectacle worthy of a god!"

Beside him, Ellaria Sand frowned. "It is unnatural… Yesterday it did not exist. Today it does... That should frighten you!"

Oberyn's grin only deepened. "Unnatural, yes. But magnificent all the same…"

Ellaria frowned, arms crossed, as she stared at a group of passing envoys muttering prayers under their breath as they moved toward the entrance gate reserved for them. "It frightens the others… And it should, Oberyn! This was obviously made with magic! What hope does any city have against a race of warriors whose king can create this in a single night with magic!"

Oberyn's grin only grew at his paramour's obvious terror. "Frightens them, yes. But me? It excites me!" He leaned back, eyes glinting. "When the gods play their games, I would see every move!"

Not far behind the pair, the Sand Snakes murmured among themselves, Obara smirking as she said, "If this is what he does in one night, what else can he do…?"

On the other side of the street, Ned and his entourage were making their way toward the towering mountain of marble, each step seeming to make the coliseum somehow seem even larger, until it almost seemed as though it would blot out the sun.

"This was not here yesterday," Jory muttered, shaking his head as though trying to awaken himself from a dream.

"No," Ned agreed quietly. "But the world is old, and there are powers in it we barely understand… The North has always known this…"

Jon, wide-eyed, could only nod at his father's words. "It's… incredible," he whispered, his words coming out more like an exhale of awe.

To Ned, it was more than incredible. It was a warning. The age of kings and lords seemed small against what he was seeing…

XXXX

Just over an hour later, the roar of the crowd shook the heavens; two hundred thousand voices thundered through the marble coliseum, the chants of "Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!" rolling like waves that would not end. Down below, on the bone-white sands, ten thousand warriors stood shoulder to shoulder—men and women alike, veterans marked by the red tattoo of their king, each one ready to prove themselves worthy of the expedition to Valyria. Each was wearing only the barest clothing necessary to hide their modesty, their silver armor, for once, absent as each stared around the coliseum with shock, awe, and a renewed devotion to their king.

Then, without warning, the chants began to fade. All eyes turned as General Neos, the Lord of War, rose from his seat among the Pillars, his armor gleaming silver in the sunlight, his crimson cloak billowing as he descended the steps to the edge of the balcony. The silence was immediate, as if the entire coliseum held its breath.

Neos placed his gauntleted hands on the banister and looked out—not just at the ten thousand below, but at the thousands upon thousands packed into the tiers. And when he spoke, his voice echoed to every corner of the arena, somehow reaching every observer, and once again making more than one envoy whisper about 'Spartan sorcery.'

"Sparta!"

The single word cracked like thunder, reverberating through the bones of every soul present.

"You stand here today on the edge of history! Beyond the sea lies Valyria, its ruins shrouded in death and fire, its secrets long whispered of but never claimed. In three days, our king will lead an expedition into that cursed land. And from its ashes, we will drag forth whatever truth, whatever power, whatever riches it holds! For Sparta!"

He paused, his eyes narrowing, his voice hardening like steel.

"But only one thousand of you will go…"

The silence deepened; on the sands below, ten thousand warriors stood rigid, their breath steady, their eyes locked on him.

"One thousand of you will earn the honor of standing at our king's side… One thousand of you will carry the red mark of Sparta into Valyria. And the rest—" He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping the masses. "—the rest will go back to your homes and your duties knowing you fought, you bled, and you gave everything for your city."

The air was heavy, charged, trembling with anticipation. Then, suddenly, Neos slammed his fist against his chestplate as he saluted the men and women beneath him, the sound ringing like a drumbeat.

"Spartans!" he bellowed, his voice rising to a roar that made the very stones tremble. "PREPARE FOR GLORY!"

The coliseum erupted. The chants of "Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!" roared louder than ever, shaking the marble, shaking the sky itself. On the sands below, ten thousand warriors lifted their fists and roared as one so that it seemed as though the very ground beneath their feet was shaking from the noise.

In the Pillars box, the men and women who led the city were finding it suddenly hard to sit still as the air around them suddenly blazed with energy; Floki was giggling madly from where he sat, dignity already forgotten as he bounced in his chair.

From their section of the coliseum, the envoys looked out over the sea of humanity filling every tier of stone, each of them wearing an expression of fear, save for the envoys of Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath, who were all staring in awe; they knew then that they had chosen well to join with this city. More than two hundred thousand Spartans roared as one, their chants shaking the ground beneath their feet, their voices unyielding.

Even the Iron Bank's usually calm, calculating envoy was tight-jawed, his knuckles white as he gripped the stone seat. "If this continues," he muttered, "gold itself may lose its power against them. And when that happens…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

The arena shook with chants of "Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!" and for the first time, the envoys understood: this was no longer a free city. This was the heart of a new empire—and nothing would stop it.

Above them all, Kratos sat unmoving in the royal box, his crimson tattoo stark against his pale skin, his gaze unblinking as he watched.

The Tournament had begun…

XXXX

Author's Note:

I really wanted to write the Tournament in this chapter, but I simply do not have the ability right now. A few days ago, I went rock climbing and injured my hands pretty badly. I don't know when I'll be able to update again, but I'll try to get the next one out as soon as possible. Until then, I hope this chapter holds up to what you're used to, and if not, let me know what I could have done better.

If you would like to join my Discord, where you can view pictures that accompany this story, as well as participate in Polls that determine where this story will go, you'll find it here:

http (double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) S5W6KSzX

Chapter Text

The thunder of the crowd was only just beginning to fade after General Neos's voice had rolled across the Coliseum like a storm. His words—"Spartans! Prepare for glory!"—still echoed in the hearts of every man, woman, and child seated in the stands. On the sand below, the ten thousand veterans who had answered the call were filing back through the heavy cage doors, leaving the vast white expanse empty as the first trial of the Tournament loomed, creating an almost electric buzz of excitement to roll through the crowd.

Among the crowd, crammed into a section filled with children and trainees of the Agoge, Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen sat shoulder to shoulder. The siblings had fought their way through the swarm the moment the gates of the Coliseum opened that morning, shoving and elbowing past other boys and girls desperate for the best view in this magnificent stadium that had suddenly appeared seemingly overnight. Their persistence had earned them seats so close to the arena floor that Daenerys could see the veins bulging on the warriors' arms as they staggered back into the tunnels.

Daenerys all but bounced in her seat, violet eyes wide with wonder. The sheer size of the place—the bone-white sand, the marble tiers, the thunderous sea of citizens chanting "Sparta!"—was overwhelming and yet exhilarating. "It's magnificent," she whispered, almost to herself, though her voice was swallowed by the crowd's cheers.

Beside her, Viserys didn't answer. His eyes weren't on the empty arena floor or the marble grandeur of the Coliseum; his gaze had slid across the stadium, fixed on the lowest tier of stone boxes, the section reserved for special guests and foreign dignitaries.

There, seated with his Stark guards and looking every bit the Northman, was a man that filled Viserys with a burning hatred that almost threatened to consume him: Eddard Stark. And beside him—

Viserys's breath caught in his throat.

The boy. Jon Snow…

The resemblance was unbearable. His face—Rhaegar's face—worn by another. The boy's dark hair and Stark furs did nothing to hide it, and Viserys saw his brother in every line of that jaw, every quiet movement of his eyes as Jon leaned forward, intent on the arena below.

Anger flared hot in his chest, and Viserys could feel his dragon blood roar in anger. To see that face seated beside Ned Stark, the man who had marched beneath Robert Baratheon's banner, the man whose rebellion had shattered the Targaryens, made Viserys' blood boil.

A moment later, Daenerys tugged at his sleeve, her own voice bubbling with excitement. "What do you think the challenges will be? Do you think they'll fight with swords next?"

But Viserys didn't hear her, his hand clenched the edge of the stone seat until his knuckles turned white, and his eyes never left Jon Snow.

Since that day on the Agoge fields, the question had haunted him: who was this boy? Why did he look so much like Rhaegar? And why, above all, did it feel like an insult that he should sit so calmly, so easily, at the side of the wolves who had destroyed House Targaryen?

The crowd roared again as drums thundered from beneath the stands, heralding the first contest of the day. Daenerys rose from her seat, nearly bouncing with joy; beside her, Viserys remained as still as polished stone, his gaze locked on Jon Snow, his violet eyes narrowing with fury and confusion.

"Why do you wear my brother's face…?" He whispered, so low that only he could hear it.

As though sensing her brother's growing foul mood, Daenerys followed her brother's gaze, curiosity stirring. At first, she thought he was simply glaring at the arena floor, but then she saw it: his eyes were fixed not on the sand, but on the lowest box of the Coliseum, opposite her, where the foreign envoys sat with their guards.

Narrowing her eyes against the light, she leaned forward, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she searched for what held his attention; then she saw him:

A boy—about her brother's age, maybe a little younger—seated among the northerners; he was lean but strong-looking, with dark hair and sharp grey eyes that seemed to drink in everything around him. He sat close to the Stark lord, a man she recognized from whispers as Eddard Stark himself, and when the boy leaned forward, there was something… quiet about him. Steady.

Daenerys tilted her head. "Who is he?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the thunder of the crowd.

Viserys didn't answer, his jaw tight, his nails scraping against the stone bench as Daenerys looked between him and the boy again. She had been just a babe when the war ended, too young to remember Rhaegar or much of anything from their true home. To her, this wasn't a ghost. It wasn't a face that stirred rage or grief. It was simply a boy who looked strong, who carried himself differently from the laughing children around them.

"He looks… proud," she murmured to herself. "Like he belongs here..."

Her brother finally tore his eyes away to glare at her, violet eyes burning. "Do not speak of him!" His voice was low, sharp enough to make her flinch.

Daenerys frowned at that, confused, but turned back toward the arena as the drums thundered again. She didn't understand why her brother stared so intently, nor why it made him so angry. To her, it was just another mystery in this strange, magnificent city that had accepted her and her brother so readily, without asking anything in return.

But even as the roar of the crowd rose once more, her eyes drifted back toward the boy seated in the envoy's box.

"Who are you…?" she wondered.

XXXX

On the opposite side of the arena, Ned Stark sat in the envoys' box, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His grey eyes scanned the tiers of stone benches, the endless mass of faces chanting "Sparta! Sparta!" with unshakable devotion. It was then he felt it—eyes fixed on him.

He followed the weight of that gaze, and when he found its source, his stomach turned to ice.

Viserys Targaryen.

The boy sat among the Agoge trainees, his violet eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line of hate; he wasn't even looking at Ned directly—his attention seemed fixed on Jon, seated at Ned's side—but the fury in his stare washed over both of them like poison.

Ned could almost taste it, the hatred burning in the boy's eyes, and he swallowed, though his throat was dry. He had feared since the moment they came to Sparta that Jon's true blood might one day be recognized. That some Targaryen might see what others could not afford to see; and now, as Viserys's gaze locked onto Jon with a mixture of confusion and rage, Ned felt the walls closing in.

Beside him, Jon shifted uneasily; the boy had noticed too, apparently; Jon's eyes flicked up toward the stands and lingered on the Targaryen siblings. The girl, Daenerys, watched him curiously, not with anger, but with a child's simple wonder. Yet her brother's stare was something else entirely: sharp, burning, accusatory, as though Jon had committed some terrible offense against the boy…

Jon remembered the day he had spoken to Viserys on the Agoge field, the whisper of another name, Rhaegar, from the boy's lips, and the way Father had turned cold when Jon told him later.

Beside Jon, Ned's jaw tightened. If Jon stayed here, would he always carry this shadow over him? Would Viserys whisper and pry, would his curiosity fester into something far worse?

With an almost physical effort, Ned forced his gaze back to the arena floor, but the thought lingered like a stone in his gut:

If Jon chooses to remain in Sparta… what future awaits him when even here, the past hunts him still…?

XXXX

Not far from where Ned and his entourage sat, Oberyn Martell could not take his eyes off the arena.

The Coliseum itself was alive with thunder; a hundred thousand voices, chanting as one, made the marble itself hum beneath their feet. Never had he seen its like, not in Volantis, Lys, or even in the shadowed courts of Sunspear. It had appeared overnight, and now it stood as though it had always been here, vast and eternal. Magnificent, Oberyn thought, and for once, even he was almost humbled.

As he drained the last of his Spartan wine and laughed aloud, the sound rolling into the storm of cheers, Oberyn couldn't help but exclaim, "By the gods, even Valyria at her height would envy this!"

But as he reached for the jug to refill his cup, he noticed Ned Stark seated stiffly nearby. The Lord of Winterfell looked grimmer than ever, his eyes locked upward, jaw hard. Curious, Oberyn leaned back and followed his gaze, and then he saw them:

Two children seated with the Agoge trainees; silver hair bright as moonlight, violet eyes burning even from this distance.

Oberyn's breath caught; he had only been in Sparta for three weeks, yet Doran's request had haunted every step of his visit: see if they live. The whispers had been faint, little more than shadows—rumors of dragon's blood sheltered behind Sparta's walls. But for all his searching, he had found nothing concrete, and had almost begun to believe they were truly gone, burned away with the rest of their dynasty.

And yet—here they were. Alive…

The words slipped from him before he could stop them. "They're alive…"

Ellaria's head turned sharply at that, and her eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

Oberyn blinked, and in an instant the awe faded into a grin, broad and playful as ever, as he poured himself another measure of wine and raised it as though nothing were amiss. "Nothing, my love… Only that this city grows more amazing by the hour."

She studied him a moment longer, suspicion in her dark eyes, but then turned back toward the roaring crowd as Oberyn's smile lingered, though his gaze had returned to the children in the stands. For three weeks, he had searched in vain, and in one heartbeat, Sparta had given him more than he had dared hope.

"They're alive," he repeated to himself silently, the words tasting like fire and promise on his tongue.

XXXX

Beneath the arena floor, the air was hot and heavy with anticipation. Ten thousand men and women stood shoulder to shoulder in the cavernous chambers carved into the foundations of the Coliseum. Torches lined the walls, their flames casting jittering shadows across faces tight with resolve. Some warriors stood silent, eyes closed as they whispered silent prayers to Kratos, to Sparta, or to ancestors long since passed. Others rolled their shoulders, clenched their fists, or flexed their arms as though trying to drive the fear from their bones.

Every one of them knew the stakes; the list of challenges had been posted the day before, and each had signed their names beneath the trials they believed they could conquer. Ten thousand sought to prove themselves, but only a thousand would board the ships for Valyria.

Off to the side, four young warriors stood close together, their circle tight enough to shut out the noise. Meera, her face set like stone, glanced at each of her companions. Leon stood tall, broad shoulders squared, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed the tension coiled inside him. Rhosene's hands flexed around the shaft of her spear, her lips curved in a feral grin as if daring the gods to test her. Pindaros shifted on his feet, his youthful bravado just barely masking the unease in his eyes.

"Good luck, all of you…" Meera said quietly, her voice calm but her pulse racing in her throat as they each nodded, their expressions masks of determination even as fear churned in their guts.

Pindaros forced a smirk. "Luck? Please. If I don't earn my place, I'll run alongside the boat all the way to Valyria!"

For a moment, the tension broke as the four of them burst out laughing, the sound sharp and nervous, echoing off the stone; even Meera allowed herself a small chuckle, shaking her head.

Above them, the thunder of the crowd rattled the walls. Nearly two hundred thousand voices roared in unison, the sound rolling through the stone like distant thunder, and causing dust to rain down upon them.

A moment later, a loud and commanding voice rang out from one of the chamber doors: "Those who will participate in the challenge of strength, step forward!"

Leon inhaled deeply, his back straightening, and without hesitation, stepped forward from their circle, his jaw set like granite.

Rhosene's hand shot out, slapping his shoulder hard. "Do not fail, brother," she growled, her voice rough with affection and fire. "I need you at my side when I conquer Valyria."

Leon gave her a sharp nod, his eyes flashing with grim resolve; then he strode toward the waiting gate with the others who had chosen strength, vanishing into the noise of the swelling crowd above as Meera, Rhosene, and Pindaros watched him go, their own hearts hammering as the first trial began.

XXXX

The north gate of the Coliseum groaned open with a grinding of iron and stone as it slowly slid upwards. From the shadows, a dozen heavy carts rumbled into the arena, each creaking beneath the weight of enormous boulders piled high—grey, round, and each heavier than most men. Confusion rippled through the vast crowd, tens of thousands leaning forward in their seats as the carts rolled in a straight line toward the center of the arena.

As the carts reached the center of the arena, the oxen were unhitched, and men and women—those without the red tattoo of true Spartans—leapt down from the carts. With practiced strength, they heaved the boulders free, one after another, until a line of stone lay sprawled across the sand from one end to the other.

As the last boulder thudded to the ground, the workers hurried back onto their carts, and the wheels groaned, as one by one, the wagons rumbled back into the darkness of the gate from which they had come, leaving only the round boulders behind.

Before the last cart exited through the gate, however, it stopped, and the driver leapt off; a moment later, his companion jumped down as well, a bucket of white paint held tight in his grip. As the crowd watched with confusion, the two men each pulled a brush from the bucket and began to paint an enormous circle in front of the gate, large enough for twenty men to stand in. Once they were done, they calmly climbed back into the cart and a moment later disappeared into the shadow of the entrance as the gate slowly lowered behind them.

A moment later, the south gate slid upwards and several hundred men and women, Leon amongst them, stepped out into the sun, and the crowd erupted into chaos, cheers shaking the stone walls of the colossal amphitheater. Despite the churning in his gut and the way his nerves shook beyond his control, Leon couldn't help but smile at the reaction his very presence seemed to awaken in the crowd; with a beaming grin, Leon raised both fists into the air as he soaked up the acclaim of his people.

A moment later, General Neos rose from his seat in the Pillars' box, his presence alone enough to silence the crowd as he stepped forward, planting his fists on the stone railing, his voice booming across the arena without need of a herald.

"Spartans!" His voice carried to every corner of the Coliseum, even to the farthest rafters. "The first challenge begins now! Before you lie the stones—your trial of strength. You will lift them and carry them from the center of the arena to the north gate! For every step you take, you will be judged. For those who reach the far circle—" he pointed to the opposite side of the arena where the great white ring had been painted onto the sand, "—a perfect score will be awarded!"

The crowd roared at his words, their voices blending into a thunder that shook the air as Neos raised his hand again, and silence fell like a blade cutting the noise; his chest swelled, his eyes flashing.

"Now… Spartans!" His voice boomed like a war horn. "Let the first challenge… BEGIN!"

The crowd exploded as the warriors sprinted across the sand, their feet pounding in rhythm. As they reached the stones, each man and woman seized a boulder and lifted it into whatever position they thought best; muscles strained, faces reddened, and veins stood out like cords as they heaved the massive rocks into their arms.

With guttural cries, they began the agonizing trip across the arena, the weight of the stones turning every step into an act of will. Some stumbled after only a few paces, dropping their boulders into the sand. Others pressed forward, teeth bared, dragging their burdens step by step as the crowd screamed their names.

Leon's arms shook violently as the stone pressed into his chest, its weight crushing down on him. But his jaw locked, his back straightened, and he kept moving, each step pounding into the sand like a promise.

XXXX

High above the bone-white sand, the air in the Coliseum was thick with tension and heat. From the envoy's box, every eye was fixed on the warriors straining under their stones.

Tyrion leaned forward, his short legs dangling off the seat, a goblet forgotten in his hand. "Gods…" he muttered, eyes wide. "They're carrying half a mountain on their backs… For sport!"

Beside him, Kevan's face was grave, his hands clasped tightly on the railing before him. "Not sport," he said. "Discipline. Five hundred feet of endurance. A test of will. This… this is what makes them dangerous…"

Tyrion's sharp gaze flicked to him, smirking despite the awe in his voice. "Dangerous? They're bloody terrifying! If half of them make it to the end with those stones, then the rest of the world hasn't a chance…"

Kevan didn't answer, but his jaw tightened at the implications of what he was seeing.

Not far from the Lannisters, Ned Stark sat stiff-backed, his grey eyes following each competitor in silence. His thoughts flickered to Winterfell's training yard, to the boys who struggled even with wooden swords. Here, boys and girls alike hefted boulders that would crush most men.

Beside him, Jon could hardly stay seated. His knuckles were white on the railing; his breath caught in his chest as he tracked Leon's determined march across the sand. "Look at him, Father!" Jon whispered, excitement sparking in his voice. "He's not slowing down at all, none of them are!"

Ned's eyes shifted briefly toward his son, then back to the field. "Aye," he murmured. "But strength like that is paid for in blood and years of suffering… Remember that."

Jon barely heard him; his gaze was fixed on the warriors below.

Further down, the Martells sat together, their section already alive with energy. Ellaria clapped her hands, unable to keep the grin from her lips. Tyene and Nymeria leaned over the railing, shouting and laughing with the rest of the crowd.

But Obara—Obara was on her feet. She cupped her hands around her mouth and roared, her voice carrying across the din:

"Don't you dare drop that fucking stone, Leon, you magnificent bastard! Show them why I picked you!"

A ripple of laughter spread through the spectators around them, Spartans and envoys alike.

Oberyn Martell threw his head back and laughed uproariously, wine sloshing from his cup. "Hah! My daughter has a tongue like a whip!" He wiped the corner of his mouth, still chuckling. "Leon, boy, you'd better not fail now, Obara would kill you before the judges had the chance!"

Ellaria swatted him on the arm, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "You encourage her far too much," she said.

Oberyn's grin only widened. "And why shouldn't I? This city was made for us. Blood, sweat, and fire. And now love, apparently."

XXXX

Below the watching envoys, the arena floor was a battlefield of willpower. Where once five hundred men and women had surged forward, now less than two hundred staggered on, their steps heavy, their backs bowed, their arms trembling under the merciless weight of stone.

Everywhere, bodies littered the sand—warriors gasping like fish out of water, arms sprawled wide, chests heaving as they tried to gulp air into lungs that felt too small. Some cursed, others wept, most simply lay staring up at the endless sky above them, their stones abandoned beside them like silent markers of their failure.

Yet Leon still moved.

Every muscle in his body screamed in rebellion, every tendon pulled like it might snap at any moment. Sweat poured from him in sheets, dripping into his eyes and streaking the dust across his face as his chest heaved. Each breath was a rasping growl as he staggered forward.

The white circle was ahead, close enough that he could see it clearly now, but far enough that it mocked him with every dragging step. It gleamed in his mind's eye like a prize that had no right to belong to him, whispering that he was already broken, that he should drop the stone and collapse as so many had before him.

He bit down on that thought and crushed it; pride held him upright where strength faltered—his pride as a Spartan, his pride as a man.

A cry tore through the air just ahead. A young woman, her legs finally giving out, collapsed face-first into the sand, her boulder slipped from her hands and rolled forward a few feet before coming to rest in silence. She lay there, panting like a dying bull, her fingers twitching uselessly in the dirt.

Leon staggered as he passed her, the stone threatening to roll from his own grip; for a moment, his vision blurred. He looked down at her—her face streaked with dust, but her jaw still clenched with defiance—and he nodded once, slowly, in silent respect. She had come far, further than many, and might still earn her place amongst those going to Valyria, if the judges were kind.

Step by step, breath by breath, agony by agony, he drew closer to the white circle. The roar of the crowd was a distant storm above him, drowned out by the thunder of his own heart. His arms trembled so hard that it seemed impossible the boulder would not slip away at any second; yet still, he marched.

He could not afford to falter now, not when the stakes were so high; Valyria promised eternal glory, and Leon burned to claim it. To march through the ruins of the city that once ruled the world and carve his name into its ashes; such a triumph would echo through Sparta for all time. Every man and woman who seized that honor would be remembered forever, their names sung beside those of the heroes of old!

But for Leon, it was more than glory that drove him forward. He felt the weight of his god's gaze upon him from where Kratos sat in the tallest box, steady and unyielding, judging each step, measuring his worth. And Leon knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would rather face the armies of the Triarchy a hundred times over than disappoint the one who had freed him from chains.

Kratos had taught Leon to rise when the world sought to break him, had shown Leon what it meant to stand unbowed, to live with purpose, to fight with pride. He had made Leon more than a man. He had made him a Spartan!

And Leon would not—could not—fail him now.

Only fifty warriors remained ahead of Leon. How many were still trailing or had fallen behind, he neither knew nor cared; he would not waste the strength to look. His entire world narrowed to the sand beneath his feet and the white circle looming in the distance.

A bull of a man ahead of him gave a final guttural roar, staggered into the circle, and dropped his boulder with a thunderous crash before collapsing where he stood. The crowd erupted, hailing him as the first to finish, and causing Leon's pulse to quicken; to reach the circle first was more than a perfect score—it was glory, honor, and renown beyond measure.

Twenty feet. That was all that remained.

Yet his body betrayed him; his arms burned as though aflame, his muscles stretched to the brink of tearing. His legs shook so violently that each step felt like it might be his last, and his vision blurred at the edges, darkness licking at the corners. His body screamed to surrender, to let the stone fall and sink into the merciful sand.

But his pride would not allow it. Pride roared louder than his pain. Pride demanded that he conquer the circle or collapse upon it. To stop now would be worse than death. He had come too far. He would win or he would die with the stone still in his grasp.

Leon's vision tunneled until all he could see was the white circle ahead; his arms screamed, his legs wavered, but he refused to falter. With one last guttural roar, he staggered across the boundary and let the boulder crash into the circle. The sound thundering through the arena like the fall of a mountain.

The moment it struck, Leon's body gave out, and he collapsed onto his back beside the stone, chest heaving, every limb trembling with exhaustion. The world spun, but through the haze, he forced his head to turn. The path behind him was littered with fallen Spartans, bodies sprawled across the sand in defeat. And yet, more than a hundred still fought tooth and nail, dragging their burdens onward with desperate determination.

Through the wave of agony and exhaustion that threatened to consume him, Leon could hear it. The arena roared in adoration for him, the voices of nearly two hundred thousand Spartans thundering as one, their chants rolling like waves against the coliseum walls. It was a sound that shook Leon to his very core: approval, pride, and love.

"He did it! He fucking did it!" Obara's voice ripped through the thunder of the crowd, somehow reaching him despite his people's overwhelming roar, her voice fierce and proud. She was on her feet in the envoy's box, hair wild around her face, her fist raised high. "That's my Spartan! You hear me, you fuckers? He's mine!"

Her words drew laughter and cheers from those nearby; Oberyn, smirking beside her, raised his goblet in salute, pride gleaming in his eyes. "That's my daughter," he chuckled, amused at her boldness.

More Spartans staggered into the circle, dropping their stones with exhausted grunts before collapsing in victory; each one was greeted by a fresh wave of cheers, the noise growing until it became a living thing—thunder, fire, and unrelenting devotion.

On the sand, Leon closed his eyes as the sound washed over him. He had not just carried a stone but himself into the annals of Sparta. And as the first challenge drew to a close, he knew this was only the beginning… Valyria awaited.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you all enjoyed the first challenge of the Tournament. Another chapter will be released before the end of the weekend, so look forward to seeing the next challenge soon! The two chapters were originally one, but I had to separate them as it just got too damn long. To those wondering just how heavy the boulders were, I made them each five hundred pounds. This way, even though the Spartans are stronger than normal people, carrying for such a distance would still prove challenging.
I hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. If there is something you didn't like, let me know so I can improve next time.

Chapter Text

It took nearly an hour before the last Spartan, trembling and drenched in sweat, finally let his boulder roll from his grip and collapsed to the sand. The crowd roared in approval, their voices shaking the very stones of the Coliseum. When the dust of the first challenge settled, the tally began.

Scribes moved quickly across the floor, marking distances and recording names, while tens of thousands of eyes watched with bated breath. When they had finished their count, the scribes ran as fast as they could up to the private box where the Pillars sat, and handed over their report, which the Pillars went over as the crowd waited, the Coliseum buzzing with thousands of whispered conversations.

At last, General Neos rose to his feet; the sudden silence was deafening, every Spartan in the arena waiting on his words; when he finally spoke, his voice boomed across the Amphitheatre:

"Of the five hundred who entered this first trial," he declared, "only ninety-eight carried their stones to the circle and achieved perfection! The rest have been judged according to how far they bore their burden. After conferring with my fellow Pillars, we decree that one hundred and thirty warriors have earned the right to march with Sparta into Valyria."

The announcement shook the arena like thunder; the crowd erupted in cheers so loud it seemed the marble itself might split apart. On the floor, men and women still lying in exhaustion turned their heads toward the white circle, their eyes burning with hope. Some, too weak to rise, clenched their fists in defiance of their bodies, silently daring fate: Was I counted among the chosen? Did I push far enough?

Above them, the chant of the citizens swelled into one voice: "Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!"

XXXX

The envoys' box buzzed with hushed conversation as the last of the exhausted Spartans were led from the arena. Below, ox carts rolled across the sand, the massive boulders being loaded and hauled back through the north gate by those Spartans who had yet to earn the red mark.

Jon leaned over the railing, eyes wide as he watched. "Seven hells," he whispered, unable to contain himself. "They carried those stones nearly five hundred feet. Some of them almost made it the whole way!" He turned to Ned, his face glowing with boyish awe. "Not even Ser Rodrik could have done that! Not even close!"

Ned's mouth pressed into a line, but there was respect in his eyes as he watched the warriors limp from the field. Some were helped by their fellows because their exhausted bodies made the task impossible to do alone.

"No," he said quietly. "Not even Ser Rodrik… Not many men in Westeros, knight or lord, could have gone half so far…"

Tyrion, seated nearby, swirled the wine in his cup, his sharp eyes following the procession. "Nor would they bother," he said dryly. "A knight of Casterly Rock would rather polish his armor and boast of his valor at supper… These Spartans prove their worth in sweat and broken bones. I almost pity the poor sods who will have to fight them."

Kevan grunted. "You should not jest about it, Tyrion… What we saw today was more than strength; it was discipline. A thousand men like that would tear through Westeros like a fire through dry grass."

Oberyn, sprawled comfortably in his seat, chuckled. "And this city boasts ten times that number in its army, with more joining their ranks every day. And what's more, they seem to enjoy it…" His dark eyes glittered with amusement as he tilted his goblet toward the sands. "Look at them. Even the ones who failed wear pride on their faces. They live for this. I doubt there's an army in the world who could stop them if they chose to march to war against them…"

Still flushed with excitement, Obara leaned forward and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Leon!" she bellowed down at the retreating figures, grinning like a madwoman. "Don't think you'll sleep tonight, you magnificent ox! You've earned what's coming!"

The men in the box turned to look at her; Tyrion raised an eyebrow, Oberyn laughed outright, and even Ned's ears reddened slightly at her choice of words.

Ellaria smirked and shook her head. "Subtle as always," she teased.

"Subtlety is wasted on Spartans," Obara shot back with a wicked grin. "That's why I love them!"

Oberyn raised his cup again, chuckling. "At least my daughter has good taste."

Jon tore his eyes away from the sand to glance at Obara, then back to the departing warriors. "They don't even look like men anymore," he murmured. "They look like something else… As if the gods carved them from stone…"

Ned's gaze sharpened at that. "Careful with talk of gods, Jon," he said, his voice low. "Spartans worship their king as one. Best we do not add to it…"

Kevan cleared his throat and leaned forward. "General Neos said only one hundred and thirty passed this trial. That leaves eight hundred and seventy places to fill." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "The next challenge will be worse. It must be… They mean to winnow the weak from the strong until only the finest remain."

Tyrion smirked, though his voice was grim. "Worse? What could be worse than carrying half a mountain across a pit of sand? Perhaps they'll make them wrestle lions next!"

Oberyn shrugged, amused. "Why not? These Spartans look like they'd strangle lions for sport. And if not, I imagine their king would do it for them."

The box fell into uneasy silence as the last ox cart disappeared beyond the gate. Below, attendants raked the sand smooth again, erasing the fallen's footprints and sweat stains.

Ned watched the empty arena and spoke at last. "Whatever the next trial may be, it will test them to their breaking point. For only those who endure breaking will be worthy of what comes after…"

As attendants cleared the sand, the envoys' box settled into a low murmur. Ned sat with his arms folded, watching the work below, but Tyrion was the first to break the silence.

"So then," Tyrion said, sipping his wine, "what's next? They've lifted boulders until their spines nearly snapped. Perhaps the Spartans will have them walk across fire, or dive into pits of snakes. Something theatrical."

Kevan gave him a sharp look. "Be serious. This is not a mummer's farce, Tyrion! They're being tested to decide who will march to Valyria itself. The next challenge will demand more than brute strength. Endurance, perhaps. Or skill with weapons."

Oberyn leaned forward, his grin sharp and hungry. "Weapons, yes. If they are to set foot on Valyria's corpse, they will need blades at their sides and fire in their hearts. I, for one, would enjoy seeing how these Spartans fight when pitted against each other."

Ellaria smirked beside him. "Of course you would."

Ned exhaled slowly, still watching the sand. "I think it will test something deeper… Not strength alone. Not even skill. Sparta does not simply build warriors—it forges loyalty, discipline, and spirit. Whatever comes next, it will break those who fight for themselves and leave only those who fight for Sparta…"

"I don't think it matters what comes next," Jon said softly, his grey eyes shining with quiet awe. "They'll do it. All of them. Because they believe in their king..."

Oberyn chuckled at that, his voice rich with amusement. "A dangerous thing, boy. A people who believe utterly in their god-king… they will march through fire itself if he asks it."

At that, the envoys fell into silence again, their eyes drifting back to the arena floor, waiting to see what trial the Spartans would conjure next.

XXXX

The roar of the crowd began to settle as General Neos rose once more from his stone seat. The Pillar of War needed no words at first; his mere presence at the banister commanded silence. Tens of thousands hushed at once, and a breathless anticipation filled the vast amphitheater.

From below came the thunder of iron chains as the great south gate began to rise; slowly, the iron maw opened, and the next host of challengers, nearly six hundred men and women, poured through it.

At once, the difference between these Spartans and those of the previous trial became clear. Where the first had been boulders of muscle, thick-necked and broad-chested, these were leaner, their bodies crafted by miles of running and endless drills rather than by brute weight. Their steps were quick, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. They were not weaker, merely different; built not to crush, but to outlast.

The crowd murmured approval as the challengers took their places, forming ranks upon the bone-white sand; Neos did not speak immediately. Instead, he turned and accepted from an attendant a massive hourglass, its frame of bronze, its glass belly swollen with a river of crimson sand. The Pillar of War lifted it above his head as though it weighed nothing at all, but even from the highest tiers, the envoys could see how large it truly was.

"This trial," Neos said, his voice echoing like a hammer through the Coliseum, "is not of strength, but of endurance." He held the hourglass high so all could see the shimmering torrent within. "When I turn this, the sand will fall, and it will fall for a very long time… You will run until the last grain is gone, only then will the trial end!"

A stunned silence met his words.

In the envoys' box, Tyrion nearly dropped his goblet. "Gods… there must be enough sand in that thing to last an hour!" he exclaimed. Beside him, Kevan's jaw tightened, while Oberyn only grinned wider, his dark eyes glinting with savage delight.

On the sands below, some of the Spartans stretched, others dropped their heads in prayer, and a few stood in stunned silence, struggling to accept what they had just heard. When they had signed their names to this challenge, they had been told that it was a simple race of endurance, but this was no simple footrace—this was survival!

Among them, Pindaros flexed his fingers and closed his eyes; his heart hammered in his chest, but he whispered low so only he could hear. "Kratos… give me strength."

And then, for the briefest of moments, he felt it: a weight upon his shoulder, heavy and reassuring, though no one stood beside him. His eyes flew open, and though there was no hand, no presence he could see, he knew. His god was watching. His god had heard…

Confidence surged in his veins, and he knew in that instant that he would not fall.

"Begin!"

The Coliseum thundered as Neos flipped the hourglass, crimson sand spilling down in a steady stream.

At once, the six hundred surged forward, the sand erupting in clouds beneath their feet. Round and round the Coliseum's vast circumference they began to run, their strides eating the distance, each step a test of will; ahead of him, Pindaros could already see dozens of foolish individuals who had chosen to race away from the others, each determined to be the leader of the pack, and he shook his head in disgust.

This was not a race of speed but of how long one could last, and using up all of one's stamina in a burst of pride would do nothing but ensure that they fell out all the sooner. Instead, Pindaros chose a well-disciplined stride, his breath coming out in increments as he mentally prepared himself for a long run, perhaps the longest of his life.

The trial of endurance had begun.

XXXX

Nearly an hour later, the sun burned bright in the sky, and the shades above the Coliseum had to be drawn to give those gathered a modicum of relief; something that made them all gasp in delight at another amazing feature of the new arena their god had given them.

By now, the once-proud lines of Spartans had devolved into chaos; the arena floor, which had begun as a perfect circuit of pounding feet, was a battlefield of exhaustion. Dozens—hundreds—had already fallen, their bodies strewn across the sand like broken pillars. Some curled into themselves, clutching at cramping legs. Others sprawled flat, their chests heaving as if their lungs had caught fire.

The challenge of endurance had become a labyrinth of the fallen. Those who had foolishly wasted their stamina in a pride-driven attempt to be the 'leaders of the pack' had long since paid for their arrogance and now lay upon the sand in depressing heaps.

Those still running had to dodge and weave, their rhythm shattered by the constant threat of collision. Some were too far gone to avoid the bodies at their feet, tripping over sprawled limbs, smashing into one another, and collapsing in tangled heaps. Each fall brought a fresh cry of pain and a burst of laughter or groans from the watching crowd.

Pindaros barely noticed anymore; the world had shrunk to the sound of his own ragged breathing, the drumbeat of his heart in his ears, and the stretch of sand ahead of him. His vision blurred at the edges, the roar of the crowd a distant hum, like the ocean far away. He had no idea how many miles he had run so far; perhaps it was five, or ten, or more! He had lost track of time, minutes, or hours; it no longer mattered; only the sand falling above did.

At a glance toward the Pillars' box, he saw it: only half the crimson torrent had fallen, and his heart sank at the sight of it; despair clawed at him, whispering he would never make it. His legs screamed with every stride, muscles trembling like bowstrings ready to snap.

"No," he hissed aloud, and spat against the sand. Despair was weakness, and weakness had no place in Sparta! He forced his chest open, dragged in air, and disciplined his pace, each breath measured, each step deliberate.

A shriek snapped his focus back to the track ahead as a red-haired girl just in front of him pitched sideways, her body finally breaking. As she fell, her legs tangled with three others, and the cluster of them went down in a heap of limbs and dust, crying out in pain and frustration.

Pindaros' eyes widened at the sight; they were too close! He had no choice. With a roar, he launched himself into the air, sailing over their collapsing bodies; his knees buckled as he hit the ground, legs quivering as though ready to betray him. For a heartbeat he almost went down too.

