15 The Rose and the Viper

Torrhen entered the feasting hall of Harrenhal, expecting the sullen and sought for scandal earlier. Fortunately, Ned is having a somewhat wonderful time with Robert, who in turn drinking his anger away, along with his aching wounds from the melee earlier.

He came up to them, greeting with his most biggest smile, "What a great bout, isn't it?" Smile became an awkward one, he continued, "Let us mingle with other people."

Robert grumbled, clearly sulking by the earlier events, but quickly recovered, "Aye, we've shown these pompous idiots how to fight like a real man." He downed the cup in his hands and barked, "After that bout, I'm up for a great f*cking. I'mma find a wench for meself."

Ned was barely containing his anger, wanting to beat his friend, as he is his sister's intended. But Robert's wh*ring gets worse and worse, he doesn't have any power to contain Robert's impulsiveness. Torrhen just look at the events unfold, before leaving his two best friends.

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He wandered along the feasting hall, before sitting on the lone and ruined window of the castle. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, when two individuals approached him, unnoticed by Torrhen.

A black-haired man said, "His pockets are full of gold, maybe he's aching to leave this bore of a feast for a fun night in the wh*orehouse. What say you?"

The honey-browned haired partner said, "Aye, he's probably the first person to become rich in any other Tourney of the history. And, freshly knighted too, another glorious feat, except for our beloved Silver Prince, of course, but that is a very different matter."

The black-haired man grumbled when heard 'Silver Prince' but quickly set his thoughts aside, introducing himself, "Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne, though many recognized me as the Crowned Princess' brother. That, or Bugger lover and Father of Bastards, even if I do not have that many bastards in my name."

"Wilas Tyrell, Heir to the Reach and Highgarden." The honey-browned haired, now Wilas, introduced, before continuing, "Though I have to say, It is an incredible feat to defeat a veteran knight from Ninepenny War and the famed Sword of the Morning in single combat. And, freshly knighted too, by the King."

Torrhen nodded, squinting, "Torrhen Karstark of Karhold." He introduced, taking a sip before continuing, "Though, I am with the Old gods, not really caring about being knighted."

Wilas shook his head, "There are many Northmen knights, Karstark." He downed his cups before saying, "Still, if I was the Lord of the Reach, I would take you as my Sworn Sword, if you'll have me."

"Interesting offer, My Lord, but I do not have any plans to swore an oath." Torrhen sighed, before continuing, "I'm not even sure being knighted, as a follower of the Old gods, knighted on the words of the Seven is a problem it is. I know many Northerners accept knighthood, but in my case, the Old gods are the only religion I can tolerate."

Oberyn laughed, spilling some of his wine, "The religion I can really tolerate is the Sixteen teats goddess of Summer Isle, it is said. All of Dorne can convert to that goddess in the name of earth-given pleasures" He looked at Wilas, "Though, Wilas, we have an interesting fellow here. I thought we would be disappointed, but he