"Not here!" he snarled, forcing his body to obey, forcing his stride to resume; his feet found rhythm again, his breath ragged but steady. Each step was agony, but each step was a victory. He would not fall—not here, not today.

XXXX

Though carved from white marble and built like a king's hall, the envoys' box felt stifling now. None of the Westerosi lords or their retainers were speaking loudly; the sheer weight of what played out below had robbed them of the usual bluster.

Jon leaned over the railing, knuckles white against the stone; his eyes were wide, following the endless circuit of bodies as they pounded through sand littered with the fallen. "Gods," he whispered. "They've been running… so long. And still more stand." His voice carried the awe of a boy who'd seen knights train, men he had once thought unbreakable, and now realized they would pale before what Sparta called ordinary.

Beside him, Ned's mouth was a grim line. He'd seen war, and the endurance it demanded—but never this. "These are no mere soldiers," Ned said quietly. "Every one of them is being forged into steel. Even those who fall have proven more than half the knights in Westeros ever could…" His gaze flicked toward Jon, a shadow of pride and fear mingling in his gray eyes; is this what Jon would become if Ned left the boy here?

Kevan Lannister exhaled heavily through his nose, his pragmatism cutting through the reverent silence. "No Westerosi knight could do this… Not even the Mountain. This… this is something else. Sparta is not breeding men and women. They're making weapons. And the rest of the world will bleed for it…"

Tyrion, perched with his legs dangling, gave a sharp laugh that was more defense than mirth. "A cheerful thought, uncle. Though you're not wrong… Look at them—half-dead already, and yet they run on… All for a chance to die in Valyria… Westerosi knights joust for honor and crowns. These Spartans—" he gestured toward the sands, toward the runners who leapt over the bodies of their fallen comrades, "—they joust against death itself and call it sport."

From the far side of the box, Oberyn leaned back, golden eyes alight with savage pleasure. His cup of wine trembled with the energy coursing through him as he watched the spectacle. "Magnificent, isn't it?" he said, loud enough to draw stares from the others. "See how they run! Past exhaustion, past pain, into glory! Dorne breeds fighters, yes. But this… this is something I would pay to see again and again!"

Ellaria gave him a sidelong look. "Madness," she murmured, though her lips curved.

Obara, still flushed from her earlier cheering, slapped her hands against the railing and shouted hoarsely toward the sands. "Push it, you dogs! Show the gods themselves what Spartans are made of!" Her voice rang raw with pride, even though none of the runners could hear her over the roar of the crowd.

Oberyn chuckled, reaching to refill her cup. "Spoken as if you were a true Spartan, daughter," he teased, but there was no mockery in it—only admiration.

For a long moment, the box was silent again, every envoy's eyes fixed on the circuit of runners below. The sandstorm of bodies, the collapsing forms, the relentless pounding of bare feet—it was as though they were watching the birth of something unstoppable.

Finally, Ned spoke again, his voice low and heavy. "This is no city of freed slaves anymore…"

From behind Ned, the envoy from Pentos responded, speaking for the first time that day to the envoys from Westeros:

"Now, do you see why my city bent the knee to King Kratos, lord Stark? A city that breeds men and women like this cannot be stopped…"

The box went silent at that, for none could think of a response that would rebuke the envoy from Pentos; and that alone terrified many of them…

XXXX

The sun hung high, a merciless torch beating down upon the arena; the air shimmered with heat, and the sound of ragged breaths, of pounding feet and collapsing bodies, filled the Coliseum like a dirge.

Pindaros no longer felt his legs—they were numb staves of fire, trembling and unresponsive—but still they moved. Step after step, as though some will beyond his own commanded them. His chest heaved, every gulp of air like knives, his vision swimming as sweat stung his eyes. He must have run ten miles, perhaps more, yet the white sand beneath his feet gave him no answers, only pain.

In the haze, memories crept unbidden: The lash of a whip. The sneer of a master's voice calling him less than dirt. The sting of chains against his wrists when he faltered, when he dared to stumble under the weight of work no child should bear. He had been nothing then. A boy whose life belonged to another, whose back was scarred with cruelty for crimes as minor as looking away too long.

But then came him.

The sky had burned red with fire the night Kratos descended upon Myr. The walls fell, the masters screamed, and with their screams came freedom. Pindaros remembered looking up into the face of the giant who had shattered his chains. In that gaze, he had seen no pity, only expectation—an iron demand that he rise and become more. That moment had remade him.

He was no longer the slave boy who had cowered beneath the lash, whose body had been used in the most disgusting of ways by men who saw him as nothing. He was Pindaros. He was Spartan!

The thought struck him like a hammer, lighting a fire in his chest where exhaustion had left only ashes. With a hoarse snarl, he forced his body to move faster, weaving around the fallen, leaping over the sprawled bodies of those who had surrendered. The world had shrunk to a single point: forward. Always forward.

At last, the final grains of sand slid through the hourglass above. Trumpets blared, the sound echoing like thunder through the arena, and Pindaros stumbled, his strength

vanishing all at once. He collapsed to the white sands on his hands and knees, chest heaving, tears cutting lines down his dust-streaked face. But these were not tears of weakness. They were tears of triumph.

"I did it…" he whispered, voice breaking as he pressed his forehead to the sand. "Thank you, my king… My god… Thank you for making me more than I was..."

And then—faint but undeniable—he felt it. A surge of pride that was not his own, a fire that washed over him like a mantle. The pride of Kratos himself.

Pindaros wept harder at that, his voice breaking into a sob of joy. He had endured, he had won, and his god was proud.

XXXX

Author's Note:
Thus concludes the first two challenges of the Tournament. It might be a while before the next chapter, as I have to think about just what I want the next challenges to be. I knew I wanted these two specifically for Leon and Pindaros, but I don't know what I should do next. I hope you enjoyed this, and as usual, if you did not, let me know what I can do to make the next chapter better!

Chapter Text

As the last of the runners was helped from the arena, the roar of the crowd was deafening; out of the six hundred who had participated, over half had failed to keep going until the end. Some had failed due to their own bodies refusing to keep going, despite how much their spirit tried to rebel.

Others had, unfortunately, failed due to becoming entangled in the massive maze of fallen comrades that the runners had been forced to navigate through. When the final tally was read, and it was made known that only two hundred and fifteen had succeeded, the arena descended into a shocked stupor for a moment at how many had failed to make it to the end. A moment later, however, the arena exploded with noise again as the people cheered their throats out for those who had won their place to Valyria and those who had given everything they had and yet fell short. But among the cheering horde, one lone teenager sat silently.

The boy sat among the other youths of Sparta, his back stiff, his face expressionless; where the children around him shouted, and the Agoge trainees stamped their feet and waved crimson cloth, he remained silent. His eyes, however, burned; not with pride, awe, or the worshipful joy the others felt. His eyes smoldered with rage—ancient for one so young, deep enough to hollow him out.

He remembered what life had been before.

He had been born into wealth beyond imagining, a scion of one of Tyrosh's ruling families. His family's palatial home overlooked the sea, its walls painted with the bright dyes that made the city rich, its halls lined with golden candlesticks and silver urns. He had worn silks from Lys before he was old enough to walk. When he wanted something, it was placed in his hands before he had even finished speaking the desire aloud. His father had slaves to tend the vineyards, slaves to keep the kitchens steaming, slaves to clean the marble floors, and slaves to fan him while he drowsed. There were so many of them that he had long since stopped counting—men, women, even children—all broken beneath his family's rule.

And he had been raised to believe it was his right!

The boy had been told all his life that he would inherit power and one day stand among the rulers of Tyrosh as his forefathers had before him. Tutors sharpened his tongue, sword masters trained his hand, and his father would say at banquets, "This son of mine shall keep our city strong!"

But all of it was ripped away in a single night.

The memory still burned as sharp as the day it had happened: the alarms ringing in the streets, the smell of smoke rolling in off the harbor, the shouts of dying men, the ground rumbling strangely as though caused by a sudden earthquake. He remembered his mother screaming as Spartan horns wailed like wolves in the night, and how she had forced the boy to hide in the wine-cellar, curled up in the shadows with his hands over his ears, before slamming the door closed behind him and locking him in; he had pleaded with her to join him, but she had refused, saying that she would live or die beside her husband, as she had for nearly twenty years.

That had been the last time he ever saw her. Cowering in his family's wine cellar, the boy had not seen what others swore they had seen—the giant, the god of war, striding through the walls of Tyrosh, tearing the gates apart with his bare hands. All he had known was the sound. The endless thunder of iron boots and silver shields as the Spartans poured into his city like a flood. A wave of death. His father, his uncles, the men who had once drunk wine in their painted halls—all swept aside in hours. And when the boy had been dragged from the cellar, blinking against the sun, his world was gone.

His family dead, their fortune scattered. It was at this moment that the boy had wished that his family had ignored the order to kill their slaves and instead kept a few for their protection; dying for their betters was the duty of a slave, after all!

Instead, the boy had been forced to witness the death of one of the greatest cities in Essos, perhaps in the world, in his own humble opinion. And in its place was Sparta…

The boy who had once been carried on silken cushions now marched barefoot in the dust. Where once his words had been obeyed, now he was ordered, punished, disciplined. Every luxury he had known was gone—ripped from his hands by King Kratos. In its place: pain, hardship, endless drills. They called it strength. They called it freedom. But to him, it was chains!

And the worst of it?

The others embraced it.

Children of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr, all broken and conquered, now shouted Kratos's name with tears of pride in their eyes. They tattooed their skin in crimson; they called themselves Spartans. Traitors, every last one of them! They forgot their fathers, their mothers, their cities. But not him. Never him.

He remembered.

And he hated.

King Kratos was no god. He was a butcher. A usurper. A thief who had stolen his birthright and ground it beneath his heel! And now the monster sat enthroned above them all, staring down at the games as though he owned the world.

The boy's hands clenched into fists until his nails drew blood. Hidden beneath the folds of his tunic, the blade pressed cold against his side, a secret he had guarded for months. He had planned this day carefully, patiently. And now the moment had come.

He would kill Kratos.

For Tyrosh. For his family. For the life that had been stolen.

The boy's lips curled ever so slightly, though no one saw it amid the chaos. Soon, Sparta's god would bleed, proving to everyone that King Kratos was just a man. Just a monster pretending at divinity, and though the boy knew he would most likely follow the pale bastard into the afterlife almost as soon as the deed was done, the boy felt no fear; instead, he felt a sense of peace coil through him.

He would greet his ancestors and tell them that he had avenged them, and the Spartan Empire would implode in its infancy; no other city would need fear the sound of iron boots marching toward them or look over their walls one day and see an army of silver waiting to kill them all. The boy smiled softly at that thought; what better way to greet death than by dragging an entire city of butchers with him…

XXXX

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the arena, the envoys' box felt suffocating, though the air was no different than anywhere else in the coliseum. Where the Spartans roared and stamped their feet in thunderous support of their brethren, the men of the Iron Bank sat still, stiff, and silent.

Myros Vhal, their leader, bore no expression at all; his face was a mask carved from granite, and neither awe nor fear touched it. He sipped nothing, ate nothing, his eyes

fixed on the arena below, yet unfocused. To anyone watching, he was the very image of patience and calm; only those who knew him could see the simmering anger mixed with something that might have been fear echoing in his eyes. All his life, Myros had been raised on one single, inarguable rule: Gold is power.

This was a creed that Myros had seared into his very soul, and it had carried him from the streets of Braavos to the very heights of the Iron Bank, and time and time again, he had seen the truth of those words. No matter their station or how much power they thought they possessed, if offered enough gold, even Kings would give way and do as the Iron Bank dictated.

Yet, since coming to Sparta, the creed that Myros had believed in his entire life had been challenged, shaking him to his very core. That seemed to be a recurring event since coming to this city, Myros had thought with distaste; everything he knew and believed about the world seemed to be the complete opposite of how Sparta behaved. Rather than be a greedy, arrogant tyrant, like most of the monarchs that Myros had encountered, the King of Sparta seemed to care nothing for riches and instead gave away the wealth he had taken from the Triarchy to aid his people! Ludicrous!

There were no beggars in Sparta. No thieves. No corruption. Everything that Myros had experienced in every other city in Essos was nowhere to be found in Sparta! And it was those missing things that made Myros so nervous. For an organization that ran on gold and power, the Iron Bank seemingly had no hold here, and if they had no hold on a city that was quickly becoming an empire, they would lose their own prestige and power very quickly! This was something that Myros simply could not abide, nor would he.

Nearly a month ago, Myros had sent his report on his findings in Sparta to his superiors as well as the Sealord of Braavos, and yet he had received no reply as to what Braavos intended to do; that had made Myros incredibly nervous, a foreign and uncomfortable feeling. And when King Kratos declared that he intended to sail to Valyria and conquer that ancient city, Myros knew that something must be done!

If the Spartans somehow managed to return with the wealth of Valyria in their grasp, then the days of the Iron Bank were numbered, and nothing would be able to stop Sparta from conquering Essos in its entirety! So, he had decided to show some initiative, which he was sure would please not only his superiors, but also the Sealord himself! Perhaps even gain Myros, that juicy promotion he had been after for several years.

A moment later, Myros' second-in-command, Deryo, entered the box and leaned close, his voice a hushed whisper, carried only for Myros's ears.

"Word has come back," he murmured, licking his lips nervously. "The House of Black and White has answered… They accepted the contract."

For the first time all day, Myros's eyes moved, a slow blink betraying the smallest ripple beneath the surface. "And?"

"They will be here by nightfall," Deryo continued, almost swallowing his own words. "They left Braavos days ago—already prepared, as though they expected the call. The Faceless Men are coming…"

Myros's face did not change. He neither smiled nor frowned. He merely breathed out once, long and even. "Good… Then the scales are balanced…"

But inside, even Deryo could feel it—the weight of dread pressing down, thicker than the roar of two hundred thousand Spartans. They had dealt in assassinations before. They had bought and sold kings with coin and death alike. Yet never had they pointed their knives at something like this.

Myros's voice was flat, cold, almost mechanical as he added, "If gold cannot bind Sparta, then perhaps death will. By dawn, either the god bleeds—or we will know he cannot be killed at all..."

Deryo shivered at the words, though his leader's face betrayed nothing. Below them, the crowd's cheers shook the stones, but above in the envoy's box, all was silent but for the pounding of fearful hearts.

XXXX

Author's Note:
Don't worry—this isn't going to be the only chapter you'll get. I've got another one almost finished. I just wanted to add this little taste of drama beforehand, lol.
The faceless men are coming! How will Sparta react? Lol, if you've been reading this story for a while, you'll remember that there's already one of them in Sparta, and I don't think he'll respond kindly to the Iron Bank's plans...

Chapter Text

Ten months prior:

It started as a rumor — a whisper carried by frightened traders across the Sea of Grass.

A tale of monsters who struck like locusts, swift and endless, devouring whole Khalassars and leaving nothing behind but bones and hoofprints burned into the soil.

At first, no one believed it. The Dothraki were the riders of the world — the kings of the open plains, no creature, no army, no god had ever bested them!

But as the moons passed, those whispers grew teeth; villages vanished overnight, trading caravans were butchered, the trail of the dead stretching for miles, and even the wind seemed to carry the echoes of inhuman screams.

When the first Khalasar stumbled upon the truth, the horror spread faster than wildfire; the Dothraki had fought with all the fury in their blood, but it simply wasn't enough… Five thousand screamers and twice that number of women and children were left as corpses in a matter of moments as the horde swept over them like waves crashing on the shore, and only six managed to survive to bring word back to Vaes Dothrak of what they had faced before succumbing to their injuries.

They weren't demons from the Shadowlands, nor beasts of some dark sorcery.

They were Dothraki!

Twisted, mangled, their bodies fused with their steeds — half-man, half-horse, their eyes hollow with madness, and their mouths filled with endless rage.

The first sight of them broke entire Khalassars; riders who had never known fear dropped their arakhs and fled, their cries carried on the wind like the mourning of ghosts as they faced a literal army of monsters who were so insane that they couldn't even form words anymore, only howl with rage…

As Khalassar after Khalassar were annihilated down to the last child, a great gathering was called by the Dosh Khaleen to discuss what should be done, and every single Khalassar was expected to attend. Attendance was demanded by the rulers of Vaes Dothrak, and even the bravest Khal knew better than to ignore an order given by those wise women…

XXXX

The fires of Vaes Dothrak burned brighter than they had in living memory; every Khal of the Sea of Grass was there — more than fifty banners rippling against the desert wind. The air shook with the thunder of thousands of horses and the roar of a hundred thousand voices as the Khals screamed, cursed, and bickered like wolves over carrion.

They argued about the monsters — those half-men, half-horses who had stalked the plains. Some called them demons. Others said they were the punishment of gods long forgotten. Still others spoke of flight, of abandoning the sacred lands and fleeing east before the tide of horror consumed them all.

It was in that chaos that Khal Drogo rose…

He did not shout to be heard. He did not need to. His presence alone silenced the storm. His hair, uncut since his first victory, spilled down his back like a river of night, bound in golden bells that sang with every motion. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the gathering like thunder:

"Cowards," he said, his eyes sweeping across the assembled Khals. "You speak of flight? Of hiding from beasts? You shame your ancestors! You shame your horses! You shame yourselves!"

The words struck like a lash, and dozens shouted back, in furious outrage and indignation at the insult.

One Khal, heavy with gold and arrogance, spat into the dirt and snarled, "You call us cowards, Drogo? Then prove your strength! Prove you are fit to speak among men!"

Drogo's lips curved into a feral grin, as though he had been given exactly what he wanted:

"I will."

He fought eight Khals that night, one after another, just beyond the flickering light of the sacred fires; it was forbidden for blood to be shed in the sacred city, so the battles had taken place just beyond the city's limit. Steel rang, blood fell like rain, and the bells in his hair sang the song of death.

When dawn rose crimson and cold, Drogo stood alone amid the corpses of eight Khals, his arakh painted red to the hilt.

And in that moment — as the sun climbed over the Mother of Mountains — something ancient shifted in the hearts of the Dothraki.

The screams died, and the arguments ceased. The Khals who remained looked upon Drogo and saw not a rival but a conqueror.

By noon, the banners of fifty Khalassars had fallen.

By dusk, they all rose again — beneath one.

For the first time in a thousand years, the Dothraki were united; two hundred thousand riders, an ocean of leather and steel, all thundering beneath the same sun. All riding beneath the banner of Khal Drogo!

The Dosh Khaleen watched from their temples and called it a holy war — a war to cleanse the Sea of Grass of the cursed ones and restore Dothraki honor.

But in Drogo's heart, the truth burned brighter.

He did not see monsters to be slain; he saw power to be understood, and as he led the greatest horde seen in living memory — the women and children left safely behind within the sacred walls of Vaes Dothrak — Drogo's desire to discover the origin of these beasts only grew.

For months, they hunted the centaurs — those broken, screaming reflections of themselves — chasing them across the endless Sea of Grass in a war that had no glory, no honor, only blood. The fighting was savage beyond measure; men and monsters clashed beneath burning skies, the air filled with the thunder of hooves and the stench of death. Arrows darkened the horizon. Spears shattered against bone and muscle. The grass ran red for miles, and the screams of the dying carried on the wind for days.

But no matter how many they killed, the answers never came; the centaurs fought with the fury of beasts but the despair of men, their minds shattered by whatever horror had birthed them. They did not speak — they only screamed. They raged against everything that still walked on two legs, as if their agony could be eased only through slaughter.

Drogo's Khalasar pursued them from one horizon to the next, and every battle left him hungrier for truth.

And then, one dusk, they caught one alive; it had cost Drogo more than a hundred of his riders, but he had finally done it!

The creature was a ruin of flesh — half horse, half man, its eyes rolling white, its chest heaving as it fought against the iron chains the Dothraki had hammered into the earth; Drogo himself approached it, dismissing his guards with a wave.

"Tell me," he growled, crouching low so that his face was inches from the beast's. "Who made you? Who gave you this strength!"

For a moment, there was only silence — the rasping of breath, the trembling of limbs; then, impossibly, the creature's mouth twitched. Its lips peeled back in what might once have been a smile. And through the blood and madness, a single word clawed its way free: "Kratos…"

The name came out as a hiss — half roar, half sob — before the creature convulsed violently, its eyes rolling back as life fled its body due to the numerous wounds it had suffered during its capture.

Drogo stared at the corpse for a long while, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a broad and knowing smile crept across his face.

He remembered that name.

He remembered him.

Three years past, before the world had learned to fear the word Sparta, Drogo had crossed paths with the pale-skinned god on the open plains. His Khalassar, forty thousand strong at the time, had fallen upon a trading caravan heavy with gold and silks, cutting down its guards and riders without mercy; they had thought the caravan unguarded.

Until he had appeared, falling from a literal hole in the sky!

The stranger had carried no banner and wore no armor, only a red-marked body, an enormous axe, and chains coiled around his forearms like serpents. Drogo had watched, first with curiosity, then with awe, as the pale giant tore through a hundred riders alone. Horses screamed, blades shattered, and the earth itself seemed to recoil from the fury unleashed that day.

When it was done, when blood steamed in the grass and the last of his warriors had fallen silent, Drogo had ridden forward to meet the man. Kratos had turned to face him, unafraid, eyes glowing faintly in the setting sun. The two had regarded one another — predator to predator — and in that wordless moment, Drogo had known that this was no mortal.

He had pulled back his Khalassar that day. Not out of fear — no, Khal Drogo feared no man — but out of respect. The stranger had fought as the Great Stallion himself might fight, and Drogo had seen no dishonor in yielding the caravan to him.

Later, when the Free Cities began to speak of a crimson-marked warlord carving his way across Essos, Drogo had known at once it was him. When Tyrosh sent envoys offering gold for Dothraki blades to destroy the rising Spartan army, Drogo had refused them outright. Only fools make war on gods.

And now… now, ten months into this war against monsters that should not exist, he learned the truth.

It was Kratos who had made them.

The centaur's dying word still echoed in his mind, and instead of fear, Drogo felt only excitement — the same fierce thrill he had felt that day on the plains when he watched Kratos cut down his riders as though they were wheat before the scythe.

He turned to his bloodriders, eyes gleaming like the reflection of firelight in steel.

"So," he said softly, "it was him all along..."

His second, Qotho, frowned. "The pale demon cursed them, Khal. He turned men into beasts. It is a curse — nothing more..."

Drogo laughed, a deep and wild sound that rolled across the camp like thunder. "A curse? You see only weakness, Qotho. I see strength! Kratos took men and made them more. Flesh and horse as one — warriors without fear or pain!"

He gestured toward the night sky, toward the western horizon where Sparta lay beyond the distant seas. "He punished them because they challenged him. But if one were to ask… if one were to show respect and seek his favor…"

He looked down at his bloodied hands, curling them into fists. "Perhaps that would be no curse at all — but a blessing..."

Silence rippled through the gathered Dothraki; faces hardened. Some looked away, disturbed. Others — many others — began to murmur, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger that burned in their Khal's.

For the first time in generations, the Great Khalasar was united into a single horde beneath a single Khal; yet now, the Khal's decision to approach the one who had made these monsters that they had been fighting for the last ten months looked like it would split the horde apart all over again!

But in Drogo's heart, there was no doubt; he had seen a god walk the earth once before, and this time, he would not flee.

This time, he would ride west.

To Sparta.

To Kratos.

To be reborn.

XXXX

The Sea of Grass was slick with dew and ash a week later. Smoke from the funeral pyres of the last battle against the centaurs curled lazily into the pale dawn sky, a reminder of the ten months of unending blood that had brought them all to this moment.

Two hundred thousand riders had once ridden out under the banners of the Great Khalasar — a force so vast that even the Dosh Khaleen whispered it would never be matched again. But ten months of slaughter against the centaurs had carved that number to barely half; now, only one hundred and ten thousand remained.

The air was heavy with the smell of blood, sweat, and fear. All around Vaes Dothrak, the Khals had gathered again — a storm of iron and leather, faces scarred and eyes wild. Some wore disbelief. Others, barely-contained rage. And all of them looked to Khal Drogo.

He sat atop his black stallion, silent as the wind; the corpse of the captured centaur lay stretched across the grass before him, its body covered with flies.

"You call these blessings?" spat Khal Moro, his voice booming. "Look at them! Beasts that kill their own mothers! They are cursed by dark magic! You would call upon this power, Drogo? You would doom us all?"

A rumble of agreement moved through the assembled riders, but then Drogo laughed, loud, sharp, fearless.

"Cursed?" he barked. "These beasts killed ninety thousand of our brothers, and you call them cursed? I call them strong!"

He rose in the saddle, black braid gleaming in the morning light, his eyes burning with zeal. "You say they are damned, but I see men who fought the Pale God — men who became more than men! They were weak because they challenged him! But if we go to him in respect — if we ask — he may make us what we were always meant to be. Half man, half horse. The perfect warrior!"

A silence fell — heavy, uncertain. Khal Jogo sneered and spat on the ground. "You are mad, Drogo! You would offer your soul to a foreign god who does not know the Great Stallion's name!"

Drogo's grin only widened. "If the Pale God can make warriors who fear neither pain nor death, then perhaps the Stallion himself rides beside him."

The gathered Khals began shouting at once, voices crashing like thunder over the plains. Some cursed Drogo's name and called him insane. Others roared their approval, drunk on his defiance and vision. The Great Khalasar, forged in fire and blood ten months past, now cracked down the middle.

Drogo's horse reared, and he bellowed, his voice drowning them all out. "Go then! Flee east if you are cowards! But know this — I will ride west to meet the Pale God myself. I will look into his eyes and ask for his blessing. And when I return, I will be more than a Khal — I will be divine!"

The words hit like a hammer.

That night, the arguments raged until the moon reached its peak, and when dawn came again, the plains trembled beneath the sound of splitting hooves.

Twenty-five thousand riders broke away, scattering eastward in a dozen fractured Khalassars; they spat Drogo's name like poison, swearing that he would lead his people into madness and ruin.

But eighty-five thousand remained; they stood behind Drogo — eyes fierce, hearts filled with the promise of glory beyond mortal reach. Their chants echoed across the horizon as the sun rose, their war cries rolling like thunder.

And as Khal Drogo rode at their head, westward toward the land of gods and monsters, a strange wind whispered through the endless grass — a wind that smelled faintly of ash, and of something older still.

The world was shifting, and the Great Khalasar rode to meet its destiny.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I had something else entirely in mind for the next chapter, but so many of you—SO BLOODY MANY—kept asking what happened to the Centaurs that I decided to write this instead to finally give you all an answer. I hope this satisfies you and you enjoy what comes next. To those wondering why I'm taking the story this way, let me remind you that Sparta has no cavalry as of now, so what would happen if Sparta's cavalry was made up of over fifty thousand SANE centaurs led by Khal Drogo...?

If any of you would like to join my Discord, where you can find pictures that accompany this story, as well as more information about the next chapter, you can find it here:

https: (double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) ykD7pEFJv

Chapter Text

Lannisport:

The golden Lion of Casterly Rock stood before his office window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his reflection a phantom in the glass. The late afternoon sun bathed the harbor of Lannisport in molten gold — the same color as the banners that hung from every tower of the Rock. To most, it was a view of majesty. To Tywin Lannister, it was a reminder of the cost of power — and how easily it could be lost.

The sea beyond the harbor shimmered like a mirror, calm and deceitful. Yet, Tywin's sharp eyes saw not beauty, but history. He remembered the laughter that once echoed through these halls — the wine-soaked mirth of his father, Lord Tytos Lannister, the man who had nearly undone a dynasty.

Tywin's jaw clenched as his thoughts turned toward his fool of a father…

Tytos had been generous to a fault — forgiving debts that should have been repaid in blood, handing out gold like sweetmeats to sycophants and flatterers; Lords who had once trembled before the Lion of the West learned to mock him openly. 'The toothless lion,' they called him, the 'Old Fool of Casterly Rock.'

Tywin could still recall the whispers in King's Landing during his youth.

"A Lannister always pays his debts — unless, of course, he's paying for his whores."

That laughter had burned hotter than wildfire in his veins.

Once bound by fear and respect, the great houses of the West had bled their loyalty away coin by coin. The Reynes of Castamere. The Tarbecks of Tarbeck Hall. Parasites fattened on his father's weakness! When Tywin inherited the Rock, he inherited ruin: a half-empty treasury, bannermen half-defiant, and a name that had become a jest!

It had taken him less than five years to turn that jest into terror.

Tywin turned from the window and walked across the chamber; his boots made no sound on the red-gold rug that bore the lion sigil, and every step was measured, precise. His fingers brushed the edge of his desk; a massive slab of dark oak carved with the likeness of roaring lions, which had dozens of opened and unopened letters resting upon it. As he gently ran his fingers across the wood of his desk, Tywin's mind continued to trace back through time.

He remembered the night the Reynes and Tarbecks defied him — their banners rising in open rebellion, their envoys sneering that Lord Tywin was a boy pretending to be a lion.

They had expected mercy.

What they received was annihilation…

The memory played out in his mind as vividly as if it had happened yesterday: the roar of flames, the crashing of stone, the screams of Castamere echoing through flooded halls. Men, women, and children drowned in the depths of their own stronghold as his soldiers sealed the exits and opened the floodgates.

When it was done, he had stood before the smoking ruin and given a single order:

"Send word to every lord in the Westerlands. The Lion does not beg. He does not forgive. And he does not forget!"

The world learned that lesson quickly, and within a few months, every other House that owed its loyalty to House Lannister had sent a representative to pledge itself to the Lion and destroy any doubts of said loyalty.

Tywin's lips curved faintly — not in satisfaction, but in acknowledgment as he turned back toward the window and clasped his hands behind his back, again. He had restored fear to the Lannister name, and fear was worth more than gold.

He, Tywin Lannister, had made the lion roar again!

Years later, when the call came from King's Landing, he had answered, not out of loyalty, but ambition. As Hand of the King, Tywin had turned the Seven Kingdoms into an empire of order. He had brought discipline to the crown's coffers, rebuilt the city's roads, filled the treasury until it overflowed; all while the madman who was supposed to be its King allowed his delusions and paranoia to fester, rather than do his job and rule! For twenty years, King Aerys had worn the crown, but it was Tywin Lannister who had ruled the realm.

Until the rot set in.

He still remembered the first time Aerys had defied him; the first time madness gleamed behind the King's eyes. The court had whispered that Tywin grew too powerful, that the Hand's shadow was longer than the crown's light, and Aerys, paranoid and vain, began to believe them.

Then came the insult.

When Tywin offered his daughter, Cersei, as bride to the crown prince, Rhaegar, Aerys had laughed in his face. "You think to place your spawn on my throne?" he had said, his tone dripping venom. "Your family serves! It does not rule!"

The words had been a blade, and Tywin never forgot a blade.

In time, Aerys's madness grew; he surrounded himself with lickspittles and pyromancers, dismissing the men who had built his peace. And when the war of rebellion finally broke — when the kingdoms rose against the dragon — Tywin had waited. He had watched. He had chosen his moment.

For all his pride, Tywin Lannister was no fool; he knew when a cause was lost. And when Robert Baratheon's rebellion began to devour the realm, Tywin withdrew to Casterly Rock, ignoring Aerys's summons. He waited until the very end — until the dragons' wings had burned away and only smoke remained.

Then, with the precision of a surgeon cutting out rot, he marched on King's Landing — not as ally, but as victor.

His banners had flown above the city before Robert's crown had even been forged. His men had opened the gates in the name of peace — and then filled the streets with blood. He had not ordered the deaths of the royal children; he had merely failed to prevent them…

Tywin's mouth thinned into a line as he remembered seeing the bodies of the Targaryen children; the price of mercy had been carved into his memory since the day of his father's death… He would never pay it again…

Now, as he stood in his office overlooking the sea, the old memories stirred like ghosts.

The West was strong again — wealthier than ever. The mines beneath the Rock still yielded gold enough to buy the loyalty of half the realm. His son Jaime wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard. His daughter sat beside the King as queen. His youngest — well, Tywin preferred not to think of Tyrion at all…

And yet, for all the power he had gathered, for all the gold and blood he had spent, a whisper of unease had begun to creep into his thoughts, brought on by a single city that lay across the sea from his own:

Sparta.

As the name rolled across Tywin's mind, he turned toward the table where Kevan's letter lay, its red wax seal broken the moment it had arrived; with a raised brow, Tywin took a seat in his chair and lifted the letter to his eyes, though he had already read it a dozen times:

"They worship him as a god," his brother had written. "They fight, train, and live as one people, without fear, without greed. Their city is a monument to discipline and purpose. And their vaults overflow with the gold of Tyrosh and Lys. I have never seen such unity, brother — nor such danger."

Tywin read the words slowly, his face impassive as his eyes traced the familiar handwriting once more. If there was a single member of his family he could at least pretend to trust, it was his brother, Kevan. The man, like Tywin himself, was not given to exaggeration or flights of fancy. He said only what needed to be said, nothing more. That was why Tywin knew the letter in his hands was truth, not rumor or embellishment.

He had pored over it a dozen times already, and now he found himself reading it again with the same cold focus he reserved for a campaign map. Each word was measured, and each detail was weighted in his mind as if it were a weapon being inspected before war.

Kevan's thoroughness would be well rewarded when he returned, that much Tywin had already decided; his brother's account of Sparta was the most complete report he had ever received from across the Narrow Sea — a ledger of revelation and unease, and what Tywin had read fascinated him as much as it unsettled him.

The education, for instance.

In Westeros, education was a privilege — the birthright of nobility or the ambition of those willing to shackle themselves to the Citadel's chains. Yet in Sparta, if Kevan's words were to be believed (and Tywin had no reason to think otherwise), every child was educated — noble and commoner alike; boys and girls both. But what struck Tywin most was how they were taught.

"They do not simply repeat what their teachers tell them,' Kevan had written. 'They are taught to question. To argue. To reason for themselves — and then to obey without hesitation."

The contradiction fascinated Tywin; thought and obedience — intellect married to discipline. It was the very ideal he had tried to instill in Jaime all his life, and failed…

He read on, his sharp eyes narrowing.

"Crime is near nonexistent here,' Kevan wrote. 'There are no thieves, no cutpurses, no beggars sleeping in the alleys. Gold lies openly on merchant tables, and none dare take what is not theirs. Not for fear of punishment — but for fear of dishonor."

Tywin paused there, his thumb tapping against the page. Honor. The word had been thrown around his entire life, cheapened by fools who mistook it for mercy or pride. But in Sparta, it seemed, honor had weight — it meant something. Discipline had replaced fear as the iron law of the land.

A city without thieves. Without sloth. Without corruption.

It was something out of a fable — and Tywin hated that it intrigued him.

With a sneer, he turned the letter over to the next page, continuing to read his brother's report, even though he knew every word by heart, at this point:

"The Agoge," Kevan had written, "is the true forge of their strength. Boys and girls alike enter at fourteen. They are stripped of comfort, of family, and remade through hardship. They sleep on the ground, eat only what they earn, and fight until they cannot stand.

The weak are not pitied, only driven harder. Those who fail are not killed — they are shamed. And in Sparta, shame is worse than death…"

Tywin leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the flickering candle beside him. The flame swayed, casting shadows across the golden Lion engraved on his desk as he considered his brother's words.

Tywin had seen many forms of discipline in his life. He had commanded men who called themselves soldiers but were little more than armored peasants. He had hired sellswords whose loyalty could be bought or lost with a single coin. But the Spartans… if half of what Kevan described was true, they were something altogether different.

A people forged, not born.

Their devotion to their god-king, Kratos, bordered on fanaticism. Yet it was not the slavish, fearful worship of peasants before a sept. It was pride — shared strength, not submission; they followed him not out of fear, but faith. Belief!

And belief was more dangerous than gold.

Tywin set the letter down and stood, pacing slowly toward the window; the golden light of sunset had dimmed, and the sea beyond Lannisport was a field of shadows as he clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the dark.

A city without corruption. A people without disobedience. A king who inspired loyalty not through fear, but through faith.

It defied every rule he had ever lived by and for a long moment, Tywin was silent; then, almost to himself, he murmured, "A kingdom without crime… without sloth… without greed."

It was impossible.

And yet, the letters said it was real!

He thought of the Westerlands — of his own bannermen who smiled and bowed but whispered behind his back. Of the fool who called himself King, who squandered the kingdom's gold on tournaments and whores, and of the petty Lords who claimed loyalty but cared only for profit.

He thought of Cersei, whose ambition was as poisonous as it was narrow. Of Jaime, who traded duty for glory. Of Tyrion… a bitter little mockery of Lannister pride, who had been the direct cause of the death of the only woman Tywin had ever loved…

Then he thought of the Spartans — of a people united not by fear or coin, but by something purer.

'It cannot last, he thought with a grimace. 'No empire built on faith ever does…'

And yet…

His eyes drifted back to the parchment on the desk; the words seeming to shimmer in the candlelight as he thought over what else his brother had written:

"Those who survive the Agoge are marked with crimson. They call it the mark of rebirth. They wear it as a badge of honor, a reminder that they are no longer who they were. They are Spartans."

Tywin exhaled slowly, letting the word roll across his mind like a wave: Rebirth. Transformation through suffering…

He had spent his entire life trying to do the same thing — to strip weakness from his House, to burn away softness and sentiment. He had remade the Lion of Lannister from a laughingstock into a sigil that men feared to cross.

He had flooded Castamere to wash away dishonor. He had purged the Tarbecks,

silenced the Reynes, and drowned a hundred innocents to teach the world what it meant to cross his name.

And yet, as he stared at the letter, Tywin Lannister — Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, father to a queen — felt the faint sting of envy…

Because the Spartans had achieved what he had only dreamed of: a people who needed no threat to obey, no fear to follow, no coin to remain loyal.

They believed.

That was power beyond armies. Beyond gold. Beyond blood.

Tywin finally turned from the window and returned to his desk. His fingers brushed the letter, then curled into a fist, the wax seal cracking under the pressure.

Kevan had written one last line, almost as an afterthought:

"Their city is clean, brother. Clean in every sense. There are no beggars. No courtiers. No liars. I have walked their streets at night and seen women unafraid, children laughing. They do not lock their doors."

Tywin sat heavily in his chair, eyes distant as he tried to imagine it:

No locks. No fear.

He briefly wondered what his father would have thought of such a place — and then dismissed the thought with disgust; Tytos would have ruined it as he ruined everything else he touched…

He had inherited a house rotting from the inside, a legacy of indulgence and shame, and he had spent his entire life turning it into an empire of stone and gold.

And now, across the sea, another man — one worshipped as a foreign god no less — had done the same with a city of slaves and exiles.

For the first time in many years, Tywin Lannister did not know whether to admire or despise what he saw.

Tyrion's letter had come a day after Kevan's, and could almost be called a mirror image of his Uncle's letter, save for one difference:

"He refused the crown twice, Father," Tyrion had written. "He wears it now only because his people demanded it. I saw no joy in him, only duty."

That line haunted him; Tywin had expected arrogance. Pride. A conqueror's gloating. Instead, he read of restraint — of a man who did not crave power but held it because he must.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

He could understand greed. He could manipulate ambition. But duty — true duty — that was something different. That was dangerous…

Tywin's gaze drifted back toward the sea as the last light of day melted into crimson; the horizon was awash with gold and blood — fitting, he thought, for the world Kratos had forged across the Narrow Sea.

A part of him respected the man; how could he not?

In a single lifetime, (Seven Hells, in only three years, in fact!) Kratos had done what even the greatest kings of Westeros had never achieved. He had built a civilization out of chaos, forged unity from ruin, and tamed an entire continent not with birthright or prophecy, but through sheer will. He had taken the ashes of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh and turned them into the foundations of an empire — an empire of discipline, loyalty, and unshakable faith.

Tywin could almost admire that. Almost.

He had seen what they did to the Triarchy — three proud cities ground into dust in a single campaign. It was not a conquest. It was extermination...

And yet, what unsettled him was not the destruction — it was the efficiency.

There was no waste in Kratos's methods. No indulgence. No chaos. Only purpose. That, more than any army, was what made the Spartan people dangerous.

A moment later, a loud knock pulled him from his thoughts, and Tywin looked toward the door of his office as his maester stepped through, a look of cool deference on his face as he stepped into the room.

"I apologize for the disturbance, my lord, but you've received another message from your brother."

"Bring it…" Tywin said at once, straightening himself in his chair and extending his hand for the letter, which the maester placed in his palm a moment later.

"Leave me," Tywin said as soon as he had the parchment, not wanting to suffer the man's presence any longer than necessary; the Citadel had not taken the news of Sparta's education system well, and more than once Tywin had listened to his maester sneer and scorn what the traders had told him about what they had seen in Sparta.

As the man bowed and quickly left the study, Tywin broke the seal in silence, already expecting more of his brother's observations — perhaps another report on the strange customs of Sparta, or some new revelation about their armies.

Instead, what he read had turned his blood cold:

"Brother,

The world has shifted beneath our feet. Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath have bent the knee to Sparta. They do not call Kratos "king." They call him "Emperor." The Free Cities are no longer free. Soon, their banners will bear the crimson mark of his people, and their armies will march beneath the strange symbol of Sparta that is called the 'Omega.' What's more, I write this to you before the news spreads, for by the time this raven reaches you, all of Essos will already know.

Sparta is no longer a city. It is an empire!"

Tywin's eyes lingered on that last line; he had almost set the letter down when his gaze caught the next paragraph — and the tone shifted:

"There is another matter I must speak of — one that I urge you to keep within your confidence. A Volantene nobleman, the son of one of their triarchs, attempted to abduct a Spartan woman a few nights past, and was soon arrested and brought before the King. I witnessed what followed with my own eyes, brother.

Kratos rose from his throne without a word. The air changed — I felt it, brother, as though the very stones were afraid. He drew from his hips two weapons unlike any I have ever seen! Blades forged of fire itself, burning without smoke or ash! He struck the noble down before the man could take a second breath, cutting him apart as if he were parchment!

When the others of Volantis protested, Kratos ordered them all exiled at once. Not one raised a hand in their defense. Not one dared!

I tell you this because it proves two things: the first, that he is no ordinary man. The second, that his rule is absolute. No one — not merchant, noble, nor envoy — questions him and lives!"

Tywin's hand had tightened around the parchment until it nearly crumpled.

Magic.

He despised even the thought of it; sorcery belonged in fables and nightmares, not in the world of men. But Kevan's words were not those of a gullible fool. If he said he saw it, then he had.

Fire-blades.

A man who commanded not only loyalty, but fear — and worse, belief.

He read the next lines, the candlelight flickering against his rigid face.

"I do not know whether he is truly a god, as his people claim, but if he is not, he is something close. Every Spartan I have spoken to believes without question that he cannot die. That their Emperor is eternal. And when you look into his eyes, brother… it is difficult not to believe the same…"

Tywin set the parchment down and rose from his chair, quickly making his way back to the large window. The golden light outside dimmed to a red haze as his reflection stared back at him — pale, cold, the ghost of a man who had seen the rise and fall of kings.

He wondered how long it would take for Jon Arryn and King Robert to learn what he already knew. How long before they dismissed the rumors as tales from merchants and sailors? By the time the truth reached the Iron Throne, Sparta's banners would fly from the walls of every city east of the Narrow Sea.

He looked again toward the horizon, where the sun was drowning in the darkening sea; the thought that across that same stretch of water, a new empire was rising — a disciplined, merciless, god-driven empire — filled even Tywin Lannister with something that almost resembled unease.

Tywin wondered how long it would take for the rest of Westeros to learn what he now knew. How long before ravens from Pentos and Norvos reached King's Landing, and Robert Baratheon — that wine-soaked fool — laughed off the warning until it was too late.

'Let them laugh,' Tywin thought coldly. 'By the time the crown believes, it will already be over…'

He could almost see it now — Kratos's armies spreading westward like wildfire, swallowing city after city. The Dothraki, perhaps, would resist for a time, but they would fall like all the others. And then, one day, Spartan sails would appear on the horizon, black and crimson against the morning light!

He clasped his hands behind his back once more, the movement slow, deliberate, precise.

A part of him — the pragmatic part that ruled all his decisions — saw Kratos as a threat that could not be ignored. A rival power across the sea, driven by conviction instead of coin, by loyalty instead of fear.

But, again, another part of him, buried deep beneath the layers of pride and paranoia, respected the man, the order he had built, and the purpose he had given his people.

"Discipline," Tywin murmured softly. "That is the difference between chaos and civilization..."

The candles behind him burned low, the wax pooling like blood around their base as the shadows lengthened across the lion-carved desk, wrapping Tywin's reflection in darkness.

He knew what must come next; he had survived mad kings and civil wars, and he had built his House upon the corpses of its enemies. He would not let a foreign conqueror who thought himself a god undo what he had forged with a lifetime of calculation.

His mind exploded into motion — sharp, precise, deadly; plans, counterplans, alliances, and contingencies bloomed like daggers in his thoughts.

He would have agents dispatched to every Free City left in Essos; he would reach out to the Iron Bank — quietly, discreetly — and see where their gold now flowed. He would write to the Citadel and have the maesters scour their histories for any mention of this "Kratos."

And most importantly, he would prepare.

No matter how disciplined the Spartans were, they were still mortal. Still men. Men could bleed. Men could be broken.

The gods may play at empire, Tywin thought grimly, but in the end, it is the hands of men that decide who rules.

Outside, the sea was black glass beneath the falling sun.

Across that endless water, a so-called 'god' sat upon a throne of stone, ruling an empire of unbroken will.

Here, in the West, the Lion of Casterly Rock began to plot — not with fear, but with the cold, relentless certainty of a man who had outlived kings and toppled dynasties.

And as the last light vanished beyond the horizon, Tywin Lannister smiled — faintly, cruelly — the expression of a predator who had just seen the silhouette of another across the plain.

"Let the god have his empire," he murmured, turning from the window. "The lion still remembers how to hunt..."

XXXX

Kings Landing:

The chamber of the Hand was heavy with silence; the crackle of the hearth fire did little to ease the cold knot that had taken root in Jon Arryn's chest as he sat behind his broad oak desk, Ned Stark's raven perched on its stand beside him, the parchment unrolled and weighed down with a goblet of wine he had yet to touch.

He had read it five times already. Every word. Every line.

"He wields them as extensions of his will, as though the flames obey his very soul. They call them the Blades of Chaos. The Volantene noble was cut apart before he could draw breath."

Jon exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing at the parchment.

Magic.

The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jon Arryn wasn't a devout man, by any stretch of the word, but he liked to believe that there was something looking over the world, keeping darkness at bay and rewarding those who tried to do good in life. And all his life, he had been taught that magic was the tool of evil, and those who wielded it, equally so…

With a tired sigh, Jon rose stiffly from his chair and crossed to the window; King's Landing lay below him, cloaked in moonlight. The city was asleep, ignorant of the storm gathering across the sea, which would be made far worse if word were to spread that the King of Sparta was a sorcerer who was carving nobles to pieces with his magic blades.

The Faith was already restless; the collapse of their temples three years past had wounded them deeply, stripping away centuries of power. Jon knew well how the High Septon longed for redemption — for an enemy against whom to rally the faithful.

A foreign "god," ruling an empire built on war and worship, would be the perfect target.

He could almost hear the sermons already.

"A false idol. A demon of flame and blood. He must be purged, lest his corruption spread."

Fools. All of them.

A holy war. That's what they would call it.

A crusade.

He could almost see it — banners of the Seven raised high, priests blessing swords, fools marching to their deaths. And all it would take was one spark — one word from the Faith declaring Kratos an enemy of the gods.

Jon clenched his jaw; there was no reasoning with zealots. And yet, if the Faith declared war, Robert would follow. Not out of piety, but out of pride. The King had never met a fight he didn't think he could win, and nearly every day Jon had listened to Robert whine and complain of how bored he was, how he wished for another war to 'test himself.' If war were declared, Robert would be the first to run to the ships.

And that was what terrified Jon most.

He turned back toward the desk. The parchment still lay open — but another raven sat beside it, this one newer, its seal freshly broken. The words it carried had drained the blood from his face when he'd first read them that morning.

"Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath have sworn allegiance to Kratos. They have bent the knee. The Spartan banners will soon fly above their walls. Sparta… is an empire."

Jon lowered himself back into his chair, the weight of that truth pressing down like a millstone.

He had seen empires rise and fall. The Targaryens had ruled by dragons, their fire consuming all who opposed them. But even they had needed armies, gold, alliances. This Kratos seemed to need none of it.

According to Ned's report, his people worshipped him as both King and god. They fought not for coin or conquest but for belief.

And belief was far more dangerous than fire.

Jon rubbed at his temple, the candlelight flickering across the deep lines of his face. "An empire," he muttered under his breath. "Seven save us… the man builds empires while Robert drinks himself into ruin..."

He looked down at his hands — hands that had signed peace treaties, brokered marriages, and steadied a kingdom for over a decade. And for the first time in all those years, he wondered if he was already too late.

He knew the others would not see what he saw. Robert would admire the Spartan King as a warrior. Tywin Lannister would see a rival for power. The High Septon would see a heretic.

But Jon Arryn saw the future.

And it was painted in fire and iron.

He leaned back in his chair, the flicker of the candlelight dancing in his eyes as he whispered to the empty room:

"God or man, this Kratos may yet be the hammer that reshapes the world… and heaven help us if Westeros is the anvil…"

XXXX

Author's Note:

I know some of you will not like this 'Filler' chapter, but I wanted to show how things are going in Westeros before we get back to the Tournament. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and if not, let me know what I could have done differently.

Now, back to the Tournament!

Chapter Text

The air in the Coliseum shimmered with heat and anticipation as the sun hung high over Sparta, blazing against the gleaming marble walls. The first two trials — Strength and Endurance — had left the crowd breathless. Now came the third, and even despite the heat, the crowd was just as energetic as they had been for hours.

Over a thousand Spartans stepped out from the cool, shadowed tunnels beneath the arena as the southern gates groaned open. They wore no armor, helmets, or weapons — only their training tunics and the quiet confidence of those who had already proven their bodies. Today, they would prove something else, for these were not just ordinary Spartans; the majority of these were the captains, the squad leaders, and the platoon leaders; men and women who had been placed in positions of trust, those charged with leading their fellow Spartans in war.

A hush swept through the stands, the roar of two hundred thousand Spartans dimming to a low murmur of awe as the competitors spread out across the vast white sand. Those watching sat on the edge of their seats in silent expectation of the next challenge.

Then, from the Pillars' box, a figure rose; yet, to the confusion of the crowd, it was not General Neos who rose this time, but someone new:

Lord Cleitus, the Lord of Knowledge, stepped forward, his white robes shimmering faintly with threads of gold, the embroidered sigil of the Omega, the symbol of Sparta, gleaming on his chest.

Slowly, he walked to the balcony's edge and raised his hand for silence; a moment later, the murmurs faded, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"Sparta," Cleitus began, his voice calm, deep, and resonant — yet somehow reaching every corner of the Coliseum as though the marble itself carried his words — "You have seen strength. You have seen endurance. You have seen the body tested to its limit! Now, you will see the mind, for a true Spartan is not muscle alone. A Spartan thinks!"

A ripple of agreement moved through the crowd as Cleitus continued, his eyes sweeping over the thousand warriors below:

"Any fool can raise a sword! Any brute can crush a skull! But a warrior who cannot think is a weapon waiting to be turned against himself! Many a god —" he hesitated, glancing up at Kratos, whose expression was unreadable, "— and man alike have fallen to their own arrogance… Sparta will not!"

He raised his right hand high, his left gripping his staff so tight that his knuckles whitened around the aged wood.

"This trial will test not your strength, but your reason. Your adaptability. Your clarity! When the world beneath your feet changes, when all seems chaos, you must not falter. You must think!"

Then, with a deliberate movement, Cleitus snapped his fingers and the arena moved!

It began as a faint tremor underfoot; sand shifted, columns groaned, and the entire arena shifted as though a sudden earthquake had begun. Then — a sound like thunder rolled through the amphitheater as massive stone panels beneath the sand began to slide and lock into new formations. Within moments, the arena transformed — the once-flat expanse reshaping into a labyrinth of walls, bridges, pits, and towers.

Gasps rippled through the audience. Even the envoys leaned forward, wide-eyed, whispering among themselves as they watched the colossal machinery hidden beneath the arena perform its miracle of motion. Nothing like this had ever been seen before, not even during the height of the Valyrian empire! The hidden gears and counterweights below the coliseum floor groaned and clanked, moved by the unseen engineers of Sparta and, perhaps, something divine lending unseen hands.

The once-smooth sands now resembled a vast stone maze, its towers rising fifteen feet in the air. Streams of water began to pour down marble channels, filling trenches and moats, while iron gates slammed shut, dividing the maze into quadrants.

Each section looked different — one with towering walls and narrow corridors, another with shifting floors that clicked and tilted as if alive. Another quadrant filled with fog as vents beneath the sand hissed cool vapor across the ground, obscuring sight.

From his box, Cleitus smiled faintly as he stared down at the sudden impossibility on the arena floor beneath him.

"This," he said, his voice still echoing through the Coliseum, "is the Arena of Shifting Minds. To pass this challenge, you must reach the opposite side of the arena. Alone, or with others — the choice is yours. But be warned: the arena will not remain the same for long. The ground beneath you will move! The paths will twist! The only constant, Spartans, is your will!"

Slowly, Cleitus raised his right hand and held it there momentarily, the crowd watching with an almost all-consuming intensity; finally, he brought his hand down, and a great bronze gong rang out from the northern wall.

"Begin!"

XXXX

The thousand Spartans surged forward as one, and immediately, chaos erupted — but not the chaos of disorganization. It was the chaos of strategy. Some sprinted for the nearest walls, scaling them with speed and precision, hoping to scale over them and gain vantage. Others formed small teams, eyes sharp, scanning for traps or paths that would shift. The smarter ones moved slowly, calculating each step, testing the sand for trick mechanisms.

The first to fall were the impulsive.

A section of floor gave way beneath a group of runners, sending them tumbling into a pit of cold water. They surfaced coughing, only to watch the ceiling above them slide closed, sealing them off as the crowd gasped, then roared approval as others leapt across another gap that had suddenly appeared, and continued on.

Elsewhere, the maze twisted again; entire corridors rotated like the inside of a cube, flipping warriors from floor to wall and wall to ceiling before settling again. A young man who had tried to sprint through too quickly smashed against a shifting wall and fell unconscious, carried off by medics as the crowd applauded his effort. Throughout it all, the crowd watched in awe as the maze moved like a living thing, while beneath the floor, the engineers moved like a hive of bees, constantly twisting knobs and hauling on pulleys to keep the chaos going.

But among the chaos were those who adapted. Who watched the pattern of movement. Who learned.

Groups began to slow, to think; warriors touched the walls, listening for vibrations, mapping the rhythm of the shifting stones. They marked turns with their sandals, counting paces between rotations. In one quadrant, a woman knelt, tracing shapes in the sand, plotting the maze's movement like a game of living strategy; within minutes,

she had gathered a dozen others, and together they advanced with precision while others floundered.

Then the labyrinth changed again.

This time, the floor panels slid apart, creating channels of flame that roared to life between the paths. The crowd gasped in awe as the warriors darted back, barely avoiding being consumed as the air filled with the acrid scent of burning oil and sweat.

But no one stopped; some openly grinned at the new challenge, and one lone warrior cackled with joy, before crying out:

"Oh, what a day! What a lovely day!"

XXXX

An hour passed.

Of the thousand who began, barely half still moved; the others had been sealed off or trapped in dead ends, forced to yield or be pulled from the field. But the ones who remained had learned — their movements were sharper, more deliberate. Each decision measured, calculated.

And then came the greatest test yet.

Without warning, the arena tilted.

The entire arena floor, a thousand feet long, began to incline like the deck of a great ship; sand cascaded down in golden rivers as warriors stumbled, grabbed walls, and dug in their heels. The audience screamed as the marble creaked; yet, Cleitus stood calmly above, arms folded, eyes gleaming, while the other Pillars behind him watched with wide-eyed shock. Save for Floki, who giggled like mad and bounced in his chair like a child watching a joust.

"Adapt!" Cleitus shouted as more than one warrior slid down into the darkness of the depths beneath the arena. "Adapt or perish!"

And they did.

Those nearest the walls drove daggers into the cracks and held fast, pulling themselves toward stable ground. Others used fallen spears as anchors, driving them into the floor to keep from sliding into the now-open trenches below.

One group — perhaps fifty strong — formed a human chain, locking arms, their muscles trembling as they dragged each other upward toward the lone tower that now stood at the highest point of the slanted arena. It was the only part that remained unmoved — the goal.

Bit by bit, through brute will and sharpened mind, they climbed.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the movement stopped; the labyrinth straightened, the flames died, the ground leveled.

Those who had endured stood panting on the opposite side of the arena in the center circle, their bodies shaking, their eyes blazing with triumph as Cleitus raised his hands once more, and the arena erupted in cheers.

"Remember this day," he called, his voice echoing through the roars of two hundred thousand voices. "Remember what you have seen, citizens of Sparta! For strength is nothing without reason, and courage nothing without clarity!"

He turned his gaze toward Kratos, whose expression remained unreadable, but whose eyes gleamed faintly with pride at what his people had done.

"These Spartans," Cleitus declared, "have proven they are more than warriors. They are thinkers. They are architects of their own destiny! And in their hands, no empire — not even the gods of Valyria themselves — shall stand against them!"

The crowd exploded at the old man's words; flags waved, and the marble trembled beneath the chants:

"SPARTA! SPARTA! SPARTA!"

And as the victorious warriors raised their fists to the heavens, the rest of the city rose with them — two hundred thousand voices joined in one, echoing across the marble streets and over the distant hills, their devotion shaking the very world.

The third challenge was over.

And in the eyes of all who witnessed it — Sparta's dominion over both body and mind had been proven beyond question.

XXXX

The arena roared louder than a hurricane as those who had passed the third trial basked in the acclaim for a moment before making their way out of the nearby gate, but in the envoys' box, the world seemed to have stopped.

The nobles, lords, and ambassadors sat frozen in their seats, faces pale, eyes wide, smelling of sweat, wine, and disbelief. None of them — not one — had ever seen anything like it.

The very ground beneath the Coliseum had moved. Fucking moved!

Not by sorcery or illusion — but by the will of men!

The sand had given birth to towers, bridges, shifting walls, and rivers of flame, all in perfect order; to Westerosi eyes, it was as though the Seven themselves had raised the arena from the bones of the earth.

No one spoke. No one could.

Even Oberyn Martell, who had faced death more times than he could count and met each one with a smirk, sat wordless; his lips parted as though to speak, yet no words came. Ellaria's hand was gripping his so tightly that her knuckles were white; her lips parted in disbelief, while the Sand Snakes — Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene — leaned forward like cats transfixed by firelight... The Dornish prince's eyes flicked down to her hand, then back to the arena, and all he could manage was a breathless, "Seven hells…"

Not far away, Tyrion Lannister's goblet slipped from his hand and struck the marble floor with a sharp clink, the sound almost deafening amid the stunned quiet. Red wine spilled across the white stone, trickling like blood below his boots — yet the dwarf didn't notice. His mismatched eyes were wide, reflecting the towering labyrinth that had lived and breathed before them moments ago.

"Holy fucking hell…" The dwarf said at last, "The floor… They made the entire fucking floor rise up! How the fucking hell did they do that!"

Beside him, Kevan Lannister could only stare at the pristine arena floor that just moments ago had risen up like the bow of a sinking ship in its last moments before it sank beneath the waves. Nothing in the man's long, affluent life had ever prepared him for something like that! Even if the entirety of House Lannister poured every gold coin it had, Kevan doubted they could have replicated what the Spartan engineers had just done, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Kevan's eyes traveled up to the royal box where King Kratos, well Emperor Kratos, now, sat, watching the entire affair with an almost bored expression, his arm cocked at the elbow and his fist resting against his cheek.

In an instant, a realization struck Kevan like a scorpion bolt, making him pale and gulp nervously; this tournament wasn't just about picking out the best to accompany Kratos to Valyria, it was a statement to every visiting dignitary and envoy about what Sparta was capable of! The emperor of the Spartan empire might as well have stood on top of the tallest mountain in Essos and roared for every other Free city to try and challenge him, and Kevan knew that in the coming days, once word of what happened in this tournament reached the rest of Essos, the other Free cities would either accept the challenge, seeing no other choice if they wished to retain their sovereignty; or else, swallow their pride and kneel as Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath had already done.

From where he sat at the far end of the box, Ned Stark had not moved since the trial's end. His hands were clenched on the armrests of his chair, his grey eyes fixed on the still-shifting dust below; Jon sat beside him, his young face pale with wonder, and his mouth hanging open almost comically.

"Father…" Jon softly said at last, his voice little more than a breath. "How could they do that? No kingdom in the world could—"

"They're not a kingdom…" Ned said quietly, cutting him off, his tone calm, but there was something underneath it — something heavy and cold as he came to the same realization that Kevan had. "They're something else entirely..."

Jon followed his father's gaze to the arena, where the last of the maze walls were sinking slowly back into the earth, the arena restoring itself to a pristine, flat plain as if nothing had happened at all. Thousands of unseen engineers worked below — their coordination so perfect it might as well have been divine.

Ned's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the boy he had raised as if he were one of his own, never able to find the strength to tell Jon that he wasn't and would never be.

"Look well at what Sparta can do, Jon…" Ned said after a moment, causing the boy to look back at him with confusion. "For if you choose to stay… You could one day do things equally as magnificent."

Jon's eyes widened at that, and for a moment, his eyes darkened at the thought of him, a bastard of the north, being capable of lifting boulders the size of a horse, or running for hours on end with no rest, or any of the amazing things he had seen since arriving in Sparta!

As Jon turned back toward the arena, his mind a raging torrent of indecision, the other envoys from Essos looked at Ned with surprise; even Oberyn was staring at the Warden of the North with a strange look in his eyes, as though calculating Ned's worth after a new interesting development.

The murmuring among the envoys swelled again once Ned finished speaking; even Oberyn Martell — who had spent most of the day smirking and whispering sharp comments into Ellaria's ear — had gone quiet.

Kevan Lannister was the first to find his voice. "You would leave him here?" he asked, his tone edged with disbelief. "In this place?" He gestured toward the arena, where the crowd was still chanting as engineers reset the field. "You would trust these… zealots with your son?"

Ned turned to him, his face calm, his voice steady. "Jon is not my son," he said, the truth cutting clean through the air as Jon flinched from the words yet pretended not to hear. "Not in name, at least… In Westeros, he will always be a bastard — no matter what he does or what kind of man he becomes… That is the way of things."

Kevan frowned, seeing the truth in Ned Stark's words, yet unwilling to give up the argument. "Bastard or not, he is still of your blood! You would let him live among strangers?"

"Better among strangers who see his worth," Ned said quietly as he stared at Jon's back, feeling a hurt he had not felt since losing his sister, coursing through him, "than among kin who never will…"

Tyrion gave a low whistle, swirling wine from a new cup, just handed to him, before taking another gulp. "A rare honesty, Lord Stark… Most men spend their lives pretending the world is fair…"

Ned looked toward him. "And you?"

"Oh, I abandoned that illusion years ago," Tyrion replied, a crooked smile forming. "If I had to choose between a world that pities me and one that challenges me, I'd take the latter. The boy might thrive here. At least the Spartans seem to measure men by what they can do, not by whose bed they were born in..."

Across from them, Oberyn chuckled softly. "Now there's a thought… A land without bastards, without Lords, without chains of blood and name…" His eyes gleamed as he looked down at the arena. "Tell me, Stark, do you truly believe such a place exists?"

"I've seen enough of this city to believe it does," Ned replied evenly.

Ellaria leaned forward, her dark eyes studying him. "And if he stays, what then? He becomes one of them?"

Ned's gaze flicked to Jon. "If he wishes it… A man must choose what kind of life he wants. Here, he may become something greater than the world we left behind allows him to be."

Obara Martell — who until now had been silent, her arms crossed and her expression hard — let out a sharp laugh. "A place where even bastards can earn their name," she said, her voice thick with awe. "Where a woman can fight beside a man and be treated as his equal… Gods, I think I was born in the wrong damn kingdom..."

Nymeria smirked at her sister's sudden fervor. "You'd last a week before breaking your nose trying to outmatch one of them, sister."

Obara grinned. "Then I'd wear the scar with pride. I already wear the ones that Leon gave me, proudly. And trust me, sister… Some scars can be just as fun to receive as others are painful."

Even Oberyn smiled at that, but there was something thoughtful behind his eyes. "Perhaps the Northman has the right of it," he said. "If half of what we've seen today is true, then this city has already surpassed us all. Perhaps it is time our world learns that strength is not only born of birthright…"

Kevan frowned, still unconvinced. "You make it sound as though Westeros should follow their example."

Oberyn raised his goblet mockingly. "Perhaps it should, Lannister… After all, I doubt King Kratos would allow any of those serving beneath him to rape a helpless woman, or slaughter her children…"

Tyrion chuckled softly at that as Kevan shot Oberyn a venomous look, before turning to his nephew with a betrayed gaze as the dwarf raised his own cup in mock salute and cheered: "Hear, hear."

Meanwhile, Jon sat in silence, his mind spinning; the words of Lord Stark — if you choose to stay — echoed in his head repeatedly.

Stay.

A simple word, yet one that carried the weight of destiny as he considered it; could he do it? Could he stay here and become one of these people? Become more than just a bastard?

He looked down at the arena, at the men and women being carried from the sand, their bodies broken, yet their faces alight with pride; there was no shame there, no fear, no lords or bastards — only Spartans.

For the first time in his life, Jon Snow wondered if he had finally found a place where he belonged. And that thought both terrified and excited him more than he could put into words…

XXXX

Author's Note:

Thus concludes the third challenge; as some of you can tell, I decided to take your advice and make this challenge one of the mind, where the participants had to figure out a way through the challenge, instead of trying to break through it with sheer strength.

Also, thank all of you who are enjoying this story and continue to do so, sharing it with your friends and others who will likewise find it entertaining, and want to follow to see where it goes. Because of you, this story has been nominated for the 2025 Fanfiction Awards! I couldn't believe it when I was emailed, but yeah, it's legit; My story has been nominated for "Best Crossover for God of War." And it's all because of y'all, so thank you all so much!

If there's something you don't like about this chapter, please feel free to let me know. Constructive criticism helps me improve each chapter. Until next time, my lovelies!

Chapter Text

The sun hung high above Sparta, a blazing coin of light that turned the white marble of the coliseum into living flame; only the drawn shades kept the cheering crowd safe from the overbearing heat from above. The crowd's roar had long since become a constant rhythm — a heartbeat that pulsed through every stone, every banner, every soul within its walls.

Among the rows of spectators, Viserys Targaryen sat forward on the edge of his seat, golden hair shining beneath the midday glare. His violet eyes, bright as polished amethysts, darted between the arena floor and the section where the Westerosi envoys sat. There — among them — sat the boy who haunted his thoughts: Jon Snow.

He looked so much like Rhaegar that it made Viserys's stomach twist with a strange, nameless fury. Every tilt of the head, every quiet, watchful glance — it was like seeing a ghost of the brother he had both worshipped and resented. A moment later, Viserys's attention was brought back to the arena floor as the last of the previous trial's participants exited through the gate before the bars slowly slid back down.

"If our ancestors had warriors like these," Viserys murmured, half to himself, half to the wind, "the world would have knelt before the dragons forever..."

Beside him, Daenerys swung her legs with childlike energy, her silver-white hair braided neatly, her bright eyes wide as she scanned the arena below.

"Maybe it still will," she said softly, smiling as a group of Spartans marched from the tunnel below to clear the arena. "Look at them, Viserys! They're so strong… I've never seen anyone move like they do!"

Viserys allowed himself a small smirk. "Strength is power, little sister. But power is more than muscle. It's command! It's being obeyed without having to raise your voice!"

Daenerys tilted her head. "Like Emperor Kratos?"

Viserys's smirk faltered slightly. He glanced toward the royal box where the god-king sat — massive, motionless, and utterly still, like a mountain that breathed. "Perhaps," he muttered. "For now…"

For now.

The words echoed in his mind long after he'd spoken them. His eyes remained fixed on Kratos — the man the Spartans called 'God-King, Liberator, Father of the Free.'

Half of him burned with hatred at the sight. That should have been me. He imagined banners of red and black unfurling across the world again, dragons soaring above the Free Cities, his name whispered with reverence — 'Viserys the Conqueror, the Dragon Reborn.' And yet, that destiny had been stolen, not by chance, but by a giant who had risen from the east, a man who commanded legions with the flick of a hand and who ruled by sheer strength rather than blood.

The other half of him, the part that had spent years sleeping in barns, stealing bread, and shielding Daenerys from the cold, felt something dangerously close to… gratitude.

Kratos had taken them in when no one else would. No more running. No more hunger. Daenerys slept on clean sheets, her laughter echoing in marble halls. Even he — a Targaryen prince in name only — was trained, clothed, and respected as an equal among other boys.

Sparta had given him back his dignity.

And that frightened him more than anything.

Because it was changing him…

He no longer woke dreaming of the Iron Throne… He woke dreaming of red cloaks and Spartan crests. Of glory earned through discipline rather than birth!

"What am I becoming?" he wondered, his jaw tightening. "Am I losing myself… or finally finding what I was always meant to be?"

Below, the drums thundered once more as engineers began preparing the arena for the next challenge, causing the crowd to stir, eager and hungry for spectacle.

"Look!" Daenerys gasped, clapping her hands. "They're changing the field again! What do you think the next one will be?"

Viserys didn't answer at first; tearing his gaze away from Kratos and sweeping it across the shimmering air, Viserys gazed at those around him, the scent of heat and iron rising from the arena like incense. All around them, the Spartan citizens' excitement was palpable — like lightning before a storm.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Whatever it is," he said, voice tight with a mix of envy and admiration, "I will one day be part of it..."

"Power," he whispered again, as if testing the weight of the word. "No matter what shape it takes… I will have it…"

Daenerys glanced at him, puzzled by his tone, but before she could speak, a sudden flare of sunlight caught her attention as the arena gates began to rise, causing her to gasp and clap her hands with excitement.

XXXX

The Coliseum thundered with the sound of two hundred thousand hearts pounding in unison; dust still hung in the air from the last trial, a haze of sweat and sunlight that shimmered above the arena floor.

Then, from the Pillars' box, General Neos rose to his feet, and the crowd fell silent almost instantly; even the gulls circling high above seemed to pause in their flight.

The general stood tall, silver armor glinting, red cloak rippling behind him like a banner of war. His voice, when it came, rolled through the amphitheater like the growl of an approaching storm — clear, deep, and commanding enough to reach even the farthest seats.

"Six hundred have earned their place among the chosen!"

The crowd roared its approval, a single, living sound that shook the marble beneath their feet.

Neos allowed it for a moment before he raised his hand, and silence crashed back just as quickly.

"Four hundred spots remain! Four hundred who will have the honor to march beside our Lord to Valyria! To stand upon the bones of an empire and claim its secrets for Sparta! The next trial will test not your strength… nor your speed. You have proven both. This will test your control! Your precision! The steadiness of your hand and the stillness of your heart!"

He turned, raising his hand toward the empty expanse of sand below that was slowly beginning to shift as a steady vibration began, which made every watching Spartan lean forward in anticipation.

"An archer's skill is not found in the arm," Neos continued, "but in the mind. The bow does not shoot — you do! The arrow does not fly — you command it! To master the bow is to master yourself!"

The crowd began to whisper excitedly, creating a buzz that rolled through the arena like a swarm of locusts as they realized what the next trial was going to be, simple yet exciting at the same time: an archery contest.

A moment later, Neos spoke again, and the buzzing died away as his growl rolled around the arena: "To those who think this will be easy, you are already defeated..."

His eyes swept over the Coliseum like the edge of a blade, causing more than one watching citizen to gulp nervously.

"This is not a test of hitting a target. It is a test of being the target, of standing in the heart of the storm and bending it to your will! Those who can do that will earn their place among the thousand who will carve Sparta's name into Valyria's stone!"

For a heartbeat, no one moved, and the arena was silent and still, save for the growing vibration that was spreading across the sand floor; then Neos lifted his arm and bellowed:

"Archers! Step forward… and show your city what discipline truly means!"

The words thundered through the Coliseum like a war drum, and a moment later, from the south gate came a deep groan of ancient stone and iron as it slowly rose. As the Coliseum buzzed with excitement, the crowd leaned forward as a new host emerged from the darkness — five hundred archers, men and women alike, their steps measured, their faces expressionless beneath the blazing sun.

Each bore the same plain uniform: grey tunics, light trousers bound at the calf, and the simple wooden bows of their craft, with a tube of arrows resting on their backs. Yet there was nothing plain about their bearing; their movements were crisp, their eyes sharp, every step echoing the same quiet, deadly purpose that had come to define all who called themselves Spartans.

And yet… among their number moved one who drew the eye as surely as flame draws a moth.

Her hair, black as midnight silk, fell in loose, uneven waves down her shoulders, occasionally catching the light like a raven's wing. It framed a face both sharp and soft; the face of a hunter who had learned to survive by the bite of her arrows and the silence of her steps. Her skin carried the faint sun-kissed tone of one who had spent years beneath open skies, her eyes an arresting grey-green that seemed to shift with the light, reflecting the calm of still water or the fury of a gale. At her back, her bow — long, pale, and polished to a soft gleam, carved from the same sacred yew as those used by Sparta's temple guards; the weapon was simple in design, yet there was something undeniably divine about it, as though it had been shaped by hands that understood both precision and mercy.

As the assembled archers spread out, whispers rippled through the lower stands, and some openly pointed at the female archer who stood apart from the others, her arms crossed over her chest.

"That's her…" someone breathed. "The wind-dancer of Sparta..."

As the whispers grew, the woman's eyes scanned the area with a quiet intensity, as if the arena itself were her hunting ground, and the roaring crowd were nothing more than rustling leaves.

Even the other archers, those who still held out hope that they might be amongst those chosen to venture to Valyria, cast anxious glances at the woman whose reputation in Sparta had been carved into stone by all who practiced the bow:

Pteryssa — the archer who never missed.

As the girl began to roll her shoulders and stretch her arms in preparation for the coming challenge, a hush swept through the lower stands. The wind itself seemed to pause, tugging at the edges of her black hair as if greeting an old friend. As the watching crowd whispered and watched, she moved with quiet certainty — not pride, not arrogance — but with the serenity of one who had already proven herself long ago.

"That's her…" whispered a young boy, clutching the railing so tightly his knuckles whitened. "The wind-dancer of Sparta…"

"I heard she can strike a sparrow from a hundred paces in a storm!" Said the girl at his side.

"No, she's much better than that, lass…" Her father corrected, his tone low and reverent. "I saw her do it! During the conquest of Myr. She hit three men before their blades left their sheaths!"

"The wind-dancer," a woman murmured, her voice carrying like a prayer. "Blessed by the God of War himself…"

A moment later, the buzzing conversations and screaming cheers ended abruptly as the small shaking vibrations seemed to grow, as though an earthquake were approaching; then, a deep rumble rolled through the Coliseum — low at first, like distant thunder, then growing, deepening until the very seats trembled beneath the weight of it.

Dust fell from the upper arches as the crowd leaned forward, wide-eyed, as the sand of the arena began to move. Some, like Daenerys, began to bounce in their seats in excitement as the memory of the previous trial resonated in their minds; many were hoping to see another marvel of Spartan engineering, and moments later, it seemed as though their prayers were answered.

At first, it was subtle — a ripple, like wind running across the dunes. Then the ground split apart in lines of perfect precision. Hidden gears, the size of siege towers, ground to life beneath the surface. From those seams, pillars of marble and bronze rose slowly into daylight, groaning and hissing like the sound of ancient machinery awakening after a long sleep.

One after another, the pillars ascended, connecting to others by sliding bridges and angled walkways. The flat battlefield of sand was gone — in its place stood a labyrinth of ramps, ledges, platforms, and precarious walkways, all gleaming under the noonday sun.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the Spartan engineers, hidden beneath the arena floor, worked their craft with flawless precision. The air smelled faintly of oil, heat, and iron as the coliseum began to change shape — the sand shifting like water, stone grating against stone as enormous mechanisms awoke below.

To the thousands watching, it was a marvel of human ingenuity, a demonstration of engineering so masterful it seemed to defy reason; to the engineers themselves, it felt like breathing.

Their hands moved without hesitation, gripping levers and turning cranks they had never seen before that morning when the Coliseum had first come into being. Their muscles knew when to pull, when to stop, when to shift a gear by a hair's width, as though invisible strings guided them. Beneath the roar of the crowd, one could almost hear the low hum of power, deep and ancient, like a heartbeat echoing through the stone.

They did not know how they knew. None of them did!

What they did not see — what no mortal eye could see — was the faint shimmer that hung over them like a mist. The faint glimmer of divine power woven into their flesh. Kratos sat high above in the royal box, his gaze fixed on the arena, his expression unreadable. But within his mind, his will spread like a web of fire through the veins of the Coliseum, touching every engineer below.

Knowledge flowed into them; the knowledge of structure, of motion, of creation itself! He did not speak the words aloud, but his power whispered through their souls:

'Remember what your hands were born to build.'

To the crowd, it was man's triumph; to the Spartans, it was proof that their god-king's blessings extended beyond the strength of body; and to Kratos, it was simply another test of what humanity could become when guided, but not controlled.

The Coliseum's floor shifted again, each movement smooth as the turning of the earth; massive gears spun below, the sand rippling like waves under sunlight, forming new walkways, rising pillars, and gleaming platforms as the crowd erupted in awe, but below, the engineers never looked up — they simply worked, their faces serene, unaware that they were moving by the will of a god.

As the shaking and transformation finally came to an end, Neos stared at the obstacle course with a fine eye, looking pleased at what had been done.

"Throughout this course," Neos finally spoke, "are targets — some close, some far, some still, some moving. You will face no enemy today but yourselves. Your balance, your control, your patience, and your understanding of the wind, these will decide your fate! To succeed, you need only strike twenty targets, but bear in mind that when a target is struck, it will no longer be worth points by anyone else! This challenge isn't just about accuracy, but how quickly you can strike true, before someone else does!"

He turned his gaze toward the archers' ranks, and for the briefest instant, his eyes found Pteryssa.

"Remember, Spartans," Neos said, placing his hands on the balcony before him. "An arrow cannot find its mark without the mind to guide it… Let the fourth trial begin!"

At his signal, the gears groaned once more — and targets began to emerge throughout the shifting maze. Some hung suspended from chains, swaying like pendulums in the open air. Others spun in circles or rose and fell on counterweights that gleamed like gold. One target — impossibly far — slid across the uppermost bridge, vanishing into shadow before reappearing again.

The arena looked less like a battlefield and more like a monument to motion, a living puzzle meant to test more than skill; it was a test of the soul.

Even the envoys, who had grown accustomed to wonder, sat speechless.

"Look at some of those targets…" Jon said in shock, "How are they supposed to hit those! There are no good angles!"

"Indeed…" Ned replied, scratching under his chin as he looked down at the obstacle course and tried to find some way in order to achieve victory. "We shall simply have to watch and see if these archers have better eyes than we do…"

Below, Ptéryssa lifted her bow, her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the maze above her, and smiled faintly.

She could already feel the wind shifting through the rising pillars, and though she could tell the other archers around her were feeling intimidated by the monstrous obstacle course before them, she only felt excitement course through her. She had missed this!

XXXX

The blare of horns echoed through the coliseum, and the challenge began; in an instant, five hundred archers surged forward, each scattering across the twisting maze of bridges and ledges. The air filled with the creak of drawn strings and the twang of loosed arrows as shafts hissed through the air like rain.

The first arrows struck — thunk, thunk, thunk — some burying deep in wood, others clattering uselessly off stone; many archers fumbled their footing as they tried to find stable ground on the narrow beams; others fired wildly, their aim breaking against the shifting angles and sudden gusts that swept through the open arena.

It was chaos, the kind only Sparta could forge…

Then, through the storm of motion, one figure began to move differently; where the others strained and stumbled, Ptéryssa flowed.

She darted from one platform to the next with a dancer's grace, her movements light and effortless, her bare feet whispering across the beams; the wind seemed to follow her, tugging her hair, swirling around her like an unseen partner, guiding her toward targets that no one else could see, and every time her bowstring sang, a target shattered!

One, two, three, four! The rhythm was flawless! Her arrows struck the moving disks at impossible angles; one spinning in a blur, another sliding in and out of view; she didn't pause to aim; she simply moved, loosing as naturally as she breathed.

As the crowd watched, some cheering mindlessly, others watching in silent awe at the skill of some of the archers, Ptéryssa leapt onto a rising pillar, riding it in a crouch as it climbed, finally coming to a stop thirty feet above the sand. Without hesitation, she sprang backward into open air, causing gasps to tear from the stands at what many viewed as reckless.

As she fell, she twisted midair, drawing her bow upside down. The sunlight flashed across her leather armguard — and thunk! — her arrow struck dead center on a target spinning near the base of the arena; no one had attempted to hit this target yet due to the impossible angle in which it rested, yet she had managed to find a way!

As she landed, she threw herself backwards into a roll, came up to one knee, and fired two more arrows in quick succession before the first target had even stopped spinning.

Both found their mark, and the roar that followed was deafening as the people celebrated the city's greatest archer.

High above, Kratos watched from his throne, impassive, but his eyes followed her movements carefully, and a flash of fierce pride seemed to shine from within.

In the envoys box, the men and women watched with awe at the skill being put on display.

"That one…" The envoy from Pentos said softly, his eyes following Ptéryssa as she took out another three targets effortlessly. "She's magnificent… It's almost as if the wind itself is obeying her commands…"

The others could only nod in agreement as they watched the girl leap across a large gap, firing down at a hidden target that none seemed to know was even there!

"Her name is Ptéryssa…" Jon said softly, causing the others to turn to him in surprise.

"You know her, Jon?" Ned asked with a raised brow.

Jon shook his head slightly, his grey eyes fixed on the figure darting through the obstacle field below.

"Not really," he said quietly. "I've only seen her once — at the training grounds..."

The others leaned in to hear him over the sound of the crowd, and Jon's tone carried that mix of awe and certainty that only a child who'd seen something extraordinary could manage.

"She was practicing alone… No one else was even close to her targets. I remember thinking she didn't even aim half the time — she just knew where to shoot! Every arrow hit. Every one!"

He hesitated, watching as Ptéryssa spun across a narrow beam and loosed another perfect shot.

"Some of the other trainees told me her name was Ptéryssa. They call her the Wind-dancer," he added, his voice lowering in respect. "They say she moves like the wind is her friend… That it listens to her…"

The boy's eyes flicked toward the royal box where Kratos sat, unmoving.

"Some say she was blessed by the Kratos himself," Jon said, almost in a whisper, "that he gave her the wind so she'd never miss again..."

Ned looked at his nephew for a long moment — at the quiet awe in his eyes — then back to the arena, where Ptéryssa had just landed a shot that seemed impossible. Slowly, Ned raised his eyes to the royal box where Emperor Kratos was seated, watching the spectacle with the same bored expression; yet Ned couldn't help but wonder how true the story was. If Kratos could build this magnificent arena in a single night, what else could he do? Could he really give the gift of the wind to a girl who looked to be only in her nineteenth year?

Around him, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause, and for a heartbeat, even the envoys forgot they were diplomats — and simply watched, spellbound, as the Wind-dancer of Sparta moved through the air like a living miracle.

XXXX

Ptéryssa crouched on the narrow beam, her balance as effortless as the breath in her chest. Her bow rested lightly in her left hand, the string thrumming softly against her fingers as she scanned the ever-shifting arena below. By her count, she had struck fifteen targets — five remained between her and Valyria.

Beneath her, the other archers scrambled through the maze of walkways and rising platforms, their curses echoing faintly beneath her. Most had long since realized the truth: every target they aimed for had already been claimed by the girl above them. The thought made Ptéryssa's lips curve into the ghost of a smile — not arrogance, but quiet satisfaction as she drew in a slow breath, willing her racing heart to steady; then, lifting her gaze, she found the royal box.

There he sat — the man who had remade her world.

Kratos.

Even from across the vast arena, his presence was a weight she could feel pressing against her soul as the god-king sat unmoving, his great hand resting against his chin, his expression unreadable — but Ptéryssa imagined, just for a moment, that his gaze rested on her alone.

He had given her everything: the bow, the freedom, the wind itself, and she would honor that gift — by proving she was worthy of it.

Unbidden, Ptéryssa slowly raised her right hand and moved it across the red tattoo that decorated her left shoulder, arm, and breast; her thoughts betraying her as memories she hoped to forget began to emerge like a torrent of flood water.

Once, she had been a daughter of the plains — born among the Velathi, a nomadic tribe of hunters who roamed the endless grasslands beyond Myr. They lived by the rhythm of the wind and the hunt; their songs were the calls of wolves and the laughter of running horses. Her father, Deyron, had been their finest hunter — the kind of man who could bring down a stag with a single arrow even as it ran.

When she was nine, a noble from Myr had come to their camp — soft hands, silken voice, and the smell of perfume instead of sweat and earth. He wanted to hunt, he said. To "taste the thrill of the wild" and bring back a lion's pelt to hang in his hall. Her father had warned him that the plains were not a game, that the beasts there did not bow to coin or noble birth.

But the man would not listen.

She could still remember his laughter — the false bravado of one who had never feared hunger or the cold. When they found the lion's tracks, the noble refused to wait for the wind to shift. He rode straight into the tall grass, shouting of his courage.

The screams that followed had silenced the world…

By the time they reached him, the lion had already torn him apart; her father had slain the beast, but the noble's blood had doomed them both.

The next day, Myr's soldiers came; they cut down her father for "murdering" their lord, and before the night was over, her tribe was scattered — the young taken in chains, the old left to die in the grass.

Ptéryssa had been sold in the slave markets of Myr, her bow torn from her hands, her spirit from her chest. The first place to buy her had been a brothel, no doubt eager for 'soft new flesh.' However, it only took the girl slicing open a customer's face with a broken cup for Ptéryssa's new owner to realize that she was more trouble than she was worth, and the girl was quickly sold to a new owner; this one far crueler, who used her as a manual laborer. For years, she had believed she would die there — another nameless girl broken beneath the weight of a world that saw her as nothing.

Until he came…

The god in flesh. The destroyer. Kratos.

She remembered the day he shattered her chains — remembered how the flames of Myr reflected in his eyes as he tore through her master's like they were made of paper; how he had ripped a nearby bow from the wall of her master's home and given it to her without a word. Not even attempting to stop her when she used that same bow to slaughter her former master and his horrid bitch of a wife! He had not looked at her as a slave. He had looked at her as a warrior.

And in that moment, she had been reborn.

When the slaughter was over and the smoke of Myr turned the sky black, Kratos had found her, sitting alone in a dirty alley as the rest of the city began the systematic execution of every former slave owner in the city. She had wanted no part in the bloodshed; true, she hated the former lords of the city, but at that moment, as she breathed the free air for the first time in years, all she wanted was to be left alone.

She remembered it as clearly as the mark on her arm — the way his shadow fell across her as she knelt among the dead, a bow clutched uselessly in her trembling hands.

For a long moment, he said nothing; his gaze, heavy as a mountain, pinned her in place, and for the first time in her life, Ptéryssa understood what it felt like to be prey before a predator.

Then his voice came — low, gravel-edged, and terrible in its calm:

"You fought," he said. "You did not run..."

She couldn't answer, only stare, heart hammering in her chest as he took a step closer, the ground seeming to groan beneath his weight.

"Tell me, girl. What is it you seek from this life? To flee this place? To chase ghosts of kin long dead…?"

Ptéryssa bit her lip until she tasted blood. Part of her did want to run, to vanish into the wilds and never look back. But she knew her people were gone. She knew she was alone. And more than anything — she was tired of being afraid…

So she raised her head and met his gaze.

"I want to be free," she said softly. "To feel the wind again… To hunt as I once did… and never wear chains again…"

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Kratos's expression shifted — not quite a smile, but something like approval flickered in his eyes as he placed his hand on her head, his palm calloused and heavy with power.

"Then rise, Ptéryssa," he said. "So long as you serve me, the wind will know your name…"

A moment later, the world seemed to explode; a force like a storm coursed through her veins, throwing her to the ground as her body arched in shock. She gasped, her vision filled with rushing air, swirling dust, and the sound of a thousand wings beating in unison.

When she opened her eyes, the bow that had been broken, now gleamed in her hands — reforged, reborn.

The wind that swept across the ruins carried her hair, whispering her name like a promise.

From that day forward, she trained as if possessed.

Every morning, she rose before dawn, alongside the others who desperately wished to earn the right to be called Spartans, running until their legs burned and their lungs felt carved from fire. Her instructors pushed her to fight with spear and sword, and though she learned — though she became more than competent — her heart was never in it. The weight of a blade felt alien in her hands. But the bow… the bow sang to her.

When she drew the string, she felt the world fall silent — the rush of air, the pull of gravity, the whisper of balance. Every arrow was a prayer to the god who had freed her, every target a hymn of gratitude. She shot until her fingers bled, until her arms trembled, until the fletching of her arrows was soaked in sweat and blood alike.

During the Battle of the Plains, when the Spartan phalanx clashed with the mercenary host from the Triarchy, she nearly died three times before finally throwing down her spear and breaking from the formation. The officers had screamed at her to return, and more than one of her comrades called her a coward, thinking she was fleeing from the battle, but she had already felt the wind calling. From the ridge above, she unleashed the bow from her back and loosed arrow after arrow into the enemy lines, every shot striking true. By the time the phalanx advanced, dozens lay dead with shafts through eye, throat, or heart.

After the battle was finished, she had been punished, as she knew she would be for breaking ranks, receiving five lashes across her back at the hands of her captain. She might have been killed outright if not for Kratos demanding she explain herself; once she had done so, Kratos silently judged her for a moment before passing sentence. She had disobeyed, but she had not fled; that alone had won her back some of the respect from her comrades. The rest had come from managing to keep silent throughout the whipping. Though she did have to bear the indignity of having her armor taken away, and told it would be returned when she had earned it.

But her legend was forged not on land — it was born at sea.

After the destruction of Lys, Ptéryssa was among those assigned to escort the treasure fleet back to Sparta. The voyage had been long and quiet, the sea calm under the pale moonlight — until the pirates came. Four ships, their sails black as tar, closing in fast from the east.

When the alarm was raised, Ptéryssa had already scaled the main mast and stood barefoot on the highest spar, the wind howling around her, her braid whipping like a banner. Without hesitation, she drew her bow.

Her first arrow struck the helmsman of the lead ship. The second took a pirate mid-laugh as he shouted orders. Each shot found its mark — not one wasted. Even as the ships turned, the Spartans below watching in awe, she continued to fire, her arrows singing across the waves like guided storms.

In less than five minutes, the sea had turned red — a dozen men dead, a score more wounded; the remaining pirates broke, their courage snapping like rope in the wind as they quickly turned tail and fled from the archer who could somehow fire from an impossible distance and strike true, every time.

When she descended, the soldiers stared at her as though a spirit had walked among them; that was the day they named her Ptéryssa the Wind-dancer — the archer who commanded the air itself, and upon reaching Sparta, her captain had quickly given her back her armor.

As she finally pulled herself back from the rolling tide of memory, Ptéryssa stared down at the red on her skin; the tattoo on her arm was not ink. It was memory — of pain, loss, and the promise she had made that day: That she would master the bow again.

That she would never miss another shot.

And that every arrow she loosed would honor the god who had given her back her wind.

A moment later, a small gust of wind blew in from her left, causing her to look in its direction, only to see another target suddenly appear; with a smile of victory, she leapt from where she had been crouching, an arrow already in her hand as she prepared to honor her god again.

XXXX

An hour later, the last arrow fell; the sound of it striking home echoed through the coliseum like thunder before fading into the roar of the crowd. For a moment, all was motion — the archers gasping, the audience screaming their approval, the arena itself trembling under the weight of its own grandeur.

Then, slowly, the noise began to fade as the arena shifted once more; beneath the sand, the gears groaned to life, and the towering walkways and bridges sank gracefully

back into the earth. The field became still again — smooth, unmarred, a blank canvas waiting for the next challenge as General Neos rose to his feet, raising his hand for silence, his voice carrying effortlessly across the coliseum.

"Of the five hundred who took up the bow," he declared, "one hundred have proven worthy of the title of Spartan archer! One hundred shall march to Valyria!"

The cheers that followed were deafening.

Among the departing competitors, Ptéryssa stood near the center of the group, her bow slung across her shoulder. Sweat traced silver lines down her temples, her chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. She did not raise her hands or bow to the crowd. Pride, for her, was a private thing.

As she walked toward the gate, the shifting sand and metal behind her settled into silence, and the faint wind brushed against her cheek, tugging playfully at her long hair as if whispering its approval.

Despite her aching arms, she smiled — small, but true.

Valyria awaited.

For most, it would be a journey into myth and danger. But for Ptéryssa, the Wind-dancer of Sparta, it was something more!

It was a promise — another horizon to chase, another storm to master!

And as she stepped through the gate and vanished into the shadowed tunnels beyond, the crowd's roar followed her like the voice of the wind itself.

XXXX

Author's Note: The idea for this character was given to me by one of my readers, and I hope you like her as much as I enjoyed creating her! I chose her name from the Greek word for 'Pterygion,' which means 'Little Wing.'

To those who have been asking, I've decided to make the matter plain:

After realizing that I have boxed myself into a corner, I have decided to alter a few things in canon. As powerful as Sparta is, there is simply no way it can become the full-on empire that I have planned in just six short years, which is when Canon is supposed to start. Therefore, I have decided to alter a few key events; for example, in 293 AC, which is when my story is currently taking place, Joffrey Baratheon is seven years old, Myrcella is three, and Tommen is two. One of the things I plan to change is to alter the year each of them was born to give me more time. So, Joffrey will be born in 289, now, just before the Ironborn rebellion, which will make him 4 right now, and the other two children not even born yet. This should buy me at least eight more years to work with before canon officially begins. I hope you all approve of this.

If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know, and if you didn't, let me know as well; constructive criticism is always helpful in making the next chapter better than the last.

Until next time!

Chapter Text

Beneath the coliseum, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The muffled roar of two hundred thousand voices rumbled above like a gathering storm. Each shout and chant vibrated through the stone walls. Torches burned in sconces along the tunnel, their flames flickering against sweat-slick skin and tense faces.

Meera stood among them, fists clenched, steadying the wild thundering in her chest. She had fought before, bled beside her brothers and sisters, but this was different. The air seemed charged—like the city held its breath.

Beside her, Rhosene leaned against the wall, arms crossed and head tilted back slightly. Her eyes, half-lidded but alert, scanned the crowd and flicked to Meera. Despite appearing relaxed, Rhosene's fingers tapped restlessly on her bicep, betraying her readiness. She exhaled quietly, the noise above making her seem more alive, her body taut like a predator preparing to move.

"You're breathing too fast," Rhosene muttered at last, her tone low and gravelly.

Meera blinked, startled. "What?"

Rhosene pushed off the wall and turned her sharp gaze on her younger sister-in-arms, studying her with a fine eye. "You'll wear yourself out before the fight even begins at this rate, little one... Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

Meera tried to follow the breathing instructions, inhaling and exhaling, but her timing stumbled. Rhosene noticed, stepped closer, and placed her rough hand firmly on Meera's shoulder. Rhosene's tone turned steady: "You've trained for this. You've bled for this. The time for fear is gone..."

"I'm not afraid," Meera said quickly, though her voice cracked just enough to betray her.

Rhosene's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Then prove it..."

A moment later, a voice echoed from the tunnel entrance, booming and clear: "Those who will fight in the final challenge, step forward!"

Rhosene's grin was feral as she turned toward the gate, torchlight glinting off her Spartan tattoo. "It's time, sister…" she said, voice rough with excitement.

Meera's heart hammered; the nerves remained, but sharpened. As Rhosene strode toward the light spilling from the open gate, Meera followed, her steps first hesitant, then steady.

As the two women stepped into sunlight, a wall of thunderous noise met them, rising from two hundred thousand citizens crying for glory.

The final trial had begun…

XXXX

The south gate shuddered, chains and gears groaning across the arena like a waking beast. Dust fell from the hinges as the slab of iron rose, inch by inch, light spilling into the tunnel. From the darkness came the largest group yet, filled with every last Spartan who had yet to compete in the tournament that would become legend throughout the city's history.

Thousands of bare-chested men and women alike, their skin glistening with oil and sweat, their muscles taut as bowstrings, stormed onto the white sand of the arena floor; each wore nothing but a loincloth or a breast wrap, their bodies stripped to the essentials, nothing between them and the test of raw survival.

The thunder of bare feet echoed as Spartans poured forward, row after row, until the arena seemed to tremble under their weight—a sea of flesh and fury, all breathing the same air, sharing one thought: this was the final trial.

From the Pillars' box, General Neos stood waiting for the last of them to emerge, his palms resting on the cool marble of the banister and his face set in a proud gaze as he looked down on his people. When the last woman stepped out onto the field, he finally spoke, and his voice boomed out like thunder across the Coliseum:
"Spartans!"
The single word struck the air like a hammer blow, and all noise ended in an instant.
"You have proven your strength… your endurance… and your mind. Now, only one truth remains to be tested — your will."

The crowd had fallen utterly silent, the weight of his words spreading like smoke across the seats. Even those who had cheered themselves hoarse now leaned forward, drawn to the general's voice like moths to flame.
"Three hundred places remain!" Neos bellowed. "Three hundred shall walk beside our Emperor into Valyria! Three hundred will carry Sparta's banner into the heart of legend! But hear me, and hear me well…"

He paused, his gaze cutting through the dust-filled air to the warriors below.

"This is not slaughter. This is control! You will fight, but not kill! Lose control, let bloodlust rule, and you're cast out! Sparta honors mastery, not the beast!"

For a heartbeat, there was stillness; then, from the front rows of the stands, came the sound — a single heavy thud. A fist slamming into marble. Then another. And another.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythm caught like wildfire; the entire coliseum moved, two hundred thousand Spartans slamming fists, feet, and palms in unison. The sound became a living thing—deep, rolling, deafening; the arena itself beat like a god's heart. Moments later, the drummers joined in, and the coliseum shook as though it had a heartbeat.

Neos stood unmoving, letting the sound grow until it was unbearable, until the very sky seemed to shake. Then, with a roar that split the air, he thrust his right hand skyward and held it there for a moment as everyone in the Coliseum, spectator and combatant alike, held their breath. A heartbeat later, Neos dropped his arm and roared one word:
"FIGHT!"
At the man's word, the gates slammed shut behind the combatants, and the world exploded.

XXXX

The arena became a storm; everywhere—movement: violent, fluid, relentless. Sand erupted under bare feet. Sweat and blood sprayed. The crowd's roar pressed across the coliseum like thunder. Men and women clashed in a frenzy of fists; some grappled, some struck, others circled and waited. Each duel, each brawl, each desperate struggle for dominance was its own world—self-contained battles fought beneath the eyes of mortals and gods.

Bodies collided, fell, and rose again. Dust turned the air gold. There were no weapons, no armor, no banners. Only the sound of flesh and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of thousands who refused to yield.
One woman broke an opponent's jaw with her elbow, then pivoted to block another's strike. A man caught his foe by the throat, only to be dragged down by two others. The rules were clear — no killing — but even so, blood darkened the sand, painting it crimson in places.
The crowd screamed for glory. For Sparta.
Through it all, one figure moved like a predator: Rhosene.

Her braided hair was knotted back; muscles flexed under ebony skin. The red mark on her arm glowed through sweat. Her grin was savage—white teeth flashing in the dust. For Rhosene, this wasn't just a fight; this was freedom made flesh!

She ducked beneath a wild swing, twisted her torso, and slammed her knee into her attacker's ribs, producing a sharp crack and sending him to the ground. Without pausing, she spun around, blocked another warrior's fist with her forearm, and grabbed her opponent's shoulder to execute a quick throw that sent the fighter sprawling.

Every motion seemed carved into her bones. But beneath her smile, beneath the joy of battle, something darker stirred…

The crowd's roar faded. Sunlight dimmed. For a moment, cheering was replaced by the echo of chains. In her mind's eye, she was no longer in Sparta. She was back in Meereen… Back in the pits… The sand beneath her feet was darker there — soaked in blood and misery. The air had stunk of sweat and iron. Around her, men had screamed, begged, and died for the entertainment of masters lounging in shaded seats above.

She remembered their faces — those gilded pigs with jeweled fingers, laughing as she tore her opponents apart. Her master's voice rang in her memory, oily and cruel:
"Dance for them, little beast. Dance, or I'll have your skin flayed tonight!"
And she had danced… Gods, how she had danced!

She had been the champion of the pits — undefeated, untouchable, and utterly broken inside. They had named her the Butcher's Pet, their golden monster. A creature of obedience and blood…

And then came a day that would change her destiny forever; her master had brought her to Myr, to be the centerpiece for a combat festival that the leaders of Myr were throwing to celebrate the city's founding. A festival that would never come to be…
She remembered that night so clearly that even all these years later, Rhosene could still see it in her mind's eye as though it was recurring before her:

The screaming.
The sound of the walls collapsing.
The world seemed to be ending in a storm of fury, smoke, and thunder, and through the smoke had come him.

Kratos.

He had walked through the burning corridors of the pens where Rhosene had been kept like a god of wrath made flesh, his every step seeming to shake the stones. Her master had attempted to free her, no doubt more concerned about saving his 'investment' than Rhosene herself, but had quickly fled when he was unable to find the key to her cell, leaving her to her apparent fate; and when Kratos had reached her cell and seen her, he had simply ripped the door from the wall.

Rhosene — bloodied, starved, chained — had hurled herself at him, shrieking like an animal, her only goal being to try to kill him!

The memory still burned, filling her with shame for what she had been; the look on his face as she lunged — not fear, not anger.
Pity.

His fist had struck her in the gut like a hammer; she remembered the air leaving her body, the pain, the sudden collapse. When she looked up, he was kneeling before her. The chains clinked between them like old ghosts.

"You are not an animal," he had said, his voice deep and steady as the earth.

She had snarled, spitting blood, her mind completely crazed beyond where words could reach her.

"You can be more," he said again. "Do you want to live?"

Something in his voice — in his eyes—had reached her where nothing else ever had; the fury had drained away, leaving only exhaustion and emptiness as she stared into his eyes. And with a choked sob, she had nodded.

Kratos had placed one finger against her forehead, and Rhosene had flinched, despite herself; she had expected pain — but what came instead was silence.

A silence so deep it felt like the world itself had stopped. Gone were the screams, the pleas for mercy, the cries of 'monster!'

And for the first time since her childhood, she remembered her own name.

"Do you remember, girl?" Kratos had growled. "Do you remember who you are, now?"

"I am… Rhosene…"

He had smirked — the faintest, smallest crack in his stone-carved expression as he gently reached down and ripped the chains from her wrist as though they were paper.

"Then rise, Rhosene," he had said. "There is work to be done..."

That was the day she was reborn.
From that moment, her life had been his.
Not out of debt. Not out of fear. But out of belief.

He had freed her from the darkness that had consumed her. He had given her purpose where before there had been nothing but blood. And now, when she fought, she fought not to kill — but to honor the man who had made her whole.
A fist grazed her jaw, snapping her back to the present as the roar of the crowd rushed in again, bright and deafening.

Rhosene snarled — but this time, the sound was not rage. It was triumph! She pivoted, grabbed her opponent's arm, and threw him over her shoulder in a single motion, causing him to fly several feet before he hit the sand and didn't rise again.

"Next!" she barked, her grin spreading, blood dripping from her lip.
Spartans circled her now, wary, hesitant. She could see the fear in their eyes — not the fear of death, but the fear of failure, of weakness, of not being worthy.

Rhosene knew that fear well.
She had lived it.
And conquered it.

"Come on, brothers!" she roared, spreading her arms wide, the crimson tattoo gleaming across her ebony skin. "SHOW ME YOUR STRENGTH!"
They came at her in a wave, and she met them with joy.
The crowd screamed her name — a thousand voices merging into one.
"RHOSENE! RHOSENE! RHOSENE!"

Above it all, Kratos sat upon his throne, his eyes fixed on her. For a brief heartbeat, her gaze met his — and in that moment, she felt something fierce and wordless pass between them.
Pride.
Not the pride of a god watching a worshipper, but of a master seeing his student finally surpass the chains of her past and become what he always knew she could be. And so she fought on, the sand rising around her like smoke, until the world itself seemed to vanish beneath the fury of her will.

XXXX

On the opposite side of the arena floor, Meera was once again wondering if she had gone mad to actually put her name down for this trial. She should have done the foot race or the archery contest!

Everywhere she looked, Meera saw bodies locked in combat, arms and legs flashing in the sunlight, every motion punctuated by the thud of flesh striking flesh and the roaring approval of a hundred thousand voices above.
She was in the middle of it — part of the storm, part of the song!

Her hair clung to her skin, slick with sweat, and her lungs felt like they were on fire, but still, she moved. A larger warrior swung at her, fast and wild, but Meera ducked beneath his blow, pivoted, and drove her elbow into his stomach, causing him to stumble, the breath leaving him in a single gasping grunt; before he could recover, she kicked his leg out from under him, sending him crashing into the sand, and then dropped her elbow down onto his chest.

The crowd erupted, a wall of sound that made her grin despite the ache in her limbs as she quickly jumped to her feet, as the healers rushed in and dragged him off the field.
She should have been terrified — surrounded by warriors twice her size, every muscle screaming for rest — yet all she felt was alive!

'This is madness,' she thought, breathless as she dodged another strike. 'Utter madness!'

She — Meera, daughter of a trader, a girl who had once spent her days counting coins and loading caravans — was now standing in the arena of gods. She was fighting for a place among the chosen who would march beside Kratos himself into the ruins of Valyria!
Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined this!
And yet here she was, her heart pounding, her body moving like it had been forged for this very moment.
As she straightened, panting, her eyes flicked upward — to the royal box.

There sat Kratos. The God of War. Her god.

He hadn't moved since the tournament began, not even a twitch. He didn't need to. Just his presence made the air heavier, the moment sharper. His silence was command enough…
And just below him, seated among the Pillars, was her.

Kara.

Her grandmother.

The old priestess's white hair gleamed in the sunlight like a crown of silver fire. Her expression was calm, but her eyes burned — twin green flames that blazed with fierce pride, and when their eyes met, Meera's throat tightened; for a heartbeat, the world fell away.
She remembered sitting by the campfire as a child, listening to her grandmother's voice whisper tales of the Pale God — the warrior from beyond the stars who would descend to free the world from its chains. She remembered laughing at those stories, thinking them foolish. Thinking her foolish.

But the god had come.

The Pale God had come.

And he had remade her life, and the lives of all those she knew, into something extraordinary!

Meera smiled up at her grandmother — sweat-streaked, bruised, panting — and felt tears sting her eyes. 'You were right, Grandmother,' she thought. 'You were right all along…'

A moment later, a shadow loomed, and she spun just in time to avoid a charging warrior; sand sprayed as she ducked, rolled, and came up behind him. The man turned — too slow — and Meera struck, grabbing a hold of his neck and lifting herself up before slamming her knee into his side and throwing him off balance, causing him to hit the ground with a heavy grunt as she rolled across the sand and came back up into a crouch.

Her laughter burst out before she could stop it — wild, bright, unrestrained; the sound of it was infectious, drawing the cheers of those nearby who saw the spark of something pure in her joy.

That was when she heard it — a high-pitched, furious scream that made her turn to look for the origin, only for her to mouth to drop open slightly at what she was seeing.

Not far from her, young Aeson — barely fourteen — had his arms locked around the neck of a man nearly twice his size, and was clinging to his back as though the man were a wild horse that the boy was attempting to break. His small body clung like a shadow as the older warrior staggered and cursed, flailing this way and that as he continued trying to pry him loose. Unable to help herself, Meera laughed out loud at what she was seeing; Aeson's face was red with exertion, his teeth bared as he let out a feral cry that could barely be called human.

"Fall, you giant cunt!" Aeson shrieked as he adjusted his grip and began trying to choke the man out. "Fall, damn you!"

Meera froze — and then started laughing so hard she could barely stand.
The sight was absurd. Inspiring. Spartan!
A moment later, the larger man finally went down, crashing to the sand with Aeson still clinging to him like a hunting wolf, and the crowd howled in delight.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Meera shook her head and laughed, a sound bubbling from deep in her chest.
Gods, what a life this was!
Her father had once told her that she was too restless to be a trader, too wild to settle down behind a counter. Maybe he'd been right… Maybe she'd always been meant for this — for the dust, for the struggle, for the fight!

A sharp pain flared in her arm as someone's knee grazed her, snapping her back to the moment, and she turned, eyes blazing now, and grinned at the approaching warrior.
"Come on then!" she shouted over the roar of the crowd, her heart hammering with exhilaration as Aeson tore through the battle, looking for his next challenge. "Let's see if you can do better!"
And as the next clash began, Meera thought she heard her grandmother's laughter echoing down from above — soft, proud, and full of faith.

XXXX

In the Envoy's box, Oberyn Martell leaned forward, his teeth flashing in a grin as wide as the Dothraki Sea as he watched the battle spread out across the arena floor. Thousands had been eliminated, but thousands more remained.
"By the gods," he murmured, half in awe, half in delight. "Look at them! They're tearing each other apart — and loving every heartbeat of it!"

Obara was already on her feet beside him, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
"Break his arm! Come on, you mountain of a man, throw him!"
When one of the Spartans did just that — lifting his opponent clear over his head and hurling him across the sand — the entire box seemed to vibrate from her scream of triumph. "Yes! That's how you do it!"

Even Ellaria, who had sworn she was above such bloodsport, found herself clapping before she realized it, while Nymeria and Tyene were beside their sister, shrieking like children at a festival.

Tyrion, by contrast, looked both enthralled and horrified as he lifted his goblet and muttered, half to himself,
"By the gods… they're tearing into each other like a pack of starving lions..."

Kevan Lannister turned his head sharply, his jaw tightening in disgust at his nephew's words.
"Tyrion, please," he said, his tone sharp as a blade. "Do not compare the proud symbol of our house with these savages… It is well that Sparta lies across the sea. Such brutality has no place in a civilized kingdom like ours..."

Oberyn turned his head just enough to smirk at the elder Lannister.
"Civilized?" he said smoothly. "Is that what you call a land where brothers poison each other for gold and kings burn cities for pride? Where men allow innocent mothers to be raped and their children murdered for no other crime than their birth?" He raised his goblet in a mock toast. "If this is savagery, Ser Kevan, perhaps I prefer it..."

Kevan's face flushed crimson. "You dare—"

"Enough."

Ned Stark's voice cut cleanly through the rising tension. He didn't raise it; he didn't need to. Even the Sand Snakes fell quiet at the sound of that steady Northern rumble.
"Both of you, stop behaving like children," Ned said, his eyes fixed on the arena below. "You forget that we are being watched just as much as we are watching, and this is not a city to show disunion in… Westeros must appear united, even if it is not truly so…"

The silence that followed was short-lived as the crowd roared again as a particularly massive Spartan sent three opponents sprawling in a single swing of his arm. Oberyn was the first to start laughing, unable to help himself.
"I love this city…"

XXXX

Back among the spectators, Daario Naharis leaned forward on the stone bench, grinning so wide his teeth gleamed in the sunlight. Sweat gleamed on his neck and arms, but his eyes were alive with the kind of excitement he hadn't felt since the old days on the battlefield. Around him sat the remnants of his company — former sellswords, mercenaries who had once fought for coin and survival. Now they wore the short white tunics of Spartan initiates, their faces painted with dust and pride.

"By the gods," Daario bellowed over the noise, slapping one of his men on the back, "look at them! Look at this! Tell me again we didn't make the right choice, eh?"
One of his men, a grizzled fellow named Corven, laughed between shouts. "Aye, captain! Better to fight beside demons than against them!"

Daario barked a laugh, eyes gleaming. "Demons? Hah! These aren't demons — these are gods in flesh! And we're learning to be the same!"

Another of his men grinned, rubbing the small scar on his shoulder. "Didn't feel like a god when they threw us into the Agoge, captain… Thought we were all going to die that first day…"

Daario smirked, leaning back with his arms crossed. "Aye… It's been a hard week, I'll grant you that. The lash, the hunger, the drills till your bones begged for mercy." His eyes drifted toward the arena floor, where hundreds of fighters slammed fists into flesh under the blazing sun. "But tell me, brother — would you trade it now?"

The man hesitated, then shook his head. "Never."

Daario nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Neither would I." He turned back toward the roaring pit, eyes narrowing as the sand erupted in chaos and glory. "The day I bent the knee to Kratos, I thought I'd lost everything. But now I see it."
He swept a hand toward the crowd — the ocean of screaming Spartan citizens, the thunder of pride, the unity that bound them all.
"We didn't lose anything," Daario said, his grin returning. "We just stopped fighting for coin... and started fighting for something real."

A moment later, Daario threw his arm around Bronn, who sat at his side, and pulled the man close to him.
"And we wouldn't even be in the Agoge if it weren't for you, you old whoreson! You won us our place with what you did last week!"

"I just tricked a noble cunt," Bronn muttered back. "Not all that impressive…"

"Deny it all you want," Daario laughed, "but if it weren't for you, we'd all still be on the work detail, instead of back on the battlefield where we belong!"

The other former mercenaries cheerfully agreed, and Bronn received several slaps on the back, causing him to grin slightly before waving them away as the crowd's cheer surged again, and Daario joined in, cupping his hands to his mouth and shouting down to the arena floor, his voice lost in the storm:
"SPARTA!"

The men around him echoed it — a chorus of rough voices shouting their new allegiance — and for the first time in his life, Daario Naharis felt like he belonged to something greater than himself.

XXXX

On the other side of the arena, the teenage assassin sat among the roaring sea of faces, but he heard none of it; the crowd screamed for blood and glory — sons and daughters of Lys and Tyrosh and Myr, all of them — their voices melting into a single thunder that made his stomach twist in disgust. Every cheer felt like a betrayal. Every chant of the god's name was another dagger in his chest.

How could they?

How could they cheer for the man who burned their homes!

His fingers clenched around the stone railing until his knuckles went white. Below, the Spartans clashed in their final trial, the sand dark with sweat and blood. The audience called it a celebration of strength. He saw only madness. Slaves who thought themselves free, worshiping the man who had enslaved them all.

Slowly, his gaze lifted toward the royal box.
There he sat — the butcher of Tyrosh. The god of war.
Kratos.

Even at this distance, the boy could feel the weight of him. The pale skin, the red mark, the sheer enormity of the man — a living monument to power. His massive frame sat unmoving, carved from the same stone as his throne, one hand resting against his cheek as if he were bored with the chaos below.

Hatred burned through the boy's veins, a living fire.
'You think yourself untouchable…' he thought bitterly. 'But today, false god, you bleed.'
The decision crystallized inside him — a cold, perfect truth, and he rose, every motion deliberate, careful not to draw attention.
The roar of the arena covered the sound of his footsteps as he slipped from his seat and into the dark passageways beneath the stands.

The further he went, the quieter it became; the thunder of the crowd dimmed to a low rumble, and the torchlight grew scarce as his heart pounded louder than his footsteps. The walls around him seemed to close in, damp and cool, their marble stones sweating under the heat of the day.
He moved quickly now, a shadow among shadows, his fingers brushing the dagger hidden under his tunic — the only relic he had left of Tyrosh. It had belonged to his father, a noble of proud blood and cruel reputation, cut down when the god of war's army swept through their home. Miraculously, the boy had managed to keep it hidden from the Spartans who had searched him, and he once again breathed a sigh of gratitude to the gods of Tyrosh for bringing him to this day. The day he would kill the man who had destroyed his city…

The corridor to the royal box loomed ahead, lit by only a few torches; the smell of oil and stone filled his nostrils as he crept closer, and that was when he noticed it — the silence.
No guards. No sentries. Nothing.
A slow, contemptuous smile spread across his face as he realized how easy his task had become.
"Arrogant fool," he whispered as he pulled the dagger free of its sheath. "You think no one would dare…"

Slowly, he stepped through the archway, the light fading behind him as he began to climb the narrow stair; each step brought him closer to the pale god's back, closer to vengeance!

The air grew colder the higher he climbed, the sound of the crowd above fading to a muffled hum. His heartbeat slowed. Every motion was careful now, quiet as breath. The dagger felt heavy in his hand, but right.

He reached the top of the stairs and paused, staring down the final hallway — the passage that led directly into the royal box itself.

No one was there. No one waiting.
Just a faint light spilling from the open archway ahead.
He smirked again, eyes glinting with hate.
"You think yourself untouchable," he whispered, tightening his grip on the dagger. "We'll see how a god bleeds..."
And with that, he stepped forward — into the shadow of the god's throne.

XXXX

Back on the arena floor, the battle had become a living storm — fists, knees, and sand all blurring together in a thunder of flesh and will; the heat shimmered, the air thick with the sound of bodies colliding and the deep rhythmic chant of the crowd. The number of combatants had dropped to more than half, but still so many remained.

Through it all, Rhosene moved as if she had been born from the chaos; her grin was a mix of blood and joy, every strike another heartbeat in the war song pounding in her chest. She had just dropped a broad-shouldered opponent with a knee to the balls when she heard it — a familiar, rasping laugh that cut through the noise like a blade.
"Rhosene!"

She turned just in time to see her — the same woman from the sparring pits, her hair black and damp with sweat, her dark skin glistening in the sun, and one eye still swollen purple from their last brutal match. She stood a few paces away, chest heaving, a wild grin splitting her face.
"I finally found you!" the woman shouted over the chaos, her fists raised. "Let's finish what we started!"
Rhosene smirked, rolling her neck until it cracked. "Happy to!" she barked back.

And then they charged.

When they met, it wasn't grace — it was thunder! The collision sent up a spray of sand, the air itself seeming to shudder with the impact as they grappled, shoved, swung; each strike testing the other's strength and balance. The woman threw a vicious elbow; Rhosene ducked under it and drove her shoulder forward, forcing her opponent back a step.

They broke apart, circling in the dust; around them, other fights blurred into noise, the world narrowing until there was only the two of them — sweat, breath, and the pulse of the arena beneath their feet.

"You still fight like a drunk!" the woman taunted, grinning through split lips.
Rhosene laughed, her teeth bright against the blood on her chin. "And you still talk too much!"

She lunged; the woman met her halfway, and their forearms clashed, their fists slammed into ribs and shoulders; sand clung to their skin like gold dust, every strike a spark in the inferno of the moment. They traded blows that would have felled lesser warriors, and each time one stumbled, the other let her rise — because neither wanted to win too soon.

The crowd's roar built around them, louder, wilder — two women locked in glorious fury, both smiling like devils as around them men and women fell by the dozens. Then, for a heartbeat, they both missed; two wild swings, too eager. They stumbled past each other, back-to-back, and for a strange, perfect instant, both burst into laughter.

"Gods, I love this!" the woman gasped, her voice hoarse as Rhosene spat blood into the sand and grinned widely.
"You call this fighting? I've had worse from the children's pits!"

"Keep talking, bitch," her opponent panted, her lips pulled back in a smile. "I'll make you eat that grin when we meet in Valyria!"
Rhosene barked a short, delighted laugh. "You'd better live long enough to try! Speaking of which, you should probably tell me your name before I make you unable to speak!"

"I am Dafni!" The now named woman laughed back, raising her fists in expectation, and it's you who will soon be unable to talk, after I knock those shiny teeth down your throat!"

With a laugh, Rhosene and Dafni charged each other again, not with hate, but with joy. Their strikes sang of challenge, of promise, of mutual respect, forged through bruises and grit. Finally, both stepped back at the same time, panting hard, sweat running in streaks through the dust on their skin; around them, the melee still raged, but for the two of them, the fight was over.

The woman straightened, grinning fiercely despite the swelling around her eye. "Enough for now," she said. "I'll see you in Valyria, Rhosene."

Rhosene nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Count on it, Dafni," she said, before turning toward another fight already calling her name.

As she moved away, she couldn't help but smile to herself; somewhere deep down, beneath the blood and the violence, she felt it — the thrill of belonging, of purpose, of a family made not by birth but by battle as the war-song of Sparta thundered on.

XXXX

In the royal box, Kratos remained still.

Since dawn, when the first boulder had been lifted and the first roar of the crowd had echoed through the coliseum, the God of War had sat upon his throne in silence. The hours had burned away like the desert wind, and still he remained — motionless, unblinking, his crimson tattoo stark against skin like carved marble. One palm rested lazily on the arm of his throne, while the other arm was cocked at the elbow, his fist resting against his cheek.

Below him, his people fought, bled, triumphed; they were the sons and daughters of a reborn nation, shaped not by lineage but by will. Every strike, every shout, every heartbeat upon the sand belonged to him — to Sparta reborn.

Pride swelled in his chest, a silent, heavy warmth that he had not felt since the days of old Greece, when phalanxes of red-cloaked warriors marched in perfect unity beneath the sun. They had been magnificent then — beautiful in their discipline, terrifying in their strength.
And doomed.

For beneath their iron discipline had festered arrogance. The same arrogance that had driven them to believe they were gods in all but name. Kratos remembered that pride — and the ruin it brought. He remembered the streets of Sparta burning, his people screaming as the walls fell, and the cold hand of Zeus tearing apart Kratos's city, all because of his own fear. A fear that Kratos had made real soon after.

That memory haunted him more than any ghost.

When he conquered Myr and forged it anew in his image, he had sworn that history would not repeat itself. His Spartans would not fight for vanity, glory, or pride. They would not kill for power or the illusion of immortality.
They would fight for one another. For the hand beside theirs in the phalanx. For the city that gave them life.
For the hope of something greater than themselves.

That was what made them strong — not their blades, not their bodies, but their unity.

His gaze swept across the arena one last time, and for the briefest instant, his jaw tightened — not with rage, but with worry. He could see the old fire in them, the one he once carried in his own heart. The intoxicating hunger for battle, for perfection, for the kill. It was a flame that could forge… or destroy.

Kratos's massive hand curled slowly into a fist at that; he had built a new Sparta from the ashes of old, and he would die before letting it fall the same way. The Ghost of Sparta, who had ripped Greece apart, was dead; Kratos had killed him alongside his father and the rest of the gods of Olympus, and Kratos would die before he ever allowed that ghost to return.

Above the thunder of the crowd, the God of War sat silent, watching, judging, remembering — and wondering if he had truly freed himself from the curse of his past, or if he had simply passed it on to those who now called him their god.

XXXX

Not far away from Kratos, in the royal box, the boy moved like a shadow through the upper corridors of the coliseum; the roar of the crowd below masked the faint scrape of his sandals against the stone as his breath came slow and measured, his heart hammering so loud he thought it would give him away.
Ahead, through the archway, light poured from the royal box — gold and red, flickering with torch fire; and there, upon the obsidian throne at its center, sat Kratos.

The God of War. The Destroyer of Tyrosh.
The monster who had taken everything.
The boy's hand trembled as he raised the dagger above his head and silently crept forward, every step burned in his chest as he imagined the pale monster choking on his own blood and dying in his chair, proving to all that he wasn't a god, just a man! As he crept closer, his eyes locked on Kratos's back — massive, unmoving, the faint glint of the red tattoo catching the light; this was almost too easy; the bastard didn't even know he was here!

One step closer.

Then another.

He was so close now he could smell the faint trace of oil and metal, feel the heat that seemed to roll off the god's skin like a forge at rest; his pulse quickened, his mouth dried terribly as he crept closer and closer still. As he got just behind the monster's throne, he smiled cruelly; soon, he would avenge Tyrosh, his family, and his life!

He raised the dagger still higher, prepared to strike, to take his revenge!
And froze as a voice rumbled out:

"Well?"

The voice rolled through the chamber like thunder. Deep. Calm. Terrifying. And stopped the boy in his tracks; the dagger froze at an angle, mere inches from the monster's neck, yet Kratos did not turn his head. He did not need to. The single word alone seemed to shake the boy's soul apart.

"What are you waiting for?"

The dagger wavered in the boy's hand, his knuckles white as the color drained from his face, making him almost as pale as the monster that had haunted his nightmares for months now.

He knew.
Somehow, he knew!

The dagger in his trembling hand caught the torchlight, glinting like fire as his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He had planned everything — every step, every turn, every breath! He had moved like a ghost through the corridors, hidden in the roar of the crowd. No one had seen him. No one could have seen him!
And yet Kratos knew!

The god still hadn't turned around; his enormous frame remained still upon the throne, one arm resting lazily against the armrest, eyes fixed on the chaos of the arena below, where Spartans clashed and fell like crashing waves.

"It takes great strength to actually take a life, boy…" Kratos's voice rumbled, low and steady. "And even greater courage..."

The words struck harder than any blow, and the boy's anger boiled up, choking his fear.
"You dare?" he hissed, stepping around the side of the throne, dagger raised high. "You dare call me a coward!"

He stopped before Kratos, the god's face now in full view — calm, unreadable, carved of stone and war. The boy thrust the blade forward until the tip hovered inches from the god's throat, his voice breaking with fury.
"After what you did to my home! To my family! You think I fear you?"

Kratos's gaze shifted — slowly — until those terrible eyes locked with the boy's, glowing faintly in the torchlight, the color of old blood and molten gold.

"Your family," Kratos said, his voice heavy as judgment, "were slavers… Tyrants. Butchers of their own kind. They fed on the misery of others — children broken on their whips; men worked to death for their pleasure. Women forced to give what no man has a right to take…"

"Lies!" the boy spat, trembling with rage as he held the dagger before him with both hands, a mere inch from the monster's throat. "It was our right! The law of nature! The strong rule the weak — that is how the world works!"

At that, Kratos's jaw flexed; yet still, he did not rise, did not even lift a hand.
"And that," Kratos said quietly, "is why Tyrosh fell..."

The boy faltered at that, the dagger shaking in his hand as he tried to find the will that had been present mere moments ago; he was so close now. So close to avenging his family! Yet the calm certainty of the god's voice cut through his rage like a blade through silk.

"It was not I who destroyed your city," Kratos continued, his tone unchanging. "It was its own cruelty. Its own corruption. The rot had already consumed it — I simply ended the decay, boy..."

The dagger wavered in the boy's hands, and his breath hitched as the truth pressed against his denial.
"My name is Tirian Vael, not boy!" he spat, his voice cracking under the weight of fury and grief. "I was meant to rule Tyrosh — the greatest city in all of Essos! I was born to command legions, not to crawl in the dirt beside slaves or stain my skin with your red mark like the savages who worship you! You stole everything from me!"

Kratos leaned forward just enough for his shadow to fall over the boy, vast and suffocating, the tip of the blade now pressed against Kratos's skin; yet, even this close to death, the monster didn't flinch as he stared directly into the boy's eyes.
"Everything?" Kratos rumbled, his voice deep as the mountains. "You had nothing. You mistook chains for crowns. You called your father's cruelty strength, your people's greed greatness. You were born in a cage, boy — one gilded with gold, but a cage all the same…"

Tirian's hand trembled, yet he still seemed to be unable to push forward the last inch he needed to kill Kratos. "You—"

Kratos's voice rose, the sound echoing off the stone like thunder.
"I took nothing from you! I gave you what your blood never could — truth. Freedom. The world does not kneel to the weak, nor does it spare the cruel. I tore down Tyrosh not for vengeance… but for balance."
He leaned closer still, his breath hot as forge smoke.
"Strike if you must. But know this, you will fail… And you will not die as a noble. You will die as what you are. A child of a dead city. A coward trying to reclaim a world that deserved to burn…"

A moment later, the thing that Tirian feared came to pass as a voice screamed out:
"Assassin! There's an assassin in the royal box!"

The words tore through the coliseum like lightning through a dry field; thousands of heads snapped upward in unison, and in an instant, the air turned to ice. The roar of the arena—the thunder of fists and flesh colliding below—fell away into a rising wave of screams and confusion. Fighters froze mid-blow. Bloodied men and women, moments ago locked in mortal combat, stood wide-eyed and panting as they turned toward the Emperor's throne.

And there, silhouetted in the blinding sun, a boy stood trembling—dagger raised, its point a breath from Kratos's throat.

From the envoys' box, there were cries of alarm and incomprehension. Tyrion's goblet slipped from numb fingers; wine painted a dark curlicue on the stone floor. Ned stood so suddenly his cloak rustled like an animal. Jon's face had gone pale; his small hand gripped the bench until the wood creaked. Oberyn and his retinue stared in shock, unable to believe what they were seeing.

"Guards!" General Neos's voice shattered the silence, echoing like a thunderclap across the arena. "Protect the Emperor!"

Steel boots pounded the marble as the city guards surged from the side corridors, their red cloaks whipping like tongues of fire.

Panic spread through the stands as onlookers pushed back, desperate to see and yet afraid to look.
But Kratos did not move.
He sat as he always did—massive, immovable, a god carved from living stone; his gaze never left the boy who stood before him, dagger trembling in both hands.

The crowd was a storm of sound. The guards' boots grew louder. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

"If you wish to strike," Kratos said, his voice low, guttural, and cold as steel drawn across bone, "do it now. You are running out of time..."

The boy's breath came in short, ragged bursts. Tears and fury mingled on his face. He had come so far—suffered so much to reach this moment—and now the sound of the guards drew closer, a pounding rhythm of doom.

His hand shook once as he stared into the face of the monster who had stolen his destiny; then he screamed—a raw, broken sound—and lunged forward.

The motion lasted only an instant.
A whistling sound cut through the air, then a wet, meaty thunk!

The boy's cry turned into a shriek of agony as a spear punched through his forearm, the force of the throw hurling him sideways and pinning him against the stone wall, the dagger clattering from his grip and tumbling uselessly across the floor.
Gasps rippled through the coliseum; on the arena floor, warriors and envoys alike stared up in disbelief at the impossible throw.

From the Pillars box, Bellatrix stood atop the banister, arm still outstretched from the throw, eyes burning with murderous focus, and an inhumane snarl upon her lips. The shaft of the spear still quivered, buried through the boy's arm and deep into the wall behind him as Kratos finally rose.
The movement was deliberate, terrible in its slowness; the god's shadow fell across the trembling boy like a shroud as he sobbed and desperately tried to pull the spear from his wrecked arm; meanwhile, Kratos looked down at him—not with anger, nor triumph, but with disappointment.

When he spoke, his voice filled the world.
"You could have lived with purpose," he said, every word like a hammer blow. "But you chose to allow your fear to consume you..."

The first of the guards arrived a moment later, tearing the spear free in a gush of blood and dragging the boy to the ground as he cried out in pain. The would-be assassin screamed, clutching his ruined arm, but Kratos only stared down at his would-be killer with a face as hard as stone.

"Die traitor!" The guard snarled, raising his sword high to behead the boy in one fell swoop; just as the sword was inches away from ending his life, Kratos's voice rang out:

"Stop."

The single word silenced everything.
The guard froze mid-motion, sword resting just above the sobbing boy's neck as the crowd held its breath again.

"Bind him," the god commanded. "Not for death. For judgment… He was placed in the Agoge, that makes him Spartan. And as such, he will receive Spartan justice."

The boy choked out a hoarse snarl, his tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face as he was roughly hauled to his knees. "I'm not a fucking Spartan!" Tirian spat back hatefully. "I am a son of Tyrosh! I haven't forgotten my people like these traitors!"

"The only traitor here is you, you filthy Ephialtes!" The guard snarled angrily as more entered the royal box.

"You'll… you'll regret this…" Tirian gasped, his voice broken with pain and rage. "I swear it by Tyrosh's blood!"

Kratos regarded him as one might a dying flame. "Tyrosh's blood is already spent..."

A moment later, the guards seized Tirian, wrenching his arms behind his back and making him scream in agony as his ruined arm spurted blood across the once clean marble floor; as he was hauled to his feet, one of the guards swiftly picked up the dagger that had once belonged to Tirian's father, and the boy cried out in heartbreak, only to receive a swift backhand across the face which made him cry out again. As they dragged him toward the exit, his defiance dissolved into sobs and curses, his voice echoing faintly beneath the vaulted dome.

Kratos watched in silence, his arms crossed over his chest, as he sighed wearily. When the boy vanished from sight, the god turned back to the arena below, where just over a thousand fighters remained, standing in eerie stillness, their eyes fixed upon him.

His voice rolled through the air like the growl of thunder before a storm.
"Continue."

The word alone was enough.
A roar erupted from the coliseum as fists once again struck flesh, as Spartans screamed their battle cries and drove themselves back into the fray. Yet beneath that sound was a different note now—fear, awe, reverence.

In the Pillars box, Bellatrix quickly jumped from the banister and retook her seat, receiving a warm slap on the shoulder from Floki, who congratulated her on her well-placed throw.

From the envoy's box, Tyrion's face was pale as bone. Jon muttered something prayer-like under his breath. Oberyn Martell's smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of sharp, uneasy fascination. Ned slowly lowered himself back to his seat, his mind troubled by what he had just seen; the boy was a fool, and would no doubt receive the harshest penalty for his stupidity, sad for one so young... Beside him, Kevan stared thoughtfully at the royal box, perhaps all of Sparta was not as loyal as he had thought…

As the fighting resumed, Kratos sat back down upon his throne and returned to his previous position, his face returning to its unreadable, stone-like mask.

XXXX

A few hours later, it was over.

The sun dipped low behind the mountains, painting the sky above Sparta in molten gold and crimson. Its light spilled through the coliseum's arches, bathing the vast arena in the glow of fire and blood — a fitting light for warriors.

On the sands below, ten thousand stood shoulder to shoulder. Victors and vanquished alike — men and women who had given everything they had, who had fought until their muscles tore and their bones screamed. Some were held upright by their comrades, others stood on shaking legs, bandaged and bruised, faces caked with blood and grit. Yet every single one of them stood.

Above, the crowd filled the air with thunder; they screamed until their throats were raw, until the very stone beneath their feet trembled with the sound of it.

Then Kratos rose, and the sound died as though cut by a blade; even the wind stilled.
The God of War stood before the banister of the royal box like a mountain rising from the sea, his scarred frame blazing with the dying light as his eyes swept over the warriors below — over the bloodied, the broken, the triumphant. For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing.

When he finally spoke, his voice rolled through the coliseum like the voice of the earth itself:
"You have all given everything. Blood, bone… pride. Those who stand among the chosen — you have earned your place through sweat and pain. And those who have fallen short…"
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the battered faces, the ones still trembling with exhaustion and shame.
"Do not let failure break you. Let it forge you... Sparta does not breed perfection. It breeds those who refuse to stay broken. Every defeat is a lesson. Every scar is a teacher. You fell today — so that you might rise stronger tomorrow."

He turned slightly, his eyes like burning coals as he looked down on them all, warriors and children. Envoys and citizens.
"Do not be sorry…"
He clenched his fist, his voice rising like thunder cracking the heavens.
"…be better!"

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then — an eruption. The sound that followed shook the coliseum to its foundations; warriors screamed his words back at him.
Fists raised. Tears streaked the faces of men and women who moments ago could barely stand.
"BE BETTER!" they roared in unison.

From the highest seats to the blood-soaked sands, the chant rolled through Sparta like an earthquake, uniting all under one God, one city, one creed. And as the sun finally sank behind the mountains, its last light catching the red banners that lined the walls, Sparta — Empire of the Free — roared into the coming night.

XXXX

Hours later, the moon hung high over the city, and yet despite the late hour, the city of Sparta was alive!
From the windows of the Iron Bank's quarters, Myros Vhal could see the glow of a thousand torches burning through the night. The streets below were choked with people — citizens and soldiers alike — drinking, laughing, and singing praises to their god-king. The air itself seemed to hum with triumph.

Myros sat at the head of the table once again, his fingers pressed together in a cathedral of flesh before his lips. Deryo and two other envoys sat nearby, all of them pale and tense. The echoes of the day still clung to them — the roaring coliseum, the failed assassin, the impossible calm of the Spartan god-king who had not even bled.

Now, as darkness blanketed Sparta, the envoys waited in silence for a different kind of power.

The Faceless Men.

Myros's mind churned behind his motionless face. 'The boy's failure was not ideal, but it proves even gods can be reached. Fear can be sown.' His jaw tightened. 'And if this meeting succeeds, perhaps Kratos will not live to see his sunrise…'
He glanced toward Deryo, who sat wringing his hands. The younger man's nerves irritated him. "Still yourself," Myros said coldly. "If the legends of the Faceless Men are true, then they are not far."

Almost as if summoned by his words, a knock came at the door.
Soft. Deliberate. Three times.

Everyone froze at the sound, and Myros's eyes narrowed as he stared at the door with an all-consuming focus.
"Open it."

Deryo hesitated, then obeyed, his trembling fingers working the latch. The hinges groaned open — and in stepped four figures. Three men and one woman, cloaked in shades so black the light itself seemed to flee from their garments. No words. No greetings. Only the slow, measured rhythm of their boots upon marble as the air shifted, and every breath in the room suddenly felt heavier.

Myros forced a smirk to mask his unease. "So… the ghosts of Braavos finally show themselves." He spread his hands as if welcoming honored guests. "Please, sit. I imagine you don't travel far without purpose."
None of them moved. None spoke. They stood like statues of shadow, faces set in that eerie mask of indifference that they all liked to wear; Myros swallowed slightly as he realized that he couldn't even be sure if these WERE their true face, given their proclivity to change them every other day…

The silence stretched until it grew unbearable, and Myros's smirk faded into a sneer. "I suppose we should start with exactly how much you want, then? I know I said the Iron Bank would 'reward you handsomely,' but perhaps we can put an actual number on that…"

Still, no response.

Only the whisper of breath as a bead of sweat slid down Deryo's neck, and Myros's patience cracked.
"Well? Is this how you do business in the House of Black and White — or have your tongues been taken along with your names?"

Finally, one of them spoke. A man's voice, low and eerily calm.
"A man cannot make such decisions alone... We wait for our leader to arrive. He will be here shortly…"

Myros rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Of course… Even killers need hierarchy... Very well — we'll wait for your… leader."

Minutes crawled by, heavy as years; none of the assassins moved, and the only sound was the flicker of the lamp. Then, a fifth figure opened the door without knocking and stepped through the doorway as if he owned the room the envoys were in.

He was tall, lean, and dressed in a plain black tunic. His hair was dark, his face narrow and forgettable. Ordinary. Too ordinary.

"Finally," Myros muttered. "Let's get to business and discuss our contract."

The newcomer said nothing at first, simply stepped into the lamplight, his eyes scanning the room — eyes cold, ancient, and strangely familiar, before finally coming to a stop opposite Myros. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth as oil but carried an undertone that made even the shadows quiver.

"There will be no contract."

Myros blinked at that, sure he had misheard; the Faceless Men never turned down a contract. Not once in their entire history.
"What?"

"You heard me."

Anger flared in Myros's chest. "Do you understand what you're saying? The Iron Bank hired you! You serve—"
The man cut him off by lifting a hand.
"We serve death. And death has already chosen its ally."

The room froze at that, as though none of the envoys could believe their ears; then, before their horrified eyes, the man reached up and gripped his face, his fingers sinking into the flesh — and he pulled.

The mask came away like silk, and in its place stood Becker — Lord of Shadows, cloaked in quiet menace, his eyes gleaming with inhuman calm.
Deryo gasped. One of the envoys screamed. Myros went white as a bone.
"You…" Myros stammered, "You're—"

"Becker of Sparta," the man finished smoothly, a wicked smile firmly locked on his ebony face. "Faceless Man. Servant of the Many-Faced God. And through him…" His gaze hardened to iron. "Servant of Kratos."

The silence broke like glass as the assassins moved as one — blades whispering from their sleeves, and in moments, it was over.

The first envoy's throat opened with a wet hiss. The second tried to flee and was pinned to the wall by a throwing knife. Deryo ducked beneath the table, trembling as screams were swallowed by steel.

When it was done, Myros lay sprawled across the table, his lifeless eyes staring into the lamplight; the flame flickered in them like dying gold.
Becker stood over him, wiping the blade clean on the man's fine robe; only Deryo remained — pressed against the wall, shaking, staring up at the monster before him as Becker crouched down, his expression almost gentle. "Fear not, little banker. You live because I allow it..."

Deryo's voice came out as a broken whisper. "W–why… why us?"
Becker tilted his head. "Because your masters forgot their place." His tone was soft, almost reflective. "The Many-Faced God has watched your kind for centuries — buying death, selling power, mistaking greed for strength."

He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight.
"In another world, your kind worshiped another god of death who thought himself eternal. Lord Kratos slew him… And it was just."

Becker's voice deepened, reverent.

"When the Many-Faced God learned of this, he did not mourn the fallen. He saw the truth. The god of death was no longer fit to rule — so the mantle passed. Kratos killed one god… and in doing so, earned the respect of another."

Deryo's breath came in ragged gasps. "You… serve him? But he's just—"

Becker smiled faintly. "A man? A god? Both. It matters not. What matters is that his will is life and death in balance. And I — we — are His shadows."

He stood, towering over the trembling banker. "You will live, Deryo of Braavos. You will return to your masters. You will tell them what you saw here tonight."

He turned, gesturing toward the corpses sprawled across the blood-slick floor.

"Tell them this city cannot be bought. That gold has no weight here. Tell them they have one choice left..."
Deryo swallowed hard, tears streaking down his cheeks. "What choice?"
Becker's smile turned cold.
"Kneel… or fall."

"Y-you truly believe the Sealord will allow this!" Deryo cried back, trying to be brave, yet the tears running down his cheeks destroyed the illusion. "He will grind your House of Black and White to dust!"

Becker smirked at that, as though amused by Deryo's threats, and he reached down and ruffled the man's hair as though he were a petulant child.

"Let him… In a moon's turn, the Faceless Men will all be gone from Braavos. The House of Black and White is just an empty building. Our new home is the seat of Lord Kratos's growing empire. In Sparta, the Faceless Men will grow stronger than ever before…"

Without another word, Becker turned and walked out, his cloak whispering over the stone; the assassins followed in perfect silence, leaving the Iron Bank's envoy alive amid the ruin of his companions.
When Deryo finally staggered to his feet, the torches had burned low. Outside, Sparta still sang to its god beneath the moonlight, unaware that the world had just turned again in ways that would echo throughout history…

XXXX

Author's Note:

The tournament is done! I'm not going to lie, I had another challenge lined up, but many of you were stating that the arc was becoming repetitive, and after rereading the past few chapters, I understood what you meant. I hope this latest chapter satisfies you all; if not, please let me know what I could have done better. Constructive criticism is always welcome! Until next time, my lovelies!

Chapter Text

The two days following the tournament became a storm of motion and sound, transforming a city into a living engine of war. Sparta pulsed with urgency; every street, every forge, every breath of wind carried the same feverish momentum, as though someone had kicked over a hive and the swarm had taken flight.
Down by the docks, shipwrights labored without pause, their tools ringing like steel song beneath the sun.

At their center strode Floki, Lord of the Seas, barefoot and wide-eyed, his laughter cutting through the din like a mad hymn. The thought that his ships would carry the army destined to claim Valyria filled him with a feral joy that all could see as he shouted orders and curses alike, vaulting between half-built hulls like a man dancing on waves. Hammers and chisels struck in rhythm, sparks leaping like fireflies as black-and-red warships took shape under his watchful eye. Their prows were carved into the likenesses of wolves, lions, and dragons — beasts of old reborn in Spartan image. Ropes coiled across the piers like serpents.
The air reeked of pitch, salt, and sweat, thick enough to taste.

Nearby, engineers oversaw the loading of supplies; amphorae of oil and wine, sacks of grain, chests of spears, and shields stacked like scales of some great serpent; orders were barked in perfect cadence, echoing off the stone harbor walls as General Neos, Lord of War, and Cassandra, the Lord of Coin, moved among the workers, their gazes sharp as blades. Every crate was logged, every cart inspected; nothing left Sparta without their mark.
Throughout the city, citizens moved with purpose. Merchants drove carts of fruit and meat through the crowded avenues. Smiths in the Hall of Hephaestus quenched glowing blades in vast bronze vats, each hiss of steam rising like the breath of gods. Even the children played their part, darting through the streets with bundles of arrows or folded cloaks, faces lit with pride and awe.

And above it all, the city guard kept order. Bellatrix, her silver helm glinting in the sun, led patrols through the throng; her soldiers' crimson cloaks cut through the chaos like ribbons of flame. The emperor might soon depart for Valyria, but the law of Sparta would not rest. Already, more than one tavern had been shut down after drunken brawls spilled into the streets — the laughter of celebration swiftly silenced by the clatter of armored boots.

By the morning of the second day, the envoys from Pentos, Norvos, and Lorath had already departed; their ships had slipped out of Sparta's harbor under banners of crimson and gold, bound for their home cities to prepare them for formal entry into the Spartan Empire.

The holds of their ships filled with gifts of grain, coin, and steel, as well as the weight of oaths sworn before the Pale God's altar. What had begun as fear of conquest had turned to devotion, and their departure was marked not by dread but by reverence.
The other envoys from Essos soon followed, but their leaving was not done with awe and hope for the future of their cities, but with worry and a feeling of dread for what the future held; they departed in silence, each man and woman eager to return home, to warn their rulers of what they had seen, and of what was coming.

The envoys of the Iron Bank fled the same night as the slaughter of their leader; led by Deryo, Myros's shaken second-in-command, the Braavosi had vanished under the cover of darkness, boarding their small galley bound for home before the bodies of the dead men had even cooled. None dared to look back at Sparta's glowing towers as the ship's white sails caught the midnight wind; they fled not only to escape the fate that had claimed their leader, but to carry a message — Becker's message — to the Iron Bank itself: "Kneel… or fall."
XXXX

On the western side of the city, life continued in its usual way; the emperor might be leaving within a few short hours, but that didn't mean that the training of the next generation of Sparta's warriors ceased. In the Agoge field, children and grown adults moved in formation under the unwavering eyes of their trainers, their movements exact, and their form flowing as one like a river of muscle and sweat.

At noon, when the trainers called his squad to a halt for their mid-day meal, Viserys wearily dropped his shield and wooden sword and walked alongside the rest of his squad towards the gate where his younger sister was waiting with a smile on her face, instantly making one appear in his as well.
However, as he crossed the field, his eyes fell upon the black iron cage that sat nearby, and his smile swiftly vanished as quickly as a flame when kissed by the wind.

For two days now, the boy—Tirian Vael, that was his name—was chained to the bars by his wrists, the skin rubbed raw where the iron bit into his flesh. He knelt in the dirt, his once-fine Spartan tunic reduced to rags, his hair hanging in filthy clumps over his eyes; eyes that glared out hatefully at anyone who came close. Above him, a simple wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze:

EPHIALTES.
Traitor.

For two days, he had been left there—on display for all of Sparta to see; soldiers, students, even children passed the cage in silence, some pausing only to spit or fling a handful of dust at the boy within. Kratos had ordered that he be kept alive, but had not specified how. The guards took that as license to do the bare minimum. A scrap of bread here, a cup of water there—just enough to keep his heart beating, nothing more.
They despised him. All of them. To the Spartans, Tirian Vael was not merely an assassin, but a symbol of betrayal; a boy shown mercy by the god-emperor himself, who had repaid that mercy with treachery.

At first, Tirian had raged against them. He had screamed curses, hurled insults, spat at those who mocked him. Even the other children of Tyrosh had made their scorn plain for the would-be assassin, hurling insults and rocks from the Agoge ground; that, more than anything, had seemed to hurt Tirian, who would scream at them, calling them traitors to the city of their birth, even as tears ran freely down his face. But time and hunger wore away even fury, and now he only knelt in the dirt, staring at nothing. The hatred that once blazed in his eyes had burned itself out, leaving behind only the hollow weariness of a soul that no longer knew what to hate more—the god who had spared him, the citizens of his former city who had so willingly turned their backs on the city of their birth, or himself.

Slowly, Viserys approached the cage, stopping a safe distance away, and stared, torn between two worlds as he stared at the slumped and defeated-looking form that knelt within the cage.
He understood the boy's anger—oh, how he understood it. That same rage burned in his own heart every time he remembered the Iron Throne, every time he thought of his father's crown reduced to dust, and his family driven into exile. The boy's hatred for Kratos was the same hatred Viserys had once felt for Robert Baratheon. The same helpless fury of a prince robbed of his birthright.

And yet…

Something within him resisted that comparison. Because, unlike this boy, Viserys was still alive; he had found a place here—if not as a prince, then at least as something more than a beggar…
His gaze drifted to the training field beyond the cage, where different squads of the Agoge ran in perfect formation, their bare feet striking the dust in rhythm. They moved like one body, one mind, their chants echoing in time with the crack of their instructors' commands.

Viserys knew those voices; he had trained with them for nearly a year now and endured the same pain, exhaustion, and discipline.

And it had changed him.

He did not know what he was becoming—but he knew he was no longer the frightened boy who once cowered in the alleys of Lys with his sister. Here, in this place of iron and fire, he had found a strange kind of peace. Not safety, not comfort—but purpose.
Still, as his eyes returned to the cage, that peace wavered.

"I could have been him," Viserys murmured, the words escaping before he even realized he'd spoken them.

Daenerys, who had slowly made her way over to Viserys, stood beside him and frowned up at her brother as she heard his words. "What do you mean?"
Viserys didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to study the boy again; the bruised wrists, the unbroken glare that still lingered somewhere beneath the filth.

"Once, I thought power was my right," he said quietly. "That the world owed me a crown because of the blood in our veins. I thought the gods were cruel for taking it from me…" He paused, his jaw tightening. "Now I see they were merciful..."

Daenerys tilted her head, confused by the calmness in his tone. "Merciful…?"

Viserys nodded slowly. "They gave me a chance to learn what true strength is. That boy—" he gestured toward Tirian "—threw his away. He let his hatred rule him..."

He fell silent again, and for a long moment, the two siblings simply stood there, the sound of the training field around them filling the air—the rhythmic shouting, the thud of feet, the clash of practice spears.
A moment later, Viserys's hand tightened into a fist as he remembered the feeling of fear he'd experienced when he saw this foolish boy attempt to assassinate the ruler of Sparta. The sheer terror that he and Daenerys would be forced to, once again, live a life like hunted animals. The feeling had shocked Viserys, shocked and confused him in ways he couldn't quite explain…

"I hate him," he said at last, his voice little more than a whisper. "Because I understand him..."

Daenerys's eyes softened at that, as she looked up at her brother, before hardening again as she turned back to the caged boy. "He's a fool," she said. "Lord Cleitus says that anger makes slaves of men."

Viserys gave a hollow laugh at that. "Then perhaps we're all slaves here, sister... The only difference is that some of us are learning how to fight our chains…"
As the sun blazed overhead, shadows stretched long across the field, and the sign above the boy's head creaked softly in the wind, a handful of Spartans passed by and, without a word, continued on their way. No one spared Tirian more than a glance; his defiance had been reduced to a lesson, a story whispered among trainees: 'the boy who dared raise a blade to the god of Sparta.'

"Viserys…" Daenerys said after a moment of tense silence. "I'm hungry… Can we go now?"

With a small laugh, Viserys turned to leave, his thoughts churning; he did not know what he felt—pity, anger, envy—but as he glanced one last time at the boy in the cage, he knew one thing with certainty: He would never end up like him…
Whatever Kratos was making of him—whatever this place was forging him into—Viserys would see it through to the end. Even if it meant becoming something unrecognizable to the boy he once was.
XXXX

The following morning, dawn broke over Sparta like the drawing of a blade; the first light spilled over marble and bronze, painting the city in gold as horns sounded from the harbor. From the cliffs above, the city gleamed like a crown of fire, and below, the sea roared against the stone docks where almost the entire city had gathered.

For two days, the city had labored without rest; now, its breath came as one—steady, proud, expectant as the day of promise arrived.
Five black-and-crimson ships waited at anchor, their sails emblazoned with the mark of the red omega of Sparta; the hulls shone with fresh pitch, the oars gleamed in perfect formation, and the banners of Sparta snapped sharply in the morning wind. Each ship was laden with warriors, weapons, and dreams of conquest; each man and woman almost glowing with pride at having won their place here.

The thousand chosen stood ready upon the docks and gangways, every one of them silent as the sun rose higher; some bore fresh bandages, others the still-healing bruises of the tournament, but none showed weakness. They were Spartans, forged and tempered, bound by one name and one god.
Near one of the ships, Leon and Obara appeared to see which one could go the longest without breathing as they kissed with fierce abandon, Obara's laughter ringing through the air like music.

"Come back with my new knife, or don't come back at all!" she commanded.

Leon grinned, resting his forehead against hers for a moment. "If I return without it, it will be because I gave it to the one who tried to kill me."

Obara smirked and shoved him toward the ship at that. "Then make sure he thanks me for the edge!"
A chorus of laughter followed him as he joined Meera, Rhosene, and Pindaros, each waiting at the gangplank, their armor shining like it was made of sunfire and their helmets tucked under their arm. They shared no words; none were needed. Together, they boarded, shoulders squared and eyes forward, the salt wind whipping through their hair.

At the harbor's edge stood the envoys from Westeros and Dorne—Ned Stark, Jon, Kevan, and Tyrion Lannister, their cloaks drawn against the sea spray.
Further down, Oberyn Martell strode lazily toward one of the ships, his smile bright and alive. Behind him, Ellaria Sand stood with Tyene and Nymeria, their faces torn between pride and worry, their hands clasped tightly together as they stared at the man they so loved.

"Don't die before you've made history!" Ellaria called, causing Oberyn to turn, his grin radiant.

"Darling, I am history!"

High above them all, perched like a hawk upon the topmast, Ptéryssa the Winddancer sat with her bow slung across her back, one leg hooked lazily over the beam, the other hanging lazily in the open air. The rising light gleamed off her red tattoos and the curve of her weapon. To those watching from below, she looked less a mortal archer and more an omen carried by the wind itself.

Then came Kratos.

The crowd parted like water as he strode down the docks, his crimson tattoo bright against the morning sun; every step echoed like thunder on the stone as the light blazed off of his sliver armor. Behind him walked the Pillars of Sparta—all save Neos, who stood armored and ready beside the boarding ramp of the lead ship.

When Kratos reached the end of the pier, the roar of the city fell away into silence as he turned to the council, his voice carrying over the waves like thunder itself.

"Guard Sparta," he said, his tone rough and final. "Until I return."

Kara, the Lord of Faith, placed her fist over her heart her, her grin so wide it seemed as though it might split her face in two. "As you command, my Emperor."

Bellatrix, her silver armor glinting, crossed her arms and asked, "And the boy, Emperor? The would-be assassin…?"

Kratos's gaze shifted west toward the distant Agoge, where the cage still sat beneath the morning light.
"Keep him alive," he said at last. "When I return… he will be judged."

Bellatrix frowned but nodded once. "It will be done..."

Without another word, Kratos turned and boarded the ship; the wooden planks creaking beneath his weight. The moment his feet touched the deck, horns blared, and the Spartan fleet began to move as he took his place at the front of the ship, his bulging arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes staring hard at the horizon.

The oars dipped in perfect rhythm; the sails unfurled like wings; thousands on the docks raised their fists to their god as the chant began—
"SPARTA! SPARTA! SPARTA!"

It rolled over the water, over the cliffs, shaking the heavens themselves. As the ships cut through the surf, crimson banners streaming against the dawn, the Spartans stood at the rails—warriors, archers, champions—watching their homeland fade into the horizon.

On the docks, Tyrion exhaled softly. "By all the gods," he murmured, "they're really going…"

Kevan gave a tight, humorless smile as he watched the ships glide out of the Spartan harbor. "A good thing for Westeros, nephew… They'll fare no better than my brother Gerion... Valyria devours all who enter... And without their 'god-king,' this city will tear itself apart as these savages fight to be its next ruler. Westeros will be safe."

Ned said nothing, his jaw tightened, his gray eyes on the distant sails; somewhere deep in his chest, however, he felt a truth he could not voice: that if any living soul could conquer the land of fire and shadow, it would be the God of Sparta.

Chapter Text

The fog never lifted in Valyria.

It clung to the broken stones like a living thing, rolling sluggishly through streets buried beneath ash. No wind touched this place; no sunlight pierced the choking veil that smothered the ruined capital. It was as if the sky itself wanted nothing to do with the corpse of the greatest empire that had ever existed.

Once, this city had shone brighter than any jewel in Essos; its towers had reached for the heavens, carved from pale stone that shimmered like dragon-scale. Its plazas overflowed with fountains, markets, and processions of mages and dragonlords. Laughter and screams had mingled freely — the joy of the freeborn standing side by side with the misery of the enslaved. The air had trembled beneath the constant thunder of wings overhead, dragons circling like living storms, roaring their dominion across the sky.

But that world was dust now.

Every tower lay shattered, melted, or half-swallowed by cracked earth. Streets once paved with marble were choked with fissures and blackened debris. Skeletons of buildings leaned against one another like drunks abandoned mid-step. Pools of congealed lava sat where mansions once stood, half-solidified into grotesque sculptures.

Not a single living voice dared speak here.

Not even the winds whispered.

For the Doom had stolen more than life — it had stolen sound.

Yet something moved.

Something alive…

It drifted through the haze like a shadow without a body — tall one moment, hunched the next, dissolving and reforming as if it were made of smoke, memory, and wrath. It slid between collapsed pillars, glided across broken plazas, and passed through walls as easily as mist.

To the blind eye, it was nothing.

To the mind, it was a nightmare.

The fog recoiled from it, the ash quivered beneath it, and the silence deepened around it as it wandered through the city like a beast stalking familiar hunting grounds; it roamed the ruins with a slow, deliberate hunger. It did not breathe. It did not rest. And whatever drove it forward was not instinct…

…but need.

Unending, gnawing, insatiable need.

Here and there, where it passed, the dust shifted — as though sucked toward it, as though magnetized by something unseen. A skeleton half-buried in rubble shuddered faintly, the bones turning to face the drifting wraith. A cracked mosaic depicting a dragonlord's coronation flickered with dying ember-light, as if remembering fire.

Whatever this shadow was, it had been here a long time.

Too long.

It knew the streets.

It remembered the palace steps.

It lingered longest where the stone was scorched deepest.

Sometimes, as it paused at the broken gates of the old central forum, a low vibration trembled through the earth — not a sound, but the memory of one; a thrum of rage trapped beneath centuries of dust, followed by screams and cries for mercy from those who had long since died.

As the shadow passed through what was once a marketplace, it twitched; something—someone—had crossed the edge of its world.

It tilted its head, listening, not with ears, with whatever passed for its sense of hunger.

Ships were slowly making their way toward Valyria, five of them, perhaps a day away, and each one filled to bursting with warriors unlike anything the shadow had sensed in centuries. Even from here, the shadow could sense the discipline, savagery, and strength that seemed to flow beneath the surface of these warriors like a rolling tide, barely kept in check.

As the shadow focused on the approaching ships, it shifted as its interminable hunger made itself known once more; a moment later, it froze, as if stunned, as it felt it…

A pulse of power.

A heartbeat of strength so immense the air itself trembled.

A soul forged in blood and war.

It knew that power.

Not the identity—no, it had never felt this one before—but the weight of it!

The density!

The gravity!

A god…

A god was coming!

A low tremor rippled through the ruins, not an earthquake but a kind of shudder—anticipation, excitement, something disturbingly close to joy.

It didn't remember the faces of the Valyrians who chained it; it didn't remember their spells or their names, most of the shadows long centuries had blurred into a single smear of ash and rage.

But this—

This was new.

This god approached with an army at his back, each soldier giving off the same disciplined, sharpened scent of strength. There were a thousand of them—iron-edged, relentless, alive in a way nothing in Valyria had been for centuries!

But the leader…

The leader shone like wildfire, and as the shadow inhaled, the taste of him nearly broke it.

Power.

True power.

Not the thin, desperate magic the Valyrians had scraped from the earth; not the hollow sorcery of dragonlords clinging to their fading glory who had summoned the shadow and as a result brought their entire civilization to an end…

This was a strength that had killed gods!

Strength wrapped in scars, strength drenched in purpose.

The shadow's body swelled, thickening with fire and smoke, its edges brightening like a cooling ember stirred back to life as a rumble passed through it—almost a laugh.

If it devoured this one…

if it swallowed that power whole…

The chains that bound it to this wretched grave of a city would finally shatter!

No more fog.

No more ash.

No more silence.

It would rise from Valyria, spill across the seas, and the world—every kingdom, every throne, every living creature—would kneel or burn!

The shadow slipped back into the fog, trembling with anticipation; the god was coming, and after so long… after centuries trapped in this tomb…

The shadow would feed again.

XXXX

Meera groaned in pure, undiluted misery as she leaned over the railing and emptied her stomach for what felt like the hundredth time since leaving Sparta; her whole body lurched with the ship's sway, every rise and dip of the waves turning her insides into a storm of their own.

For someone born and raised among the dry roads and steady sands of a trading caravan, the sea was an enemy she had never trained for. There had been no lessons in the Agoge to prepare her for this—no drills, no conditioning, no battle honor to be earned by fighting the relentless churn of the tide.

Another swell hit.

Another heave.

Another offering to the ocean.

Meera wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a pathetic whimper.

Gods, she hated ships…

A moment later, Rhosene approached, her nose crinkling with distaste as she stared at the younger girl.

"Sick again, little one?" the ebony warrior asked, folding her arms. "I would have thought you'd be used to the ocean by now…"

Meera glared weakly at her through watery eyes. "I was born on the plains," she croaked, gripping the railing as another roll of the ship made her stomach pitch. "The closest thing we had to the ocean was a muddy river that smelled like dead goats..."

Rhosene snorted. "Then consider this an upgrade."

Meera let out a fragile groan and slumped against the rail. "I'd rather fight a hundred men barehanded. Or train with you for six hours. Or be set on fire. Anything but this..."

"That can be arranged," Rhosene said dryly as she crouched beside Meera, one hand braced on the rail as if the ship were a beast she'd like to punch into submission. "But unfortunately for you, Neos says we must all arrive in Valyria alive. And somewhat functional..."

Meera buried her face in her arms, her forehead resting against the rail. "Tell the General he can take my corpse back to Sparta. I'm done…"

Rhosene studied her for a moment—long enough for a sliver of sympathy to flicker across her hard features, before she reached under her cloak and pulled out a small leather flask.

"Drink this."

Meera eyed it suspiciously. "Is it poison?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"If I wanted you dead," Rhosene said, pushing the flask into her hands, "I wouldn't waste poison on you. I'd throw you overboard and let the ocean deal with you."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Meera snarked back as she took the flask and popped it open, nose wrinkling as she smelled the strong scent within.

"No," Rhosene smirked back.

With a tired sigh, Meera took a tiny sip. The liquid burned pleasantly, warm and spicy, settling in her stomach like a small fire, and her nausea eased just enough for her to breathe again.

"…What is this?" she muttered.

"Something Lord Floki brewed," Rhosene said. "He called it 'Stop Complaining.' I stole it for you."

Meera blinked at her. "You stole medicine for me…?"

Rhosene rolled her eyes. "Don't make it emotional… The sound of you retching was ruining my training."

But Meera could see the truth in the warrior's expression—quiet concern buried beneath the usual steel; Meera had been among the first to befriend the former pit fighter, and as a result, the two had created a bond stronger than steel over the following years.

With a soft sigh, Meera leaned back against the rail, letting the breeze cool her face; the sea continued to toss the ship, but the world felt a little less like it was trying to kill her now…

For a moment, they simply stood together—one warrior hardened by fire, the other fighting her own helpless battle against the waves—both gazing out at the endless ocean before them.

It had been a week since the five ships left Sparta behind, their sails catching the warm winds as they cut across the Summer Sea. For two days, the voyage had been calm, steady waves, clear skies, the sort of gentle journey sailors prayed for.

Then the waters changed...

The fleet sailed into a stretch of sea where the waves grew strangely flat, the air still and heavy. No gulls circled. No fish broke the surface. The water was dark here—too dark—like a stain upon the world.

Oberyn Martell stood near the bow of the lead ship, eyes narrowing as he scanned the unnaturally smooth horizon.

"…This should not be empty," he had murmured. "The charts say Tyrosh should be here..."

General Neos had stepped beside him, expression unreadable.

Oberyn had leaned further over the railing, studying the calm water below. "I'd heard the rumors," he said, voice lowering. "Whispers from traders, drunk sailors who swore the city had vanished. I never believed them… But now I see it with my own eyes… Tyrosh really is gone."

The sea where the proud Free City once stood was now a glassy grave, flat as polished obsidian, silent as a tomb. Beneath the surface lay rubble, drowned streets, the bones of slavers and slaves alike. No current stirred. The world itself seemed to hold its breath here.

Neos had shown no hesitation, no sympathy, no regret.

"It is well," he had said simply. "The city was a disease that needed cleansing long before we arrived… Our god finished what the world was too weak to do."

Oberyn said nothing after that.

There was no clever retort. No jest. No swaggering smile. For once, the Red Viper had nothing to offer but silence.

On the third morning, as dawn bled orange across the water, pirate sails erupted from behind the Stepstones like hungry wolves catching scent of prey. Twelve ships, fast and jagged, rushing in from all sides. Painted hulls. Black flags. Screaming men climbing the rigging with blades between their teeth.

They thought the small Spartan fleet was an easy kill.

They quickly learned otherwise.

Kratos never gave the order—he didn't need to, for the Spartans already knew what was expected of them, and, as one, the thousand Spartans moved, shields locking along the rails, archers forming a deadly line along the upper decks. Neos shouted commands across the wind, his voice carrying like a warhorn. Spear after spear arced through the sky, cutting down men before their ships even made contact. Pteryssa's arrows flew like death made physical, easily striking every pirate she aimed for.

The first pirate vessel rammed into the lead Spartan ship and never stood a chance! Spartans poured across the gap like a breaking tide, their discipline crushing the chaotic swarm of raiders. Oberyn launched himself across to the invading ship with a laugh that sounded like madness, his spear flashing and dancing with joy as he killed everything within reach. Another pirate ship tried boarding Kratos's vessel directly, only for the Emperor of Sparta to launch himself onto their deck with the elegance of a falling meteor, his axe cutting down everything in his path like a hot knife through butter.

By the time the sun touched the horizon, the sea was littered with burning hulls and dead corpses, yet not a single one of them was Spartan.

Nine pirate ships sank.

Three fled—broken, panicked, limping toward whatever miserable port would listen to their warning; all knew that word would spread fast from this victory:

Sparta ruled the land.

Sparta ruled the sea.

There was nowhere left to hide…

The next four days passed in uncanny calm; the sea was gentle, the winds steady, and not a single storm threatened the fleet. It should have been comforting, but instead there was a quiet tension beneath the surface, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

After what had happened to the Volantene envoy in Sparta, Kratos had ordered the ships to give the mainland an extraordinarily wide berth, and none dared question his order. As a result, the fleet drifted so far out into open water that even the seasoned sailors of the Spartan navy had muttered under their breath, remarking that no sane captain would choose this route.

But these men did not have a mortal captain.

They had a god.

And so the ships sailed farther from the coast than many would have deemed wise, yet no one onboard felt fear. Not truly. Not with Kratos standing silently near the prow, watching the horizon as though he saw something no one else could.

Now, on the dawn of the eighth day, the world around them began to change.

The air grew colder.

The sky turned a muted gray, swallowing the early sunlight.

And far ahead—still distant, but unmistakable—a massive bank of fog rose from the ocean like a wall.

A wall that stretched endlessly left and right.

A wall that breathed.

Meera stood at the bow beside Rhosene, clutching the railing as she stared at the looming haze; even from here, the fog looked wrong—too thick, too dark, almost solid in places where it swirled against itself, and despite her iron-clad discipline, she swallowed hard.

"Kratos save us…" she whispered, the words catching in her throat; beside her, Rhosene's eyes narrowed to razor focus as she leaned forward, muscles tense, instincts sharpened, staring at the fog ahead, growing larger with each passing moment.

"There she is…" Rhosene breathed, almost reverent, almost wary. "Valyria."

Meera shivered—not from cold, but from the weight of the name.

"No one has ever come back from there, sister…" she said softly.

Rhosene didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Didn't look away from the fog.

"None of them were Spartan," she replied with quiet, absolute conviction.

The words settled over the deck like iron as more Spartans came up beside the pair; Leon looked stern, Pindaros was slowly chewing on his lip; behind them, Spartans tightened their grips on spear shafts and sword hilts. Pteryssa appeared silently near the mast, gaze distant, as if sensing something beneath the fog that she did not yet dare voice. Oberyn, leaning against a coil of rope, exhaled slowly, the last of his humor fading. He had come here for the adventure of a lifetime, but looking at that mass of fog, he suddenly wondered if he had been suicidal.

XXXX

Kratos stood alone at the bow of the lead ship, a silent figure carved against the gray horizon. The Leviathan Axe was planted before him, its haft braced against the deck, both of his scarred hands resting atop it. The wood creaked under his grip—not from strain, but from the power coiled within him like a storm held on a leash.

Ahead, the fog loomed larger now, swallowing the sea in a wall of shifting gray; it wasn't fog as mortals knew it, it had weight, presence. Shadows slid within it like creatures pacing behind a curtain as Kratos stared into it without blinking.

Something was in there.

Something old, wounded, filled with rage, but above all... hungry.

He could feel it long before he saw even the edge of the mist, a pressure, faint at first—like a distant heartbeat beneath the sea. But with every mile the fleet sailed, the sensation grew stronger, heavier, twisting in his chest like an ancient hand reaching outward.

It was watching him.

Testing him.

Calling to him...

Kratos's jaw tightened, his breath slowed, and the air around him seemed to thicken, responding to the tension gathering in his muscles.

This feeling…

He had known it before; he had known it in Greece, known it in Midgard...

The presence of another god.

One that saw him not as a visitor… but as prey.

A low, rumbling growl built in Kratos's chest, deep as stone grinding against stone; the wind along the deck shifted, snapping the sail overhead as the ropes strained.

Without lifting his gaze from the fog, Kratos spoke, sending his power out into the open air:

"Blow."

The wind answered a moment later; it surged—not in a gentle gust, but in a sudden, forceful push that sent the ships lurching forward with such intensity that several of the Spartans on deck lost their balance for a moment. Waves slapped against the hulls as the fleet sped toward the fog, faster, harder, the prows cutting through the darkening water like spears.

Spartans glanced up at their god, but none dared speak. Kratos did not whisper, did not mutter, did not pray; he simply willed it, and the world obeyed.

Beyond the fog, the presence stirred, the hunger sharpened, and the air trembled between them.

Good.

Kratos's grip tightened around the axe head.

Whatever waited in that cursed shroud—whatever ancient thing paced and starved within the ruins of Valyria—it stood between him and his purpose.

And anything in his way would fall.

As the ships rushed forward toward the fog, the wind howled as Kratos held his ground at the bow, unblinking, unafraid, the Leviathan Axe ready in his hands.

"Whatever you are..." Kratos growled. "If you stand in my way... You will fall. I will have what is mine..."

Chapter Text

The fog of Valyria lay heavy upon the once vibrant city, pressing down like a suffocating shroud over what had been a jewel of the empire. Now it was nothing more than a corpse of stone and ash, a skeletal echo of its former glory…

Suddenly, the silence was shattered.

A blur of movement burst from a nearby alley as a woman with long black hair stormed into the open, feathers woven into the tangled strands whipping wildly behind her. An elegant bow was gripped tightly in her hands, knuckles white with exertion; her armor was scarred, filthy, and worn thin from countless battles, while the blade at her hip was rusted and chipped, a testament to just how long she had been fighting within this nightmare.

Yet the most unsettling sight of all was the severed head swinging from her belt.

A man's head, grey-bearded, with small curved horns protruding from his temples; strange, fading runes spiraled across his skin, etched in a language long forgotten.

With a gasp, she vaulted over a shattered marble column, landing in a low crouch before forcing her exhausted body onward. Every breath burned in her chest; her legs screamed for rest, her vision wavered at the edges—but the weeks spent trapped in this damned city had taught her a brutal lesson.

Stopping meant dying.

"Three behind us, lass!" the severed head barked suddenly.

The woman growled, irritation sparking despite the terror clawing at her nerves; with a hiss of annoyance, she risked a glance over her shoulder and saw them: three monstrous hounds tearing out of the alley, their forms writhing masses of smoke and shadow, glowing red eyes burning with savage hunger as they snarled and snapped at empty air.

Without slowing, she leapt onto the base of a nearby column and launched herself upward, then to another, and another, her path a jagged zigzag toward higher ground; with each jump, the stone cracked beneath her boots as she pushed her aching body beyond its limits.

Mid-leap, she twisted sharply, muscles coiling with instinct, and drew her bow in a fluid motion perfected over centuries of practice; a moment later, three arrows flew in rapid succession, each striking true — embedding dead-center into the foreheads of the shadow hounds, causing them to explode into shrieking plumes of black smoke, howling in fury as their pursuit was denied.

Defying gravity, the woman flipped backward through the air and landed in a crouched position atop a nearby rooftop, her hands bracing against the cracked stone as she sucked in ragged breaths; sweat streaked her dirt-caked face, and her heart pounded violently, every heartbeat a drum of survival.

Below, the city fell quiet once more, and for a few blessed seconds, she did not move, a rare mercy, she had learned, in this cursed place.

"Graceful as ever, Lady Freyja." The head muttered from her hip. "Like a murderous raven with excellent posture…"

Freyja rolled her eyes at that, used to the head's sarcastic quips by now, and leaned back against a broken parapet, stretching her legs out before her as she sat on the stone floor and allowed herself the smallest moment of rest.

"The attacks are getting more consistent…" the woman said after a moment of brittle silence, her voice low and tight with warning. "And we still haven't found a way to leave this place."

"Aye," the head replied at once, far too casual for the circumstances. "They're finding us quicker every day. Whatever that talisman of yours is doing, lass… it's not holding like it used to…"

For a few tense moments, she didn't answer him; instead, her hand slid beneath her battered armor and emerged holding a leather cord, from which hung the talisman in question — a rough, foreign shape lined with runes that pulsed faintly, their glow weaker than it had been even yesterday.

Her eyes hardened as she studied it; when she had first created it, it had glowed like a ball of fire; now, it barely showed any light at all, flickering weakly every few seconds, like a heartbeat slowly dying.

Snarling with contempt, Freyja shoved it back beneath her armor and closed her eyes against the pain that was beginning to pound in her head like a drum.

"This place is draining my magic much faster than before," she muttered. "It's like something here is drinking it… feeding on it. If we don't find a way out soon, the enchantment will fail. And when it does…"

Her gaze drifted toward the broken skyline, toward the unseen heart of the city, where the shadows were thickest.

"Then that big bastard who owns this cursed hole will find us," the head finished grimly. "And suck us dry 'til there's nothing left but bone and regret…"

"Indeed, Mimir…" she growled as she opened her eyes, irritation flaring at the calm precision in his tone — as if they were discussing weather instead of their very likely, painfully drawn-out deaths.

Mimir chuckled darkly. "Ah, well. Always did hate dying unprepared…"

She shot him a look at that, part annoyance and part humor. "You're already dead."

"Details."

Her jaw tightened, but her eyes softened just slightly as she turned back to the ruins ahead; even the humor felt thin now as the reality came crashing down on the two of them: This city was closing in on them, and they both knew it…

Not for the first time, Freyja cursed the voice that had brought them to this forsaken place; she didn't know how much time had truly passed since she had accepted that damned bargain. Days? Weeks? It was hard to tell in a city where the sun rarely pierced the veil of ash and fog, where time seemed to rot alongside the stone.

As her breathing steadied and her screaming muscles were granted a fleeting reprieve, her thoughts drifted — unbidden — back to the moment everything had changed.

To the day the search had truly begun.

When she had returned to check on Kratos and found only ruin where his cabin had once stood, it had been like having an old wound torn open anew; the simple home he had built, the quiet he had earned, all reduced to splintered wood and scorched earth.

From that moment, she and Mimir had scoured the realms relentlessly, tearing through Midgard and beyond in their desperate hunt for the pale, stubborn bastard who had somehow become her friend.

Yet no matter how hard they searched, no matter what corners they turned over, there had been no trace of him. No whispers. No rumors. Not even superstition.

He had simply… vanished.

Even Atreus, brave and stubborn as ever, had been unable to hide his concern when Freyja told him his father was missing. He had joined the search for a time — tireless, hopeful, refusing to accept the idea that Kratos was gone — but duty had called him back to Jötunheim and the Giants; but before leaving, he had made her promise.

If she found even the smallest clue… she would tell him.

That promise had become iron in her bones.

She refused to believe that the man who had survived Ragnarök, who had earned his peace through blood and fire, would be taken by some unseen fate in silence. Not him. Never him!

It was that stubborn faith that had drawn her back to the old cabin years later, when all other paths had run dry. By then, nature had reclaimed the valley where Kratos and Atreus had once made their home; vines crawled over broken stone, moss blanketed rotting beams, and only the skeletal remains of the structure clung stubbornly to the earth.

Still, she had hoped.

Hoped there might be something. A sign. A trace. Anything!

They had been digging through blackened wood and warped debris when the air shifted, and then the voice came:

"He's not here…"

Freyja froze for only a moment; then her bow was in her hand before the echo had faded, arrow notched, senses flaring. "Who said that? Show yourself!"

"But I can take you to him… If you wish…" the voice continued, velvety and smooth, drifting around them with no clear source.

"Are you the one who took my friend?" Freyja demanded of the female voice, spinning slowly, eyes narrowed. "Show yourself, witch!"

"Careful, lass," Mimir murmured from her hip. "We don't know what we're dealing with… Best not to antagonize it until we ken more…"

"I can take you to where the Pale God rules," the voice whispered. "But there will be a price."

"And what price is that?" Freyja snapped, her bow still trained on empty air.

"If you accept my offer, you can never return... I have strength for only one more gate..."

Silence fell as Freyja's mind raced; since Odin's death, the realms had grown calmer, a strange change since the tyrant's rule. The old pantheons faded. Mortal prayer dwindled. A new faith bloomed in their place. The world no longer needed her as it once had.

And she had made a promise to Atreus…

Find his father. No matter the cost.

"Mimir?" she asked quietly.

"I'm for it, lass," he replied without hesitation. "If we can't find him in all the realms we've visited, then wherever he's gone must be far stranger indeed. Besides… our work here is finished… There's little left tying us to Midgard."

Slowly, Freyja released a tired sigh as she lowered her bow; for the first time in years, she had hope, something that had long been denied her.

"Alright," she called into the air. "We accept."

A soft, mischievous giggle echoed around the clearing at Freyja's words, and she instantly regretted lowering her bow.

"Well, that's never a good sign…" Mimir muttered.

And then the world shattered.

Light engulfed them — blinding, crushing, violent — as though they were hurled into the heart of a raging storm. Reality twisted. Space collapsed. Sound became a torrent.

When they finally emerged, gasping and disoriented, they stood beneath a broken sky in a land choked by ash and stone.

Valyria.

Immense power radiated from its core — terrible, alien, vast; foolishly, they had thought it might be Kratos and rushed headlong into the fog, only to swiftly learn just how wrong they were.

The city became their cage.

Monsters hunted them without rest; twisted horrors crawled from the shadows like thoughts made flesh. Shadow-beasts stalked them endlessly, as though guided by a singular, ravenous will.

Within hours, however, Freyja understood something far worse…

The city was drinking them!

Sapping their godhood, peeling power from their souls.

Worse still, every time she dared to use her magic, she felt it — the attention of something vast and starving — drawn like a predator to the scent of blood.

The King of this dead city.

And so she had used what little magic she dared to craft the talisman that now hung around her neck as a way of hiding themselves in this dead city, which seemed determined to add the pair of them to its graveyard; a desperate mask against a lurking god.

Now, after weeks of endless flight through this blackened grave, even that safeguard was fading, and the truth had finally settled upon her like iron:

They were not merely lost, they were being consumed…

With a bone-weary sigh, Freyja slowly drew her knees upward and rested her elbows upon them, letting her head fall forward until her brow touched her arms, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of exhaustion she could no longer pretend to ignore.

A heartbeat later, she felt it…

A pulse.

Small, distant… yet unmistakable in its nature, and as it washed over her, Freyja froze mid-breath. Her eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving, and for a fleeting, almost absurd moment her jaw slackened in stunned silence.

"Lass…" Mimir whispered, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. "Did you feel that… or have I finally cracked?"

"Yes…" Freyja breathed, her voice trembling as warmth surged behind her eyes. For an instant, tears threatened to spill — but she scrubbed them away fiercely and let out a short, breathless laugh. "It's him."

A low, reverent chuckle slipped from the severed head. "Aye… and he's not alone. I'd wager my remaining dignity there's a thousand mortals marching at his back."

Freyja snorted despite herself. "Of course, there are… Leave it to him to step into a foreign realm and somehow emerge with an army!"

She pushed herself slowly to her feet, joints aching, but her posture straighter now, purpose flooding her limbs like returning blood to frozen skin; a moment later, the world rebelled as if sensing her sudden hope, and was determined to snuff it out once and for all.

The ground bucked violently beneath her, hurling her forward with a sharp cry as stone cracked and dust burst into the air, and she slammed hard onto her stomach, air driven painfully from her lungs; when she forced herself up again, trembling from both exhaustion and pain, she gripped the broken column beside her like a lifeline as her gaze snapped skyward, eyes widening at what she saw.

Lightning, crimson as fresh-spilled blood, tore across the cloud-choked firmament as an unholy wind roared through the ruined streets, whipping fog and ash into a choking storm that howled between shattered towers.

The city itself was reacting.

"It would appear," Mimir murmured darkly, "that we're not the only ones who've noticed brother's arrival…"

Freyja's expression hardened as she stared out over the trembling skyline; somewhere deep within this cursed place, something vast had stirred — and it was not pleased.

"Well then," she said grimly, tightening her grip on her bow as she stepped forward, "let's see if we can reach him before the bastard keeping us here decides to make his move."

"You think brother's in danger?" Mimir asked, surprised.

Freyja didn't even hesitate.

"No," she said simply. A fierce, predatory glint flashed in her eyes. "But I do think this city will be if its so-called 'king' manages to piss Kratos off..."

XXXX

Author's Note:

*Over the top announcer voice, echoing with supernatural hype*

LAAAAADIES AND GENTLEMEEEEN!

FOR WEEKS YOU'VE WAITED!

FOR MONTHS YOU'VE SCREAMED!

AND NOW… THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN HOLDING YOUR BREATH FOR…

IS. FINALLY. HERE!

NEXT TIME...

WITNESS THE LONG-AWAITED, EMOTIONALLY DEVASTATING, GOD-SHAKING REUNION...

KRATOS... AND FREYJAAAA!

TWO LEGENDS!

TWO WARRIORS!

TWO SURVIVORS OF BROKEN PANTHEONS!

BUT HOLD ON TO YOUR SEATS, FOLKS —

BECAUSE AS THESE TWO TITANS REUNITE...

VALYRIA'S TWISTED KING BEGINS TO STIR...

WILL HE CHALLENGE THE GHOST OF SPARTA?!

WILL HE DARE OPPOSE THE GOD WHO KILLS GODS?! OR WILL THE DEAD CITY ITSELF TREMBLE BEFORE KRATOS' WRATH?!

WILL THE SHADOW STRIKE?!

WILL THE REUNION TURN THE TIDE?!

WILL VALYRIA SURVIVE THE COLLISION?!

DON'T MISS THE NEXT LEGENDARY CHAPTER IN THE WAR OF GODS!

BLOOD!

FIRE!

REUNION!

THE STAGE IS SET!

THE CROWD IS READY!

THE GODS ARE WATCHING!

TUNE IN NEXT TIME!

BECAUSE THIS...

IS WHERE MYTH BECOMES MAYHEM!

Chapter Text

Not for the first time, Clement, son of Aron, wiped the sweat from his brow, then placed both hands on his lower back and leaned until a satisfying crack rolled up his spine. He let out a breath of pure contentment.

Seven hells… life had changed for the man, and sometimes he still couldn't believe just how much his life had changed in just ten short months…

With a happy sigh, he looked around himself at the expansive Spartan farmlands — fertile soil, orderly irrigation trenches, golden fields that promised more than enough food for all. Every time he stood here, Clement felt the same disbelief coil warm and deep in his chest.

Once, he had been a simple farmer in the Vale, scraping by season after season while some fat noble collected the lion's share of his harvest. Clement had broken his back working soil that wasn't his, living in a house he didn't own, paying taxes that left his pockets empty and his children hungry…

Then the rumors reached him.

A city across the sea — Sparta — where no man starved, where no lord leeched off the sweat of another's brow, where an honest day's labor was rewarded with honest prosperity. A city where strength and will mattered more than bloodlines.

A place where anyone could start again…

And the more that Clement heard, the more he began to dream of a new life, a life where he and his family wouldn't just survive, but thrive! Finally, after a particularly bad harvest, where he lost nearly his entire harvest to some form of fungus, and yet was STILL required to give what was left to the noble who owned his land, Clement made his decision to leave Westeros for good.

Buying passage had cost him everything.

His farm.

His horses.

His tools.

Every copper he'd saved in his entire life!

His wife had shouted herself hoarse saying he was leading them into ruin, and he hadn't had the words to reassure her then; in truth, he too was afraid that the rumors he'd been fed were just lies given by traders and merchants, and that he was leading his entire household to their deaths.

But now…?

Now his family slept with full bellies, his wife sewed delicate garments in the markets and was paid fairly for every stitch, and his two boys — gods bless them — were enrolled in the Agoge itself, training to become warriors who would one day defend the very city that had lifted their family from the dirt.

Westeros had never given him anything but a bent back and empty hands, but Sparta had given him dignity.

Smiling faintly, Clement planted his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and bent to return to his work when the ground trembled beneath his feet, causing him to freeze in place. At first, it was just a faint vibration, like distant thunder; then the soil shuddered again, stronger this time as Clement looked toward the horizon, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. That confusion lasted barely a heartbeat before terror took its place.

Farr off in the distance, a storm of dust rose, and beneath that churning haze, he saw them…

Horses.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Thousands!

An entire Khalasar of Dothraki riders charging straight toward Sparta, their screams and war cries carried faintly on the wind, causing Clement's blood to run cold in his veins as he stared, open-mouthed, in horror.

A moment later, the warning bell atop the western watchtower began to toll — loud, urgent, unbroken. He dropped his tools at once and ran, sprinting for the city gate with every ounce of strength in his body. Around him, the rest of the field workers followed suit; farmers abandoned plows, shepherds left flocks behind, and workers scrambled down terraces as fast as they could before bolting across fields as the farmland erupted into frantic motion.

Even as Clement ran, even as fear clawed up his throat, one truth steadied his pounding heart: Emperor Kratos may have been gone, but Sparta was not undefended; if the Dothraki thought to take this city, they would bleed for every step they dared to claim because the Spartans were waiting, and Spartans did not break!

XXXX

The council chamber of Sparta—normally alive with movement, voices, and vigorous debate—was quiet that morning.

Floki paced along the far wall, muttering to himself as he sketched something onto a slate with frantic strokes—some new ship design, judging by the messy lines, and his mad giggles as he added or erased in quick succession.

Cassandra reviewed scrolls of supply records, lips pursed, tapping a quill against her palm in a steady rhythm as she read; when the Emperor returned, the true work would begin: expanding the empire's borders with its new territory, and she wanted to ensure that the records were ready for his approval.

Bellatrix leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp as she scanned the room like a fighter preparing for a match; every now and then, she glanced toward the door, as though expecting trouble.

Kara sat with her hands folded calmly, eyes closed, and mouth moving silently as she prayed to the god of the city with reverence, while Cleitus scribbled notes next to her on the reforms that they had discussed earlier that day; with the population of the city growing daily, it was of the highest importance to ensure that every new arrival was quickly given a purpose in the city, so as to not become a drain on it.

Becker… simply watched.

A moment later, the peace of the council chamber was shattered as the deep, booming clang of bells echoed through every corridor of the palace; dust trembled from the ceiling beams, and outside the windows, birds launched into frantic flight as every Pillar froze.

A moment later, another bell joined the first, then another, and another until a full alarm began ringing out!

Bellatrix was the first to jump to her feet and snarled as she ran to the nearby window. "That is the outer farmland bell! Why is that bell ringing?!"

Floki swallowed as he stepped up beside her. "That's the signal for an approaching threat… A big one..."

Kara said nothing, simply stepped beside her companions and stared out at the city, eyes narrowed. Before anyone could respond, the door slammed open, and a Spartan guard sprinted inside, armor clattering, breath ragged.

"Pillars!" The woman cried out, slamming her fist to her chest in salute. "A horde of horsemen has appeared on the western horizon! They… they ride like a storm, and there's thousands of them!"

Cassandra's eyes widened at that. "Thousands?"

"Yes, my lady! Dothraki—by their braids and banners!"

Silence slammed into the room like a thunderbolt as the Pillars looked at one another in shock and growing alarm.

Cleitus's voice broke first, soft and horrified. "Dothraki? Here? How did they—?"

"It doesn't matter," Bellatrix snapped, already marching toward the door. "If they seek battle, they'll get one! Our Emperor beat those horse fuckers once, and it's up to us to finish the job, it would seem!"

Floki rubbed his hands together, excitement and fear mixing strangely. "Oh, this will be fun..."

Kara looked at her companions with smooth, serene determination. "We must protect the people… And hold faith! Emperor Kratos entrusted Sparta to us."

"Then we do what we were built for," Becker murmured, voice low, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. "We hold the line…"

Cassandra gathered her scrolls, rolled them tightly, then slammed them on the table. "We need to activate wartime ration protocols and summon every free soldier to the walls!"

Cleitus stood shakily. "I'll warn the academies and begin civilian evacuation to the inner city."

"Good," Bellatrix barked, her voice like a command written in iron as she paused at the door. "I'll ready the army! With Neos gone, that task falls to me… Everyone move!"

Before she could step out of the chamber, Becker's voice rang out to the guard, causing Bellatrix to turn back around.

"You said there were thousands… Did anyone get an accurate count of how many?" he asked.

The guard swallowed, eyes shooting back and forth between Bellatrix at her side and Becker, standing before her. "We… we don't know, my lord. The dust cloud is enormous. Tens of thousands, perhaps."

Floki let out a low whistle at that, a mad giggle escaping his lips before he could stop it. "Oh, this is going to be a bloody beautiful mess…"

Bellatrix's expression hardened. "Kratos is gone, but we are not weak!" She pointed toward the walls beyond the chamber. "Let them come! We will show the Dothraki what it means to stand before the Pillars of Sparta!"

Becker's shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him as he stepped into the hallway.

"They think they're hunting sheep," he whispered as the bells continued to thunder throughout the city. "But they've chosen a den full of wolves…"

Without another word, the Pillars stepped out of the chamber as one, and despite herself, the guard couldn't help but swallow in awe at the power that appeared to be coming off them, like heat from a fire.

XXXX

The bells of Sparta rang like thunder through the city; to any outsider, the sound alone should have heralded chaos — screaming civilians, panic in the markets, soldiers scrambling for arms. But as Ned Stark and the Lannisters pushed through the streets alongside their escort, what they found was… order.

Absolute order.

Spartan citizens moved swiftly but calmly, flowing like a river toward the designated safe zones. Shopkeepers shuttered stalls without anger. Parents gathered their children and made for the fortified academies. Instructors guided lines of younger Agoge students with clipped commands.

No one shoved.

No one wailed.

No one panicked.

It was as if the entire city had rehearsed this moment a thousand times, and despite himself, despite everything he had already seen in this city of marvels, Ned couldn't help but be impressed.

"Seven hells…" Tyrion muttered as he trailed behind the Westerosi entourage toward the wall. "This is… impressive."

Kevan nodded, bewildered. "I've never seen a city respond to a siege like this... Not even King's Landing at its peak…"

"It's not fear," Ned realized aloud. "They're not afraid. They're simply… moving with purpose…"

And indeed, the Spartans did not look like a people under attack; instead, they looked like a people preparing to win!

By the time the group reached the main gate, the sight stole their breath; the full might of Sparta's standing army was already deployed. Thousands of warriors lined the massive entrance — shields gleaming, spears angled, phalanxes formed with perfect precision. Others stood atop the walls, every archer already in position, bows halfway drawn, gazes fixed on the horizon.

They moved like a single organism.

A single will.

A single blade waiting to strike.

Ned had seen armies his entire life — northern hosts, southern banners, armies of lords and kings, even Robert's war machine during the Rebellion.

But he had never seen this.

This wasn't an army; this was discipline made flesh, and not for the first time, Ned swallowed nervously as he imagined what would happen if, one day, these warriors decided to come to Westeros… Would his people even have a chance?

As they ascended the stairs to the top of the gatehouse, the air hummed with tension as Tyrion reached the parapet first, leaning over with wide eyes.

"What in the seven hells…"

The Dothraki were there — thousands of them; a living sea of riders and horses, weapons glinting beneath the ash-tinted sun, the dust cloud they'd kicked up still hanging over the fields like a ghost.

But they weren't charging.

They weren't screaming their savage war cries, they weren't even riding in circles to intimidate the defenders; they were simply sitting and staring up at the city; a chaotic, dense mass of warriors on horseback, watching the walls in strange, simmering silence as their horses snorted and pawed at the dirt.

It was unnatural, wrong…

"What are they doing?" Tyrion asked.

Kevan shook his head slowly. "I… don't know. Dothraki don't hesitate like this... They don't pause when attacking a city, and they damn sure don't wait!"

Beside the pair, Ned narrowed his eyes, studying the riders as his northmen shuffled nervously behind him. "It's like… they're expecting something. Perhaps they will try and demand a tribute to keep from attacking the city?"

"If that's the case," Tyrion snorted with sick amusement, "They're in for one helluva disappointment…"

A moment later, as the city watched with what seemed one long breath, a lone Dothraki broke from the mass, galloping toward the walls with deliberate purpose. Instantly, the Spartan archers drew and aimed, the sound of a thousand bowstrings tightening like the growl of some great beast as the rider slowed, stopped, and raised his chin toward the city, before shouting out in thickly accented Common:

"Bring forth the ruler of this city! Khal Drogo wishes to speak with the one called Kratos!"

Silence consumed the walls at that, and even the wind seemed to stop; from his place on the wall, Ned felt a cold shiver climb his spine.

Kevan exhaled with an almost impressed look. "Well, well… Drogo… the great Khal himself…"

Tyrion muttered, "Even I've heard that name… and he wants a conversation? That can't be good…"

Around the men, the Spartans did not react; they did not mumble, shift, or even glance at one another as they held their formation like statues carved of stone.

After several tense moments without receiving an answer, the Dothraki messenger, sitting tall in his saddle and staring directly at the gate, called out again:

"Kratos!" he bellowed. "Come forth! Our Khal has words for you!"

A heartbeat later, the massive front gates of Sparta began to groan open, their iron-reinforced frames shifting inch by inch as dust rolled off the hinges, and sunlight spilled across the growing gap.

Seeing this, the Dothraki messenger straightened in his saddle, eyes narrowing in expectation, only to frown at seeing four shadows stretched along the threshold as three figures stepped into the light.

Kara, Bellatrix, and Floki.

They walked with calm, unhurried purpose — as though an army of nearly a hundred thousand horsemen was nothing more than a minor inconvenience; then came the sound…

A low rumble.

A vibration in the earth.

A heartbeat in the stone.

Marching.

The Spartan army marched behind them in perfect formation, shield to shield, spear to spear, a single living machine!

Their synchronized steps rolled across the farmland like thunder smashing against the mountains; the closest Dothraki horses stamped nervously, snorting, ears pinning back, yet despite the overwhelming noise, the Pillars did not look behind them. They did not need to. As the Pillars came to a stop, the Spartans halted mere feet behind their leaders, and in one motion that shook the air itself —

SLAM!

Ten thousand spears struck the earth as one! The Dothraki messenger jolted violently in his saddle as the booming crack tore across the plain — the sound like a god punching through the sky.

Immediately following this explosion of noise, a thick, heavy, suffocating silence descended on the field as Kara, Bellatrix, and Floki stood still as stone, gazes fixed on the lone rider before them. Not one expression softened. Not one muscle trembled. They simply watched him.

For several long, painful heartbeats, no one spoke; then the messenger found his voice and growled angrily at his own nervousness before barking out:

"Who are you? I called for Kratos, not—" he gestured angrily "—whoever you are!"

Kara stepped forward first, her brilliant blue eyes glowing faintly as she spoke, her voice carrying the calm certainty of the high priestess of Sparta.

"The Emperor is away…"

The messenger scowled at that, spat in the dirt, then yanked his reins and spun his horse around without another word, racing back toward the sea of Dothraki.

A murmur rippled through the mass of riders as he delivered his report; then the crowd parted — reluctantly, reverently — as a far larger horse strode forward, its dark coat gleaming like polished obsidian.

Atop it sat a mountain of a man.

Drogo.

The Great Khal.

He approached slowly, confidently, with no fear in his eyes as his stallion's hooves struck the ground with thunderous force; yet, despite the mountain bearing down on them, the Spartans did not flinch.

The moment Drogo reached a mere ten feet from the Pillars, he dismounted in a single smooth motion, the muscles of his tattooed torso rippling under the burning sun as he walked forward until only a thin stretch of dust separated him from the Pillars of Sparta.

For a moment, a unbearably tense silence descended upon the field as Drogo's dark eyes swept across the massive army standing before him, before finally landing on Kara, Bellatrix, and Floki; yet, despite the savage standing across from them, the three Pillars didn't appear nervous, merely tense, like a crossbow bolt waiting to be released and do what it was made to do.

For a long moment, two worlds stared at one another; then Drogo spoke a single question in a thick accent, deep and commanding:

"Where is Kratos?"

XXXX

High atop the wall of Sparta, Ned Stark and the Lannister entourage stood shoulder to shoulder with dozens of Spartan archers, all gripping their bows and staring down at the Dothraki horsemen with narrowed eyes, all waiting for the order to rain down death.

The entire battlefield stretched out below them like a painting — the three Pillars standing firm before the massive gate, the Spartan army arrayed behind them in flawless formation, and the horde of Dothraki seething beyond the fields like a storm held barely in check. But no sound reached the walls.

No voices.

No shouts.

Nothing.

Only the wind.

Tyrion exhaled, slow and uneasy. "Gods… I cannot tell if they're negotiating terms or preparing to gut each other."

Beside him, Kevan's jaw tightened as he squinted across the field. "Drogo rarely speaks before he kills, from what I've heard of the man… If he's talking at all, it's strange..."

Ned said nothing.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the three Pillars, each standing less than a spear's length from Drogo himself; the three leaders of Sparta — walking alone into the jaws of a nearly hundred-thousand-strong Khalasar.

As Ned stared down at the meeting, trying to decide whether what the leaders of Sparta were doing was madness or courage, he suddenly heard footsteps approach quietly behind them, and he saw the last three remaining Pillars slowly climb the stairs to where Ned and his entourage stood.

As they took their place beside him, Ned turned toward them, his brow furrowing deeply as he looked at Becker.

"Is it wise," he asked tightly, "to place three of your leaders in such danger? Against a horde that large? An entire city could fall if they strike…"

Cassandra clasped her hands behind her back, expression calm. "Sparta's leaders do not hide behind walls when danger arrives..."

Cleitus nodded. "The example they set strengthens the city more than their absence ever could..."

But it was Becker who Ned's eyes were focused on as the Lord of Shadows stepped forward, shadow at his heels and knives glinting faintly beneath his cloak; for a moment, he didn't answer, looking down at the field—not with fear, not with worry… but with the cold, patient calm of a man who'd already accepted the cost of leadership.

"It is not only wise," he finally said quietly. "It is our obligation..."

Ned frowned. "To risk your own lives?"

"To lead from the front," Becker corrected, turning his dark eyes toward Ned. "In the absence of the Emperor, the Pillars are Sparta. If danger comes to our gates, then we must meet it before any other."

Kevan blinked. "Even if it means dying?"

Becker lifted one shoulder in a small, almost casual shrug. "You'll find, Lord Lannister, that death holds no fear for a Spartan... Not when we know that Elysium awaits us…"

The words were so calm, so matter-of-fact, that Tyrion stared at him as though Becker had just commented on the weather, while Ned could only stare.

"It still seems careless to risk one's life so…" Ned replied with a frown.

"I've heard it's said in the North that 'he who passes the sentence, should swing the sword.' So, I would think that you, of all people, would understand, Lord Stark…" Becker replied, turning, at last, to face Ned fully and causing the Warden of the North to glower for a moment before nodding in understanding.

"Perhaps our two people are not so different after all…"

"You'll find that to be the case in most places," Becker smirked back, "When one bothers to look past the surface."

Unable to think of something else to say, Ned turned back to the wall, eyes narrowing as he gazed out at the two armies standing across from each other, each waiting for the other to be the first to blink.

XXXX

Back on the field before Sparta's gates, the air between the two groups hung heavy—hot, still, and tense enough to snap. The Spartan army stood in formation behind the Pillars, shields locked, spears angled, backs straight. Across the field, the Dothraki horde watched like wolves waiting for a single command.

And Drogo's question still lingered:

"Where is Kratos?"

Kara stepped forward a single pace, her expression unreadable, voice calm as polished stone, and answered with the same response that she had given Drogo's messenger moments earlier:

"As I told your friend a moment ago, he is not here..."

Drogo's messenger translated quickly, and the Great Khal's frown deepened—not in anger, but in consideration as he listened to the man beside him translate Kara's words.

Then Drogo asked the second question, sharp and simple:

"Where has he gone?"

Kara answered again, unwavering. "The emperor has gone to conquer Valyria..."

For a moment, the field held its breath as the man beside Drogo translated Kara's words; a moment later, the strangest thing happened…

Drogo didn't rage.

He didn't scoff.

He didn't bare his teeth in insult or disbelief.

Instead… the warlord chuckled; a low, amused sound rolled from his chest, like a lion who had just learned the location of a worthy rival.

"Of course he has…" Drogo murmured under his breath, even before the translator finished repeating Kara's words in Dothraki; his eyes gleamed—not angry, not surprised, but satisfied, as if this news confirmed something he already suspected.

Bellatrix stepped forward instantly, seizing the momentary lapse in his focus, her eyes narrowed with defiance and hate.

"If you have come to extort Sparta," she said, her voice like a drawn blade, "or to raid her lands… You will find only blood and failure, savage."

Yet to the Pillars' surprise and confusion, Drogo didn't flinch, snarl, or bristle at Bellatrix's harsh words; instead, he smiled.

A moment later, Drogo said something swift and guttural in Dothraki, his eyes firmly locked on the three people before him; as he finished speaking, his messenger grinned broadly, and Bellatrix snapped, "Translate. Now!"

"With pleasure," he said, still smirking. "Khal Drogo says… the same fire that burns in Kratos, burns in his people… He finds it pleasing."

Behind Bellatrix, several Spartans bristled, their spearpoints subtly lifting a fraction higher as the Great Khal continued, speaking low and rumbling, eyes locked on Kara, Bellatrix, and Floki as if weighing each of them.

"He says," the translator went on, "that your Emperor is not the only one who seeks greatness… And that Drogo did not ride here to fight…" The man paused, letting the silence stretch. "…but to bargain."

The Pillars exchanged quick glances at that, each of them carrying a different expression:

Kara's eyes narrowed, Floki's lips twitched in a curious, almost manic smirk, and

Bellatrix's hand inched toward the sword at her hip, as if drawing it was the only thing she wanted in that moment; finally, Bellatrix stepped forward.

"What bargain does the Great Khal seek?"

Drogo smiled wider—slow, predatory, deliberate as the horde behind him shifted like a sea stirred by a sudden wind; behind the Pillars, the Spartan army shifted as well as they felt it… Something enormous was coming.

Drogo stood before the Pillars like a slab of living obsidian, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something deeper than ambition; this time, when he spoke, his messenger looked almost afraid to translate.

"My Khal wishes to tell you of a war. A great war…"

Bellatrix gave a curt nod. "Then speak, before I lose my patience!"

The messenger swallowed hard before continuing as Drogo continued to speak, not even slowing down to acknowledge Bellatrix's disrespect.

"Almost a year ago, the Dothraki were hired by your enemies — the Triarchy — to ride against the Pale God."

Kara stiffened as behind her, the Spartans shifted uneasily; they all knew of Tyrosh's fall, as well as what their Emperor had done to the Dothraki who had ridden against him, but only a few had actually been there when Kratos had cursed them.

"Those warriors never returned as men." The man continued, translating Drogo's words. "Kratos cursed them… Bent their bodies, twisted their bones… Made them half-horse, half-man — beasts of rage with no memory of who they once were…"

The messenger's voice shook as he went on.

"Those cursed riders became what we began to know as 'The Damned...' They slaughtered their own, devoured the weak, lost all reason, all mercy, all thought…"

Drogo stepped forward, chin high; his voice came rough and proud through the translator:

"And the Dothraki faced them! Ten moons of war. Ten moons of blood. Ten moons of fighting the Pale God's wrath given form. Many Khals fled. Many tribes were broken. But Drogo did not run. He united the warring Khalassars for the first time in a millennium and led them against the damned!"

The messenger inhaled sharply, then delivered the line that froze the Spartans where they stood.

"But where others saw monsters… Drogo saw the work of a god."

Kara blinked in shock as she and the other Pillars finally realized just what it was that Drogo had come to Sparta for.

Floki whispered, "He wants the curse…"

Bellatrix's jaw clenched. "Madness."

But Drogo wasn't finished.

"Drogo saw Kratos' power — the power to reshape flesh, to forge warriors beyond mortal limits!"

The Khal's eyes burned brighter, as if his inner madness was beginning to burst outward.

"That power belongs to the strongest! To the worthy! To the horse lords!"

The translator's voice trembled as he continued:

"Drogo believes Kratos can give his people the centaur form… but keep their minds whole. Their will unbroken. Their loyalty perfect…"

A tremor passed through the Spartan ranks at that, and one muttered under his breath, "Gods… They actually want that…?"

Unperturbed, the messenger pressed on, not caring about the horrified looks he was receiving:

"Drogo brings eighty thousand riders. Twice that number of families. All who survived the war against the damned. All who believe the Pale God is the only one strong enough to reshape destiny."

The Dothraki behind Drogo stirred—low, hungry, expectant as Drogo stepped forward again and placed a fist over his chest; then the messenger spoke the words that shattered the field like a quake:

"If Kratos will bless them with the centaur form — without madness — Drogo and his eighty thousand will ride for him. Kill for him. Conquer for him. Die for him."

Silence slammed down in an instant, thick, and suffocating; the Spartans who heard it were stunned—some in awe, others in horror.

Floki whispered, "An army of thinking centaurs… by the seas…"

Kara clutched the Omega symbol at her throat, her eyes wide in horror at what Drogo was asking. "Such power is not meant for mortals…"

Bellatrix stared directly into Drogo's dark eyes, voice barely above a whisper.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why seek this monstrous power?"

Drogo answered directly, no need for translation, his voice coming out rough and just barely understandable:

"Because a god gave my people monsters, and I would rather be one of the Pale god's chosen than his prey…"

For a long, breathless moment, the Pillars stood frozen; Kara, with her lips parted in stunned disbelief; Bellatrix, gripping her sword hilt so tightly her knuckles whitened; and Floki, staring as though witnessing a prophecy unfold.

Behind them, thousands of Spartans remained rigid at attention, absorbing Drogo's words like a blow to the chest as the Dothraki waited.

Silent.

Expectant.

Hungry.

Then Drogo did something none of them expected: he nodded firmly once as if his business were concluded; without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back toward his massive black stallion. The movement was fluid, practiced—almost contemptuously effortless. With a growl, he seized the saddle horn, vaulted up in a single motion, and pulled the reins taut.

The Spartans tensed, expecting a charge.

Instead, Drogo shouted something sharp to his translator and kicked his heels in, causing his horse to explode forward in a thunder of hoofbeats, a cloud of dust billowing behind him as he sped back toward the waiting sea of riders.

Bellatrix snapped, "Where the fuck is he going now?!"

The translator turned to her, utterly unfazed by her tone.

"Khal Drogo does not wish to offend your Emperor," he said calmly, "by camping outside the walls of his city like an invader."

Bellatrix blinked. Floki snorted. Kara arched a brow.

The translator continued:

"He will lead his people two days' ride from here, where they will make camp and wait."

"Wait…?" Bellatrix echoed.

"When your god returns," the translator finished, "send a messenger. Khal Drogo will return to ask Kratos for his blessing in person."

Behind the Pillars, several Spartans exchanged glances of surprise as the translator mounted his own horse and followed after Drogo. Out on the field, Drogo's stallion rejoined the horde, and with a roar from the riders, the great Khalasar turned as one—

a rolling tide of horse and braid and steel, and thundered away across the plains as the city watched with wide-eyed curiosity at what had just happened.

A moment later, Kara shocked everyone further when she said what everyone was thinking:

"Fuck…"

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. If not, let me know what I could have done to make it better. Constructive criticism always helps me make my next chapter even better.

But wait! There's more!

I got the bug and can't stop writing, so expect another chapter before the weekend is over! And next time we go back to Valyria, where two gods will finally reunite. The only reason I haven't put it in this chapter is because this one took me twelve hours and my hands are wrecked...

Chapter Text

Far from sacred Sparta—far from the shockwave Drogo's arrival had sent crawling through the city's streets—the five Spartan ships slipped into the choking fog of Valyria like ghosts drifting into a graveyard, the air growing colder with every oar-stroke.

The deck boards creaked softly beneath steady Spartan boots, but even the soldiers who boasted they feared nothing, felt a tightness in their chests they couldn't quite name. No one spoke it aloud—no Spartan would ever admit to fear—but their hands lingered on weapons a little too long, and their eyes flicked toward the fog a little too often.

As they entered the dense grey fog, Meera gripped the railing and leaned out over the side, squinting back the way they'd come; a moment later, her breath caught as she watched the fog behind them seal shut like a curtain being drawn—thick, impenetrable, erasing the sea beyond in a single suffocating sweep.

Swallowing hard, she turned to the warrior at her side. "Rhosene…" she whispered. "The fog—it's… closing behind us. Like it's trapping us!"

Rhosene didn't even turn her head; the ebony-skinned warrior stood with her arms folded, gaze fixed forward into the dead gray ahead as if she couldn't care less that the Spartans were essentially trapped.

"Do not waste breath on what's behind us," she said calmly.

"But—"

Rhosene finally glanced over, eyes sharp as obsidian and making Meera gulp slightly.

"Do not look back, Meera." Her voice was quiet, steady, unshakably sure. "We're not going that way…"

A moment later, a gust of cold wind rolled over the deck, carrying with it a faint, distant sound—like a moan dragged through stone; Meera's skin prickled at the sound, Rhosene's fingers slid toward her spear, and somewhere deep within the fog-drenched ruins of Valyria… something woke.

Slowly steeling her nerves, Meera swallowed hard and forced her gaze forward as the fog thinned just enough for the five ships to glimpse their surroundings, revealing broken shapes—massive stone ruins rising like skeletal remains from an age of gods.

As the Spartans stared, wild-eyed, at a city that was more myth than fact, they passed beneath a shattered archway so large that Meera wondered how it had ever been crafted by mortal hands. Great slabs of blackened marble leaned at impossible angles, the remnants of what was once a proud entrance to the Valyrian harbor.

Now it felt like a mouth.

The ships glided quietly up what had once been the grand canal of the Freehold, the main waterway where merchant vessels from across Essos once queued to enter a city of unmatched splendor. Now its waters were choked with debris…

Collapsed towers. Fallen monuments. Stonework scorched so deeply it looked melted; death and despair clung to everything like a second skin, and for some reason that she couldn't explain, Meera felt a wave of heartbreak wash over her for a moment before she quickly shrugged it away.

In the crow's nest of the lead ship, a Spartan called out intermittently:

"Rocks starboard!"

"Sunken debris—adjust port!"

"Two spans ahead—brace!"

Her voice was steady, but even she could not hide the quiver beneath the words; yet it was not the debris in the water that made the woman nervous… it was the shapes moving in the fog. Every man and woman on those ships saw it; something was moving just beyond their vision in the fog.

Tall. Thin. Wrong.

Flickering in the mist faster than human legs could ever carry; one moment there, then gone. A ripple in the haze. A twitch of shadow. A whisper of movement.

Sometimes two shapes.

Sometimes five.

Sometimes… something much larger…

A cold dread slipped onto every deck, closing around each Spartan's heart like icy fingers, and causing hands to tighten around spear shafts, shields to rise a fraction, and jaw muscles to clench as the warriors narrowed their eyes and tried to see just what was moving out there.

Kratos stood at the bow of the lead ship, Leviathan Axe resting against the deck, his gaze locked forward, and his eyes narrowed at the shifting dark within the fog; unlike the men and women at his back, Kratos was looking with more than just his eyes, he was spreading his godly awareness out into the city, and a heartbeat later, he felt it again…

A presence.

Old.

Hungry.

A moment later, Kratos felt the presence's attention shift, turning toward him and the approaching ships; it knew that Kratos was here and, strangely, seemed delighted at his arrival.

Growling low in his throat, Kratos turned to the general at his side.

"Neos."

The general straightened instantly.

"Order the warriors," Kratos commanded. "To ready themselves for battle..."

Without hesitation, Neos turned sharply, calling for his second, and relaying Kratos's orders; the officer saluted with fist to chest and sprinted across the deck, already relaying commands to the other ships by horn and hand signal.

As the men and women exploded into action behind him, Kratos kept his eyes on the choking fog—noting the shapes that darted within it, fast and silent, too quick to truly see. Ruins loomed on either side of the narrow waterway… broken archways, shattered stone bridges, buildings half-swallowed by ash and time.

Valyria had once welcomed merchant fleets here; now the city felt like a corpse… and yet something was still moving inside it.

A moment later, Neos returned to Kratos's side and began to fasten his own helmet to his head, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the dead city before them.

"What else do you sense, my lord?"

"When we reach land," Kratos rumbled, "we may have to fight the moment our feet touch stone."

Neos's expression hardened at that, and he instantly rested his hand on the xiphos blade at his hip.

"As expected…"

Behind them, across all five ships, the reaction was instantaneous and precise.

A thousand Spartans moved as one.

Shields rose from their rests.

Spears lifted, points glinting as helmets locked into place.

They had not come to marvel at a dead empire; they had come to conquer it!

And carve the name of Sparta into Valyria's bones…

XXXX

Freyja's lungs burned.

Her feet slammed against cracked stone, kicking up ash as she sprinted through the corpse of Valyria; every breath tasted of dust and ancient magic, thick enough to choke on. Her legs trembled, her ribs ached, and the rustle of her bow bouncing on her back cut sharply against her ears with each stride.

But she didn't slow.

She couldn't.

Because she felt him! A pulse — faint, distant, but unmistakable!

Kratos.

Her heart leapt and clenched in the same instant as that familiar presence washed over her; it had been years since she'd felt his presence, years since she'd sensed that raw, iron-heavy power, and as she felt it brush against her consciousness again, tears stung her eyes, half joy, half terror.

Because he wasn't alone.

Dozens — no, scores — of presences moved through the fog like predators scenting blood, circling, closing in; their hunger brushed against her magic like claws dragged down her spine, sending goosebumps across her skin as she forced herself to keep moving.

"Faster, lass!" Mimir's voice barked from her hip, the panic in his tone making her push harder. "They're swarmin' him — I can feel it! If we don't reach him first—"

"I know!" Freyja snapped, not out of anger, but the frantic, trembling fear only a god could feel; after weeks of being hunted and slowly drained, she was almost completely out of power, and as she pushed herself onward, she felt herself cursing Kratos; only he could both fill her with hope of escape from this hell hole, and aggravate her at the same time by arriving on the complete opposite side of the city from her!

With another growl of annoyance at how far she still had to go, she skidded around a shattered column, nearly slipping on loose gravel. A toppled statue of some long-dead Valyrian magistrate lay broken beside her, the stone face worn smooth by centuries of decay.

Ahead, the fog churned violently — twisting, writhing like something alive, and Freyja felt the creatures in it:

Hounds of smoke and hatred.

Wraith-like things with claws of ash.

And larger shadows — heavier, slower, patient.

All of them waiting for Kratos.

Her magic pulsed in warning as another presence brushed against her awareness — a massive, roiling mass deeper in the city, coiled like a serpent in the ruins, watching everything, and Freyja felt her breath hitch as she recognized it as the King of this place, the being which had been hunting her for weeks now…

A moment later, she cursed out loud when she felt it stir as it felt Kratos drawing ever closer; she could almost see the King licking his lips in anticipation of the upcoming meal.

"Damn it all!" Freyja hissed, forcing her legs to move faster, faster, faster — her muscles screaming, her talisman flickering desperately against her chest, as it slowly began to die, the last of its power finally disappearing after weeks of keeping Freyja and Mimir hidden.

"Keep running!" Mimir urged. "He's near, I can almost taste his bloody aura! But those creatures—those bloody things—are rushin' him from all directions!"

Freyja launched herself onto a fallen beam, vaulted over a collapsed archway, and sprinted through what had once been a marketplace, gasping for air as she sprinted past shattered stalls, burned-out homes, and blackened skeletons half buried in ash.

"He'll be set on the moment he sets foot on land!" she gasped. "If we don't reach him first, they'll overwhelm him by sheer numbers—"

A massive shadow darted across a rooftop beside her, fast as lightning, causing her to look up, only to see a large black tail whip past her and out of sight before she could make out what it was.

"GO, LASS!"

Freyja drew a breath so sharp it stabbed her chest — and then she ran harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the burning, ignoring everything except the pulse of Kratos's presence ahead and the storm of monsters streaking toward him like wolves scenting blood.

For the first time in years, she saw hope on the horizon, and for the first time since arriving in this cursed graveyard, she felt true fear that she might lose her friend again before she ever reached him.

XXXX

The ruined stone port rose like a broken jaw out of the fog, half-devoured by time, half-hidden beneath curtains of drifting ash. Once, it must have been magnificent—arched walkways, marble piers, carved sea-serpents guarding the entrances. Now it looked like the bones of a dead titan.

The five Spartan ships angled toward the shattered docks, oars dipping silently through black water; every warrior aboard felt it: the way the fog shifted, the way the air grew thinner, the way the world itself seemed to be holding its breath.

As the docks grew closer, the Spartans watched with narrow eyes as shapes flickered between pillars, shadows darted across rooftops, and a low, thready growl that echoed from within the fog of the city like nothing born of flesh…

"We're surrounded…" Leon growled, his knuckles whitening around his spear as he took position beside Meera, Rhosene, and Pindaros; his voice did not tremble, but the tension in it could have cut stone as he watched something move quickly across a nearby roof. Beside him, Rhosene's eyes narrowed, the gold crest atop her helmet gleaming faintly in the gloom.

"Form up," she commanded her squad quietly. "Shields tight. No one breaks the line!"

Her warriors obeyed instantly, snapping together into a tight phalanx formation, readying themselves for battle even before their boots touched land; around them, other squads followed suit, each preparing to fight for their lives the moment the ships docked.

But Kratos…

Kratos felt far more than shadows; his godly awareness spread like wildfire through the fog, through the city, through the very marrow of Valyria, and among all the monstrosities clawing toward them, he felt something else—

Something familiar.

Something desperate.

Something alive!

Freyja.

Mimir.

Their presences flickered across his senses like a beacon fighting against a smothering darkness, and behind them—closing in fast—were the twisted creatures stalking the mist; Kratos' jaw clenched as he felt the creatures closing in on them, and a low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating through the deck beneath his feet.

There were things between him and his friends…

Things that thought they could stop him!

Fools!

Neos stepped to his side a moment later, his brow creasing as he saw the sudden change in his emperor. "My lord?"

Kratos didn't look away from the shifting silhouettes on the ruined docks. "They come from all directions," he growled. "Monsters shaped by a god's hunger… And yet… they also feel familiar…"

"Familiar, my lord?"

"I cannot explain it…" Kratos growled. "But I feel as if whatever lies beyond that fog is something I have faced before…"

Neos tightened his grip on his spear.

"Ready your warriors," Kratos finished, voice dropping into a cold, ancient register. "No creature born of this place will keep me from my goal..."

Far above them, the Spartan in the crow's nest shouted a warning as she spotted shadows moving fast across the upper ruins, too quick to track; as the ships grew ever closer towards the docks, the growls deepened, stones clattered, and something skittered along the underside of the broken archway as the Spartans shifted their shields.

On the deck of the lead ship, Rhosene steadied her stance, Meera lifted her shield, Leon touched the knife on his hip and whispered a name, and Pindaros whispered a prayer under his breath as the fog thickened, and Kratos bared his teeth.

The docks loomed ahead—ten feet, nine, eight—and through the bond he shared with every Spartan aboard the ships, Kratos felt their tension like a storm pressing against his skin.

With a growl, he planted his hands atop the Leviathan Axe that rested against the deck, raised his head, and spoke; his voice rumbled across the water like the roar of an ancient beast, carried by divine power so that every warrior on every ship heard him as clearly as if he stood at their shoulder.

"Children of Sparta…"

The fog vibrated.

The shadows stilled.

"No matter what waits upon those shores…" his voice deepened, a growl that curled like thunder, "…remember who you are."

Shields tightened at the gods words, and spears rose a little straighter.

"Remember your training. Remember your discipline. Do not let fear steal from you what you earned through blood and fire…"

A pulse of power rippled over the ships, washing away doubt like the tide washing blood from a blade.

"Let no creature that crawls from that fog forget what stands before them. You are lions. MY LIONS!"

The word hit the Spartans like lightning, and every man and woman stood a little straighter as tears began to well up in the corners of their eyes.

With infinite slowness, Kratos lifted one hand, pointing toward the broken docks—toward the monsters waiting, toward Valyria itself, and spoke again, louder—fiercer—

"Do you know what lies there?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"Immortality."

The Spartans' breath froze as they gazed at the incoming docks, so near now that they could make out every stone that shaped them as Kratos's voice became a command from a god.

"Take it!"

A heartbeat.

"IT'S YOURS!"

The five ships erupted; a thousand throats unleashed a roar that split the fog, a war-cry so powerful even the monsters hiding in the mist flinched — startled, for the first time, by prey that did not cower as waves slapped the hulls, oars struck water harder, and shields locked.

As the ships slammed into the docks, the Spartans surged forward, their roar of defiance against the monsters hiding in the fog echoing like a thunderclap throughout the city.

XXXX

Freyja heard them before she saw them…

A roar — a thousand voices fused into a single thunderous battle-cry — erupted through the fog and slammed into the dead city like a shockwave, the sound was so powerful the very stones beneath her boots shuddered, and she momentarily lost her balance before righting herself and continuing on.

Mimir jerked at her hip. "Lass—! They've landed!"

"I know!" Freyja snarled back, her voice cracking between rage and relief as muscles screamed and lungs burned; yet despite the pain, she forced her body faster. Every heartbeat brought the presence she recognized — the only one she truly trusted in this realm — closer.

Kratos was here.

Finally!

But so were the others…

She could feel them closing in around him — dozens of presences that moved like smoke and hate, circling like wolves gathering around a fallen deer.

With a furious snarl, Freyja vaulted over a heap of collapsed columns and sprinted across a cracked courtyard, her legs wobbled dangerously — she'd been running too long, draining too much magic to keep the talisman active — but she forced herself onward.

"Come on, lass, faster!" Mimir shouted, voice sharp with urgency. "Kratos is about to—"

Freyja didn't wait for the rest.

With a wordless cry, she leapt, arching through the fog-choked air to land hard on the rooftop of a half-collapsed marble hall; tiles cracked beneath her boots as she slid to a stop at the edge, clutching a broken pillar to steady herself, just in time to see the battlefield below.

As she stared down at the battle below her, her breath hitched and her heart stuttered as her eyes widened at the impossibility she was seeing.

"By the Norns…" she whispered.

A thousand warriors had taken the docks — and they were unlike anything she'd seen in this world:

Silver steel donned every warrior, shining like moonlight.

Round shields locked tight.

Spears braced in perfect ranks.

Red cloaks whipping like fire in the cursed wind.

"They— they look like…" Mimir's voice trembled. For once, the talking head was speechless. "…Freyja, they look like Spartans! Old-world Spartans! Like from Brother's time!"

Freyja felt a chill race through her veins at the head on her hip's words.

It was true…

The phalanxes were textbook — shields overlapped, spears thrust in unison. Discipline unbreakable. Courage absolute! They fought as Kratos once described in rare, fleeting memories of his youth… the glory and cruelty of the long-dead Greek warriors of Midgard.

"Mortals…" Freyja breathed. "Mortals fighting like gods..."

"By the Norns… Actual Spartans…" Mimir breathed in amazement. "He's rebuilt them!"

Below, the fog boiled as shapes flickered in the mist — long, serpentine shadows darting too quickly to track. Claws scraped stone. Something chittered. Something clicked its teeth.

The monsters of Valyria struck fast, slashing into the edges of the Spartans' line, only to smash against silver shields and disciplined bodies; but the Spartans couldn't hit what they couldn't see, and the monsters were using that problem to their advantage!

Black limbs, barbed tails, and slavering jaws burst from the fog in lightning-fast streaks, striking the Spartan line from every direction — probing, testing, searching for a crack; yet despite the endless onslaught, the warriors held firm, shields locked so tight they looked carved from the same slab of iron.

But a moment later, Freyja's heart nearly stopped when one woman, a young warrior with the red tattoo of Kratos's mark, stumbled half a step out of formation after something slammed hard into her shield. A barbed tail lashed out seconds later, wrapped her leg, and yanked her screaming into the fog before anyone could even tell what had happened.

Her cry cut off abruptly a moment later

"NO!" Freyja cried, powerless to help.

Mimir swallowed hard, his voice a whisper.

"Gods… They don't stand a chance unless Kratos—"

"We have to reach him!" Freyja snarled.

Below, the Spartans tightened their formation. No one broke ranks. No one fled. They closed the gap where the woman had stood, shields locking again, a look of pain and anger crossing each of their faces, before their disciplined masks fell back into place.

Even in death… their discipline didn't falter; but the monsters were circling endlessly. Testing. Hunting. Searching for some weakness they could exploit in order to drag more fresh meat into the fog.

Freyja drew a breath that tasted like fog and ash as she watched the momentarily pause in battle come to an end as the creatures resumed their lightning quick hit and run attacks.

"Hold on, Kratos," she whispered. "Don't you dare die before I get the chance to break your jaw for disappearing on me and dragging me to this hellhole in the first place!"

Mimir, bouncing against her hip as she tensed to leap, muttered, "Aye, lass… give him a right scolding! After we save the big bastard, of course..."

Freyja snarled at that, a sound that belonged more to a huntress than a queen.

Then she moved.

She launched herself from the rooftop, hitting the next structure in a spray of loose stone; her feet barely touched the surface before she sprang again, bounding from ruin to ruin with deadly speed. Each stride pushed her body past its limits, each leap burning through the dregs of her strength.

But she didn't slow.

Couldn't slow.

Kratos was here!

The thought hit her like a punch each time her foot struck stone as she thought of how long she had spent searching for the pale giant.

Kratos — the man who had murdered her son and left her drowning in what felt like centuries of grief.

Kratos — the man she had sworn to destroy, only to find a fractured, reluctant ally against Odin, hidden beneath his brutality.

Kratos — the infuriating, stubborn, impossible friend she had come to trust against her better judgment, and who had helped her gain the revenge she had craved for centuries against the worst tyrant that the realms had ever seen!

He was down there — somewhere in that churning fog, somewhere amid the clang of shields and the shrieks of monsters — and Freyja would be damned before she let them take him!

Not after years of searching, countless realms scoured, and finally finding the impossible bastard alive!

No.

If the creatures wanted Kratos, they would have to go through her, because if anyone was going to kill that giant pain in the ass, it was most definitely going to be her for all the trouble he put her through!

XXXX

Kratos stood like a stone carved by war at the bow of the lead ship, his gaze fixed upon

the chaos unfolding on the docks before him. The fog churned like a living thing, swallowing Spartans and monsters alike; his warriors fought as they always had — disciplined, unbroken, unyielding — but the shadows struck too fast, too many, too unseen.

And then he felt it—through the bond he shared with the ones who bore his mark — a scream, a flare of agony, and then nothing…

A Spartan woman — brave, strong, loyal — had just died, dragged into the fog, before being torn from the world he was shaping.

Something ancient and terrible stirred in his chest as he felt her light go out, and Kratos growled — a low, thunderous rumble that vibrated through the wooden planks beneath his feet.

"Enough."

The word wasn't shouted.

It was unleashed!

He lifted the Leviathan Axe high overhead, frost crackled along the haft, crawling down his arm like living ice; the fog itself seemed to recoil from the weapon's glow.

Then Kratos brought the axe crashing down.

The impact did not strike wood.

It struck everything!

A shockwave screamed across the ruined harbor — a hurricane-blast of divine force; the ships rocked violently as sand and stone ripped from the ground, roof tiles shattered, and every Spartan shield was nearly torn from the warriors' grasp.

For a moment, the fog howled!

And then— it flew apart!

A wall of wind ripped through Valyria's waterfront, shredding the fog in seconds. Shadows thrashed in the open, some tumbling across the cobblestones as the unnatural mist was peeled away like rotting skin.

Suddenly, the battlefield was laid bare, and as the Spartans finally saw their enemy, they froze.

Even Kratos narrowed his eyes as he saw something that he knew should have been impossible, yet he could not deny what he was seeing.

Creatures — dozens, no, hundreds — skittered and stalked across the shattered port, revealed in the glaring light for the first time in centuries.

Shadow-wolves with burning red eyes and bodies made of smoke and bone.

Manticores the size of warhorses, barbed tails twitching.

Giant scorpions with claws like cleavers and stingers dripping shadow-venom.

Winged harpies screeching as they clawed at the air.

A massive, goat-legged satyr demon, horns curled and fangs gleaming, bellowing in fury at having its hiding place torn away.

Monsters from Kratos's homeland.

Creatures from Greece's darkest legends.

Things that should not exist in this world, yet were somehow standing directly across from Kratos's warriors in all their monstrous glory!

Even the Spartans — molded by war and death — exchanged looks of speechless disbelief as they gazed at the creatures before them.

Rhosene's grip tightened on her spear.

Pindaros whispered a prayer.

Meera swallowed hard.

Leon muttered, "By the gods…"

And as the Spartans stared in shock and horror at what they were seeing, every beast on the field suddenly turned and stared directly at Kratos, their eyes narrowing dangerously. As though they remembered him, and some ancient debt lay between them.

As he locked eyes with a particularly large Manticore, Kratos's jaw clenched; these beasts should not be here… They should have all died with Greece following the destruction of the Olympic pantheon, and yet here they were, following Kratos into his new world, corrupting it with their very existence! Slowly raising his axe, Kratos pointed toward where the beasts still stood, waiting, and his voice rolled like thunder:

"Spartans… destroy them!"

The docks exploded into motion instantly as shields locked, spears lowered, and warriors roared before rushing forward, and the battle for Valyria truly began!

XXXX

As the battle exploded across the Valyrian docks, Meera didn't breathe.

Couldn't breathe.

The fog peeled back, revealing hell!

Shadow wolves — lean, stretched things whose jaws unhinged far too wide — prowled along the broken marble. Giant scorpions, their stingers dripping darkness itself, clicked across shattered docks. Manticores with flayed wings and burning eyes stalked between toppled pillars. And towering above them all, crouching down on the nearby rooftop was a group of hulking… things — goat legs, horned skull, flesh charred black, fire smoldering between its ribs.

Satyrs!

But not like any Meera had read about in old Essosi fables; this one was a demon!

And as she stared at the enemy before her, Meera's heart slammed against her ribs.

"Oh gods…" she breathed as around her, her thousand fellow Spartans fought with all the fury carved into their bones. Kratos had called them his lions, and it was a name that the Spartans were determined to earn!

"MEERA!" Rhosene suddenly snapped. "SHIELD UP!"

She raised her shield just in time — a shadow wolf lunged, its impact rattled her bones, claws screeching across silver armor as Meera screamed and shoved back with everything she had. Leon appeared from her left like a falling star, his spear ramming through the wolf's throat and pinning it to the stone a moment later.

As the creature dissolved into smoke with a horrible, gurgling hiss, the hulking man turned to her with a glare, as though annoyed at her momentary lapse.

"Focus!" Leon barked, wrenching his spear free. "There's plenty more!"

XXXX

A few feet from them, Rhosene stood at the front of their squad's phalanx, shield raised, spear leveled — eyes sharp as razors.

"FORM UP!" she roared. "KEEP THE LINE TIGHT! NOTHING GETS THROUGH!"

They obeyed her instantly.

The barbed tail that stole their sister was still fresh in her mind, the echo of the scream still clawing at her ears — and for that, something inside Rhosene snapped!

As the monsters charged, shrieking, Rhosene raised her spear high and bellowed, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade:

"LET THEM COME!"

A manticore lunged, wings flaring, and Rhosene met it head-on; her spear flashing, sweeping upward and cleaving through one of its leathery wings. The beast screamed as it crashed into the dirt, and she vaulted over her shield and drove her spear into its skull, black ichor spraying across her face.

"NEXT!" she snarled.

XXXX

Not far away, Leon was fighting like a man possessed as he cut down three shadow wolves in quick succession; yet despite the horror going on all around him, Leon felt alive!

Terrified.

But alive!

His blood pumped fire as he spotted another shadow wolf sprinting for Meera again, and he growled low in his throat as he pulled his arm back and lined up the sight.

Not this time!

A second later, he hurled his spear — a perfect throw — and it struck the wolf mid-leap, snapping its spine before the creature dissolved into smoke. Not wasting a moment, Leon grabbed the spear before it hit the ground, spun, and slammed into the side of a charging scorpion, driving the spearpoint into its eye.

The scorpion shrieked and flailed wildly in its death throes, and Leon screamed back, planting his foot on its carapace and ripping the spear free with a wet crack.

"COME ON THEN!" he roared as another wave of monsters formed. "WE DON'T BREAK! WE ARE KRATOS'S LIONS!"

Storming forward, Leon ripped a shadow wolf off young Aeson by the throat and hurled it into a broken column, smiling with satisfaction as the beast hit the stone and vanished in a burst of shadow.

XXXX

On the opposite side of the docks, the sky screamed!

Pteryssa was rapidly firing arrows at anything that moved when an inhuman screech made her look up just in time to see black shapes slicing through the thinning fog toward them; wings like jagged knives, claws dripping with shadow, eyes burning like embers in a furnace.

Not women.

Not birds.

Not anything natural!

Twisted creatures with leathery wings, fanged beaks, and limbs that bent wrong — as if the gods themselves had torn two animals apart and stitched the worst pieces together for sport.

"SKY DEMONS!" a Spartan shouted beside her.

"They bleed!" Pteryssa yelled back, voice sharp as steel. "Aim high!"

One harpy dove for her phalanx, screeching loud enough to rattle teeth, and Pteryssa slid into a kneeling crouch, bow already drawn, her fingers glowing faintly with the blessing Kratos had once placed upon her.

She exhaled.

The world went silent.

And she loosed!

The arrow tore upward, slicing through the fog — and buried itself straight into the harpy's throat; the creature gagged mid-scream, wings buckling, and crashed into the stone street with a wet crunch.

But for every kill, ten more descended!

A harpy raked its claws across a Spartan's shield, talons screeching over silver. Another hooked its claws around a soldier's shoulders and lifted the screaming woman off her feet.

"NO YOU DON'T!" Pteryssa roared as she sprinted forward, eyes blazing, slid to a stop, and fired straight upward — the arrow punching through the creature's chest; the harpy convulsed, dropped its prey, and tumbled from the sky as blood rained onto the stones.

Another Spartan wasn't so lucky — a second harpy clamped claws into his armor and tore him up into the fog, his scream echoing long after he vanished, and causing Pteryssa to snarl with fury.

Not again.

NOT AGAIN!

Spinning on her heel, she vaulted up a chunk of fallen masonry, leapt onto the ruins of a collapsed balcony, then shot three arrows in rapid succession:

One struck a harpy's wing joint — sending it spiraling.

One split another's beak in half — killing it instantly.

The third arrow hit nothing but fog, causing her to scowl at missing her target. The Winddancer did not miss!

Then she saw it.

A massive harpy — larger than a man, with a crown of bone spikes — diving straight toward a Spartan phalanx, claws extended like spears.

Pteryssa didn't hesitate.

She leapt into the air, twisted upside-down mid-fall, drew another arrow, and fired as gravity pulled her downward.

The arrow streaked upward like a comet and hit the monster dead center in the chest; a moment later, the beast exploded into black dust before it reached the shields as she landed on one knee, breath misting, heart thundering.

But the sky…

The sky was still full of wings!

A fresh wave of harpies shrieked and dived from above, their silhouettes blotting out what little light pierced Valyria's fog.

"SPARTANS!" Pteryssa cried. "HOLD FAST! KEEP FORMATION—AND BRING THE SKY DOWN!"

A heartbeat later, she raised her bow, and the Winddancer of Sparta unleashed hell upward!

XXXX

Pindaros had seen death.

He had survived the mines.

He had endured the Agoge!

But nothing — NOTHING — prepared him for this!

A giant scorpion lunged for him, stinger plunging, and Pindaros barely rolled aside as the stone shattered where he'd stood; with a snarl of fury, he stabbed upward, spear sinking into the soft joint beneath its armor; unable to help himself, Pindaros smiled as he watched the beast reel, snapping its claws wildly.

"I… I GOT IT!" he shouted.

"No, you started it!" Leon yelled from where he and Meera were holding back a pack of shadow wolves. "FINISH IT!"

With a nod, Pindaros gritted his teeth, slid beneath the creature as it thrashed, and drove his spear up through its belly again and again until the thing collapsed.

As the monstrous scorpion collapsed to the ground, Pindaros rolled out from under its fading form, panting, shaking… but alive!

Pindaros had just torn his spear free from the scorpion's corpse, chest heaving, black ichor splattering his armor, when the world behind him exploded.

CRAAAAAAAAASH!

A massive shape tore through the wall of a ruined tower, pulverizing stone, scattering dust and flaming rubble across the courtyard as Meera screamed—

"PINDAROS!"

He spun instinctively, shield rising just as a shadow blotted out the sickly sky, and as he turned to face his new opponent, Pindaros' face fell, and his eyes widened in horror at what he was seeing…

A Cyclops!

A towering, broad-shouldered brute of muscle and volcanic stone — its single eye glowing molten gold, its skin cracked like cooling magma, steam venting from between the glowing fissures across its torso. Three jagged horns crowned its brow like a broken crown, and in its fist, it held a hammer forged of fused bone and blackened iron.

With a deafening bellow, the Cyclops swung; the hammer slammed into Pindaros' shield with the force of a falling mountain — sending him skidding backward across the stone, his boots carving deep grooves as he struggled to stay upright, his arm screaming in pain.

But the shield held!

Barely.

"RHOSENE!" Pindaros roared, voice cracking with effort.

"I SEE IT!"

Rhosene was already charging, the ebony warrior moved like lightning, spear low, fury in her eyes; with a snarl, she ducked beneath a wild swing that shattered a stone column, then drove her spear upward with every ounce of strength she had, and stabbed the Cyclops under its rib plate, the spear snapping from the amount of force.

There was a sickening sound of tearing flesh, followed by a roar that shook the entire street as black fire spilled from the wound, burning through the cracks in its shadow-flesh.

As Rhosene stepped back and drew her xiphos blade, Leon was at her side in an instant; the hulking warrior let out a wordless roar and carved his blade across the Cyclops's hamstring. The beast staggered, snarling, its massive weight shaking the ground beneath them. Meera, standing behind their shield-line, grabbed a fallen archer's equipment and began to loose arrow after arrow — each shot slamming into the cracks in the Cyclops's stone-hide, driving deeper and deeper as she aimed for anything soft.

Pindaros, teeth gritted, muscles screaming, shoved back with his shield, refusing to be crushed.

Refusing to yield!

Refusing to die!

"COME ON THEN!" he roared at the Cyclops. "COME AND TRY ME!"

Enraged, the Cyclops raised its hammer again — towering over them, shadow flames licking up its arms, molten drool falling from its snarling jaw as it prepared the killing blow.

This was it.

One swing.

One strike.

One heartbeat from death!

But before the monster could strike, a golden blur smashed into its back, causing the Cyclops to lurch forward, stumble, and strike the ground instead of Pindaros; stone shattered, and a shockwave rolled across the courtyard.

And the golden blur —

The figure of a woman, blade drawn, feathers trailing behind her, runes glowing— landed atop the Cyclops's shoulders with a feral snarl.

"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH THEM!"

The cyclops roared — a thunderous, world-shaking bellow that rattled shattered stone and sent dust cascading from broken rooftops; its single burning eye pulsed with hellish light, its shadow-black skin rippling with muscle thicker than columns, each breath a furnace blast.

And perched on its shoulders like an enraged goddess of vengeance—

Freyja.

She drove her dagger down again and again into the creature's neck; each strike sent sparks exploding from its hide, as though she were stabbing a slab of molten iron.

"DIE, YOU GREAT ONE-EYED BASTARD!" she screamed, slashing, hacking, clawing— but the blade barely sank a finger's width.

The cyclops snarled and bucked violently, nearly throwing her off as the watching Spartans stared in shock, unable to believe what they were seeing.

"Who the fuck is she?!" Leon finally yelled over the chaos as he watched the woman thrash like a rider on a wild stallion.

At his side, Rhosene didn't look away from the monster; instead, she bared her teeth, sword ready.

"Who the fuck cares?!" she snarled. "All that matters is bringing this giant fucker down!"

The cyclops swung a massive arm, a shadow-coated club of bone and fire that slammed into the ground where they had stood seconds earlier, cracking stone like thin ice, and the shockwave sent Spartans tumbling backward.

Pindaros rolled to his feet, shield up, shoulder screaming.

Leon drew another javelin from his back.

Meera nocked two arrows at once, breath sharp and steady.

Rhosene lowered into her kill-stance, sword tip glowing red from friction and rage as the monster charged.

The cyclops tore through a ruined house, debris exploding in all directions, and Spartans scattered as the giant swung its arm like a fallen tower.

In a heartbeat, Rhosene darted forward, the rest of her squad charging behind her.

"LEFT LEG!" she barked.

Leon and Pindaros moved instantly; Leon hurled his spear, watching with satisfaction as it slammed into the cyclops' knee, making the beast stumble with a guttural roar; Pindaros sprinted in and smashed his shield against the same knee with a battle cry.

"FOR SPARTA!"

The joint cracked, and the cyclops lurched forward, losing balance—

—but Freyja clung to its shoulders like a demoness, driving her dagger into its ear.

The monster screamed and thrashed, claws raking at its own head, trying to tear her free.

"Hold him!" Freyja roared down at them. "HOLD HIM!"

Rhosene didn't hesitate.

"MEERA! BLIND IT!"

Meera loosed both arrows, and they streaked through the air like sparks— and both sank straight into the cyclops's burning eye.

The creature shrieked, blinded, blood and shadow spraying like a geyser as it swung wildly, tearing trenches in the stone.

Rhosene lunged, slamming her sword into its Achilles tendon, and the tendon snapped with a sickening pop.

"BRING IT DOWN!" she roared. "KILL IT!"

From all angles, the Spartans of her squad stabbed and screamed; spears broke, and swords swung, leaving sparks in their wake as they bounced off the cyclops' hide.

Leon dove, slicing the other tendon, and Pindaros smashed his shield into the back of the beast's ankle with everything he had, groaning as he felt his arms shake from the force of the impact.

The cyclops collapsed to one knee, slamming the ground so hard several Spartans fell with it., and in that moment, Freyja seized her chance; with a growl of fury, she leapt high, higher than any mortal could, silhouette framed against the shattered Valyrian skyline.

"KRATOS TAUGHT ME THIS ONE!" she snarled.

A heartbeat later, she brought her dagger down in both hands, aiming for the weakened eye, and the cyclops's head snapped upward just in time for the blade to plunge into its skull to the hilt.

The monster convulsed, and shadow poured from the wound like smoke ripped from a fire as Rhosene, Leon, Pindaros, and Meera formed a phalanx in front of it, watching with shock as the beast swayed.

One final roar tore from its throat, and then the enormous creature toppled like a dying titan, hitting the stone with an impact that shook the docks to their foundations. Freyja hit the ground in a crouch and rose slowly to her full height; each breath dragged through her chest like sandpaper as her knives dripped molten-black shadow that sizzled and hissed on the stone.

For a moment—a heartbeat long—no one moved.

A dozen Spartans stood in a half-circle around her, weapons raised but frozen, their armor streaked in monster blood, their eyes wide.

A moment later, Pindaros' whispered voice broke the silence, saying what everyone was thinking, voice cracking:

"By the gods…"

Rhosene took one step forward, lowering her sword, but not enough to look relaxed.

"…Whoever you are," she said, breath still ragged from the battle, "you saved one of mine." She jerked her chin toward Pindaros, who still clutched his shield with trembling hands. "You have my gratitude."

Her eyes hardened.

"But I need to know your name before I let you stand behind our lines."

Freyja smirked despite her exhaustion, wiping one of her blades on her bracer.

"Cautious. Good. You'll live longer that way…" She straightened. "My name is Freyja."

As she took a single step forward, her battered and dirty cloak shifted, and something dangling at her hip swung into view:

A severed head with curling horns, tattooed runes, and bright, alert eyes that winked at them and smiled.

Meera screamed.

Leon stumbled back with a curse.

Pindaros nearly threw his shield as he ripped his xiphos blade free.

Rhosene thrust her sword forward instantly, fury igniting behind her eyes.

"The fuck is that?! Why the fuck do you have a dead man's head on your hip?!"

The head blinked.

"Oh, don't get your smallclothes twisted!" it barked in a thick accent. "I'm not dead dead! Just detached!"

Meera stared, pale and shaking.

"That's— that's a talking head— that's— what—?"

Freyja groaned and planted a hand on her hip.

"This is Mimir," she said flatly. "He talks… A lot... You get used to it..."

Mimir sniffed indignantly. "A pleasure to meet ye all, by the way. Grand fighters, every one of ye!"

Silence.

Then Meera's eyes went even wider as something clicked together in her mind.

"Wait…"

A heartbeat later, she stepped forward, ignoring Rhosene's attempt to pull her back.

"My grandmother…" she whispered. "She said… she said Emperor Kratos originally came to Valyria to find… others. Gods. From his homeland."

She stared at Freyja with wide, reverent eyes.

"…Is that you?"

The Spartans all turned to Freyja at that; weapons lowered, breaths held, and hearts thundering.

Freyja looked at them—really looked at them.

Their armor.

Their discipline.

Their ferocity.

Spartans, but not the ones Kratos once knew. These were somehow better than the originals.

And as she gazed at them, something softened behind her battle-weariness.

"This is Mimir," she said at last, gesturing to the head at her hip. "The smartest man in all the realms. Severed head or not."

"Smartest—?" Leon sputtered. "In— what realms?!"

"And, as I said a moment ago, I am Freyja," she continued quietly. "Former Queen of the Valkyries. Witch of the Woods. Goddess of magic, among other things… And to answer your question, yes. We are from Kratos's homeland…"

Rhosene's eyes widened.

Leon whispered a curse.

Pindaros felt his blood chill with awe.

Meera swallowed hard.

"…Then… then emperor Kratos is not alone."

Freyja blinked, taken aback by the title.

"Emperor?" she repeated, a surprised laugh escaping her lips. "My, he has been busy…"

"Sounds about right…" Mimir muttered from her hip. "Only brother could come to a strange new world and build himself a bloody empire while we're off searching for the bastard!"

Silence met Mimir's words. Thunderous, stunned silence.

Rhosene froze mid-breath.

Leon's jaw dropped.

Pindaros looked like he might faint.

Meera's eyes went round as full moons.

Behind them, the other Spartans who had heard looked as if they had just been told that the moon was made of cheese.

"B–Brother…?" Meera whispered.

"A god," Leon breathed. "A severed head… that is his brother?"

Rhosene stared in absolute shock.

"You mean to tell me," she said slowly, "that Lord Kratos has siblings?!"

"Aye," Mimir replied proudly. "Though I am by far the most handsome—despite the lack of a body."

Meera let out a hysterical laugh.

Pindaros ran a shocked hand across the red mark on his arm.

Leon muttered, "Gods preserve us…"

Freyja sheathed her daggers, breath still heavy.

"We didn't come here to frighten you," she said gently. "We came to find him…"

She glanced toward the fog, where more monstrous roars echoed; the battle had lulled, but from the sound of it, more were on their way…

"And it seems we're just in time…"

Rhosene exhaled, steadied herself, then nodded.

"If you are friends of our Emperor…" she said, "…then stand with us!"

Freyja smirked, rolling her shoulders for a moment before she reached back and pulled her bow free.

"Oh, trust me."

A heartbeat later, as the Spartans watched, she summoned a full quiver of silver arrows in a flash of golden magic; the talisman on her chest had long since died, and as such she saw no need to hide anymore!

"We plan to."

Behind them, the fog trembled, the monsters screamed, and a new wave of horrors surged toward the docks.

Before they could say another word, a dozen monster roars erupted in the fog behind them.

Closer.

Hungrier.

Angrier.

Rhosene sheathed her sword before bending down and grabbing a nearby fallen spear, lifting it high into the air for a moment.

"Talk later. Fight now!"

Freyja smirked as she pulled three arrows from the quiver and loaded them.

"Now you're speaking my language."

A heartbeat later, the Spartans closed ranks, and Freyja and Mimir stepped into the formation as the fog ripped open with the sound of claws and wings—

And the battle was reborn.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hate every last one of you! Why? Because your love of my story has lit a passion in both my brain and soul that all but demands I put out one more chapter before I take a nice break! Lol, I'm just kidding, guys! I'm really grateful for all of you who enjoy this story, and I hope you continue to do so! If you think I could have done better, let me know; constructive criticism is always helpful, and as I said, expect one final chapter before the end of the weekend!

Chapter Text

The battlefield had become a screaming nightmare!

Fire rolled across shattered docks, shadow-beasts poured from the fog in endless waves, giant forms crashed through ruins like living siege engines, smoke-wolves leapt through Spartan ranks only to be ripped apart by disciplined spear thrusts, and harpies shrieked overhead as arrows and blood rained together.

And in the middle of it all—

Oberyn Martell laughed!

Not a manic laugh.

Not a panicked one.

A delighted, reckless, this-is-how-I-wanted-to-die kind of laugh!

To his left, a Spartan shield wall slammed together as shadow-hounds crashed against bronze and iron, their bodies evaporating into black smoke when spears punched through skulls that were more flame than bone. To his right, a harpy plummeted screaming from the fog, an arrow buried clean through its throat.

He spun between two shadows with his spear flashing, sand and blood spraying with every step; a manticore lunged at him from the rubble—too slow. Oberyn slid beneath its claws and drove his spear straight up through its skull, an almost crazed laugh escaping him as black fire poured down the shaft, sizzling along the steel as the creature shrieked and collapsed.

A moment later, he yanked the weapon free and whirled just in time to see another beast rushing him—this one shaped like a demonic satyr, flaming Axe raised high.

"Of course," Oberyn laughed breathlessly. "Why not?"

A heartbeat later, he leapt forward instead of back, and the world shrank to motion, heat, and impact. Steel met flame. Sparks exploded between them. The Satyr howled, swung wildly, and Oberyn ducked low before lunging forward with his spear, slicing through the beast's side, and causing it to scream as black blood ran freely down its side. With an inhuman snarl, the Satyr swung again, only for a Spartan shield to slam into its chest from the side, shattering ribs of living shadow; smirking in victory, Oberyn seized the moment and pivoted before ramming his spear straight through the Satyr's face.

As the creature dropped in a heap of burning smoke, Oberyn staggered back, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaking his skin as he looked around.

Spartans were fighting like legends made flesh—phalanxes advancing through hell itself, shields locked as monsters smashed against them and broke. Warriors were being torn apart, yes—but for every Spartan that fell, a pile of nightmares fell with them!

And yet, still more came!

"Seven save me…" Oberyn breathed, eyes shining. "No. Not the Seven. Not today."

Oberyn Martell had always believed in many things.

Poison.

Steel.

Speed.

Desire.

Vengeance.

Gods?

Gods had always been stories men told when they needed comfort… or excuses… or someone else to blame.

And yet—

Here he stood amid demons ripped straight from nightmare and myth, fighting beside warriors who moved with the terrible precision of an age long dead; warriors who did not break. Who did not flee. Who did not beg the heavens for mercy.

They claimed it!

And at the center of it all stood Kratos, the Leviathan Axe moving like a force of nature, every impact shaking the dock. Fire, shadow, and bone shattered beneath him, and monsters that would have devoured armies recoiled from him like terrified prey.

Oberyn watched as the so-called 'god of war' tore through the battlefield, and for the first time in his life… The Red Viper of Dorne felt something he had never truly known.

Not fear.

Not doubt.

But awe.

"Oh," he whispered hoarsely, a grin slowly carving its way through the blood on his face as he watched Kratos literally rip a Satyr in two. "You're no story at all, are you, you big bastard…"

Oberyn had always doubted gods… but watching Kratos carve through nightmares like a force of nature, he began to wonder if the stories about him being a 'warlord' had simply chosen the wrong name…

As he turned his attention back to the battlefield, Oberyn Martell ducked beneath the snapping jaws of a smoke-hound and drove his spear up through its skull, feeling the strange resistance as mist and bone gave way together; a moment later, the creature burst apart into boiling black vapor that burned his skin as it dissipated.

And yet, despite the pain, he laughed.

Actually laughed!

Gods help him, he had never felt so alive!

This wasn't a battle.

This was a chapter torn straight out of myth!

And in that moment, Oberyn felt almost certain that he was going to die here in this land of darkness and shadow… But if he lived? If he lived, this would be a tale he would recount with joy until the day his breath left his body! This was an adventure worthy of being carved into the histories of Dorne! That is… If Ellaria didn't kill him once she heard it, of course…

All around him, Spartans fought like living legends — shield walls holding against waves of unnatural beasts, spears punching forward with merciless precision. Shadow-wolves slammed into bronze lines and shattered. Demonic satyrs clashed against disciplined formations and were dragged down screaming. Harpies fell from the sky in showers of black ichor and broken wings.

With another laugh, Oberyn leapt over a fallen Spartan, spun mid-air, and impaled a lunging horror through its open maw; as the creature collapsed in smoky convulsions, he yanked his spear free and grinned wildly.

'Seven hells… no one will ever believe me when I tell them about this...' He thought with a grin, even as blood ran freely in neat little lines down his face.

He had come to Valyria for adventure, and instead, he had found oblivion.

And he loved it!

A heartbeat later, the ground detonated beside him, and stone exploded upward as something massive burst through the side of a ruined port structure; Oberyn whirled just in time to see it rise from the debris, and his eyes widened at it!

A manticore, the size of a warhorse, stepped through the fog; its leonine body was wrapped in shadow-thick muscle, wings tattered but powerful, eyes burning like molten gold. A scorpion's tail lashed behind it, the barb dripping with smoking venom.

Oberyn's grin widened.

"Oh… you are beautiful!"

The manticore shrieked a heartbeat later and launched itself at him, and Oberyn dove aside as the monster's claws smashed down where he had stood, stone disintegrating under the impact; with grace mastered through years of combat, he rolled, sprang to his feet, and stabbed upward; the spear scraped across the beast's armored chest but didn't pierce — sparks skipping across shadow-thick hide.

Before he could follow up on his attack, the manticore backhanded him with one massive claw, sending Oberyn flying; a heartbeat later, he slammed hard into broken stone, air exploding from his lungs, his spear skidding from his grip as the beast stalked forward, its tail coiling for the killing strike.

Blood filled his mouth.

His vision swam.

And somehow…

He was still smiling!

"Well," he rasped softly, forcing himself to one knee as the beast loomed over him, "if the Spartans are right about Elysium…"

The manticore reared back, tail arcing high.

"…this will make one hell of an introduction!"

The barb came down.

Steel flashed.

The manticore's head exploded!

Black fire and shadow sprayed outward as a Spartan spear punched straight through its skull and out the other side, the point resting right between the beast's eyes as Oberyn stared in surprise; a moment later, the beast staggered, shrieked once, and collapsed in a heap of dissolving darkness.

Oberyn blinked at his sudden turn of luck, his mind unable to process that he was no longer going to become the beast's next meal, when a woman stood over him, chest heaving, spear dripping with shadow-ichor.

She glanced down at him flatly.

"You fight like an idiot," she said. "That will get you killed…"

Oberyn coughed, then laughed, wiping blood from his lip, "You wound me, my lady. I thought my technique was daring!"

She snorted at that and hauled him to his feet with one powerful pull.

"Next time, try not to flirt with monsters…"

"No promises." Oberyn smiled back, his teeth flashing white against the blood coating them. "Aren't you the one who's been spending nearly the entire trip provoking that dark skinned girl? What's her name? Rosy? Rachel?"

"Rhosene…" The woman replied with a smirk. "And yes, I like the way she fights… I'm Dafni, by the way."

Oberyn smirked knowingly at that as he shook her hand with genuine enthusiasm.

"Well, I hope you both survive so you can enjoy more… fights together…"

Dafni snorted at that and made to answer, when suddenly a thunderous screech tore across the battlefield; without another word, Oberyn seized his spear, sprinted three steps, vaulted off a fallen scorpion's carapace, and launched himself onto the back of another towering shadow-scorpion, laughing like a madman as he wrapped one arm around its jagged spine.

"BEST. VACATION. EVER!"

He drove his spear down again and again, roaring with delight as the scorpion screeched and thrashed; behind him, Dafni watched for half a heartbeat…

Then shook her head with a reluctant smirk.

"Mad bastard…"

And charged back into the war.

XXXX

Not far away, Kratos caught the Satyr's overhead strike on the broad face of his Guardian Shield, the impact ringing like a bell of war as sparks burst from the collision. The beast reeled back with a shriek—just long enough.

With a flick of his wrist, the Draupnir Spear flowed into his grasp in a flash of golden light; a moment later, Kratos drove it forward with brutal precision, plunging it straight into the creature's gaping mouth. The Satyr's scream cut off instantly as its body unraveled into burning shadow and smoke.

A heartbeat later, Kratos released the spear and dismissed both shield and weapon in the same breath, the magic peeling away from his hands as he turned his gaze across the battlefield.

His Spartans were everywhere.

They fought exactly as they had been forged to—phalanxes advancing through hell itself, shields locked, spears rising and falling in ruthless rhythm. Every thrust was disciplined. Every kill was earned. Monsters broke against their lines like waves against stone!

Beautiful death.

And still… men and women were falling...

Not far to his left, a warrior stumbled, and before Kratos could reach him, five shadow wolves leapt from the fog; fangs like molten glass tore into the man's shield, then his armor, then his flesh, and the warrior's scream cut off too fast...

Through the bond, Kratos felt it.

Felt the life tear away, and for a moment, Kratos slowly closed his eyes as he felt the warrior's spirit pass on. These men and women had pushed their bodies to the utmost limits to join him here, had earned their place in the tournament to follow him to this place of fog and death, only to die here the moment their feet touched the ground...

That thought filled Kratos with an almost all-consuming rage; the unseen presence in the fog still refused to show itself. Still hid. Still hunted from the dark while his people died. Again and again, Kratos had sent waves of his power outward—silent challenges hurled through the ruin:

Come and face me, coward!

Now his patience was gone...

A growl like distant thunder rumbled from his chest as Kratos raised both hands to the sky. For a single breath, the world seemed to hold still, then he drove his fists downward, slamming both fists into the ground so hard the stone cracked, leaving spider web cracks behind.

A moment later, the heavens answered as bolts of lightning the size of siege pillars tore down from above, slamming into the docks with divine fury; white-blue fire engulfed the battlefield in blinding flashes—yet every strike curved, bent, and avoided his warriors with impossible precision.

Only the monsters burned!

Shadow wolves. Satyrs. Scorpions. Harpies.

They screamed as one.

Then they exploded—bodies bursting into storms of black smoke and fading embers, their howls ripped from existence in seconds.

When the light faded…

The docks were empty.

For the first time since they had arrived, the fog held no monsters.

Only corpses.

Only blood.

Only survivors.

Not far away, Oberyn Martell stared wide-eyed at the smoking ruin, chest heaving.

"Fuck me…" he breathed.

As the lightning faded, smoke drifted across the docks in black, curling sheets. Where once hundreds of monsters had swarmed, now only scorched stone, shattered bodies, and pools of blood remained; the sudden silence ringing louder than the battle ever had.

All around the stone docks, Spartans stood frozen in place; shields still raised; breaths coming hard, and weapons dripped with gore.

Kratos rose slowly from where he crouched and gazed around at his warriors with a stern eye; his gaze did not soften, nor did his stance relax.

Because he could feel it now...

The thing that had been hiding.

A moment later, the air above the docks warped.

Not like fog.

Not like shadow.

Like reality itself was being peeled open!

A pressure like a planet settling on his shoulders rolled over the battlefield, causing the Spartans to stagger; some dropped to one knee without knowing why; others bent over, their faces blushing with exertion as they fought to remain standing as flames along the docks guttered and bent inward as if bowing.

Then—

It descended!

The sky ruptured in a spiral of black fire as a titan of burning smoke and fractured bone slammed down onto the far end of the dock with an impact that split stone like glass. Water surged in massive waves, and the shockwave hurled Spartans and rubble alike through the air.

When the smoke cleared…

It stood.

A colossal dragon-shaped nightmare, half corpse, half shadow; its scales split and melted as if it had crawled from the heart of a volcano. Whole sections of its body were skeletal, blackened bones glowing with inner fire. Its wings were torn and jagged, trailing smoke instead of wind.

But worse was its eyes, for in his hollow sockets were not eyes, but furnaces! Living fire pooled in the hollow sockets of its skull, which glared out hatefully as the docks creaked under its weight.

From where he stood, Oberyn's knees nearly buckled as he stared up in horror at the monstrosity.

"That…" he breathed, voice cracking. "That's not… that's not real…"

"Gods above..." Meera whispered from where she stood.

A moment later, the dragon inhaled, the sound coming out like a dying mountain as it gazed down at the warriors who stood before it.

Then it spoke; its voice was not sound alone, it was pressure, slamming into the minds of every living thing on the docks:

"WELCOME… TO VALYRIA..."

Spartans flinched, some screamed as blood trickled from their ears; Meera slammed her hands over her ears and screamed in pain as the others around her did likewise; even Freyja looked to be in pain at the mental attack.

"YOU WILL NOT LEAVE..."

Kratos stepped forward; the Leviathan Axe ripped into his hand in a scream of frost; at his hip, the Blades of Chaos burst to life, chains rattling with living fire, as though already readying themselves for the upcoming slaughter.

"Let them go," Kratos said, his voice carrying like a war drum. "Or I will kill you..."

The dragon's head tilted at that, and it studied Kratos for a moment before a horrible, echoing laugh rolled from its burning throat.

"YOU HAVE KILLED GODS, BUT I AM NOT A GOD. I AM WORSE!"

Kratos sneered at that.

"You'll die just the same..."

A moment later, the dragon struck; a torrent of black fire erupted from its jaws, wider than a siege tower. Kratos launched forward instead of back, throwing his Axe over his shoulder and grabbing the Blades on his hips; a heartbeat later, the blades whipped outward, the chains biting into the dock as he yanked himself across the stone in a blur of motion.

The fire erased everything behind him.

Kratos hit the dragon's skull like a meteor, and the impact rang as he buried one Blade into the creature's cheek, the other into its jaw, and tore—ripping burning scale and shadow free as the beast shrieked in rage.

It reared back violently, slamming its wing down like a falling fortress as Kratos vanished beneath it; a heartbeat later, the wing froze solid in a screaming blast of frost as Kratos returned the Blades to his hip and summoned the Leviathan axe in their place, burying it into the wing with a savage snarl before ripping the wing off in a storm of ice and shadow.

As the wing tore away, the dragon howled and lashed its tail, the impact hurling Kratos across the dock through three stone pillars and into an ancient warehouse wall; a moment later, the entire structure collapsed on top of him.

Oberyn screamed his name before he could stop himself, and attempted to charge forward, only for Freyja to suddenly appear before him and grab his arm in a rough grip.

"What the fuck are you doing!" Oberyn demanded, trying and failing to shake the woman off. "That's your fucking emperor being killed out there! He needs help!"

"Trust me..." Freyja replied in an instant. "That man needs no help from us..."

As Oberyn opened his mouth to respond, the rubble shifted, causing his eyes to widen in shock; a moment later, it rose.

"Told you..." Freyja smirked back a heartbeat later.

As the Spartans watched in awe, Kratos stood beneath the rubble, stone grinding off his shoulders as rage rolled through him like an avalanche.

"You hide," Kratos growled. "You send others to die for you... Coward!"

The dragon surged forward, jaws opening wide enough to swallow a ship as it roared in anger at the insult.

Kratos charged it head-on, roaring back in challenge; a moment later, he hurled the Leviathan Axe into its open mouth, and the Axe detonated inside its skull in an explosion of frost and divine force, sending its head backward as Kratos followed the Axe in, jumping into its open mouth, the Blades of Chaos exploding into his hands as he sped down the dragons throat.

Chains wrapped around bone and blades carved through burning sinew as lightning tore down from the sky, and the dragon roared in agony as it was attacked from both outside its body as well as within.

A moment later, the dragon collapsed, its immense body hitting the docks in a burning, crumbling heap of shadow and fire as black smoke poured from every shattered wound as the creature spasmed violently.

For several moments, the docks were as silent as a graveyard as the Spartans stared in awe; Oberyn's eyes were so wide that they looked like they were going to pop out of his skull; beside him, Freyja looked torn between amusement and annoyance, while Mimir began to chuckle on her hip. Oberyn turned at the noise, seeing the laughing severed head, and immediately turned pale in shock.

"What... What the fuck...?"

A heartbeat later, a great cracking sound erupted from the dragon, causing everyone to shift back into a defensive position as it jerked back and forth. As the warriors prepared for the dragon to rise again, its skull suddenly split in the middle, and a moment later, Kratos crawled from within, covered in black blood and ash as he stood atop its skull, the Leviathan Axe gleaming on his back. As the Spartans watched in awe, Kratos flicked the Blades once before jumping to the ground and returning them to his hips; a moment later, the dragon began to fade into a giant swirl of black smoke and ash. Burning smoke collapsed inward, sucked into itself as the corpse unraveled into nothingness.

Silence fell.

Absolute.

Spartans stared in stunned, horrified, reverent awe; Oberyn barely realized he was shaking as Kratos stepped away from the drifting ash and turned slowly toward the fog that still waited at the edges of the battlefield.

"Your champion is dead," he said. "Come out… or I will burn your entire city into the sea!"

A moment later, the fog recoiled, and far, far deeper in Valyria, something ancient screamed in fury.

A moment later, as the warriors quickly returned to their defensive phalanx, the fog began to shift, churning with power before it finally exploded as a thunderous roar of pressure tore outward from the heart of Valyria as the mist was violently blasted apart, unraveling in a spiraling vortex of black smoke and ash. The ground heaved. The broken docks fractured. Even the dead city itself seemed to recoil.

Every Spartan froze; as they watched in mute horror, from the wound torn in the fog, something vast began to pour forth—not stepping, not walking, but seeping into the world like a plague given form. Shadow and flame twisted together into towering shape after towering shape, collapsing inward, reforging, condensing—

Until at last, it stood revealed.

A colossal figure of blackened armor fused with bone. Chains of living fire coiled around its limbs. A crown of horn and ember burned atop a skull that was not quite human anymore. Its eyes were twin infernos of hatred older than memory.

And when it spoke…

The sound made the dead city shudder.

"Krrraaaaaatos…"

The name slithered through the air like a curse made flesh; Spartans staggered back in instinctive horror; Oberyn's breath caught in his throat.

Even Freyja went still.

Kratos did not move.

At least—not at first.

Then his eyes widened, not in fear, but in recognition.

His hands slowly drifted to his hips, fingers curling around the familiar hilts there; firelight ignited along his arms as the chained blades answered his touch, screaming softly as they slid free.

His voice, when he spoke, was low.

Flat.

And filled with a rage older than this world.

"…Hades."

XXXX

Author's Note:

Lol, bet you didn't see that coming, did you? I know some of you were wondering why there were Greek monsters in the last chapter. Well, now you know: they were brought by someone else who traveled to Planetos. "But Kratos killed Hades! How is he here?"

I promise I will answer that in the next chapter!

Also, in bigger news! This story has been nominated for "Best ASOIAF Crossover of 2025, and if you want to help it win, you can vote for it here:

http (double slash) forms (period) gle (slash) 7BYB7bmBLFokDkXc9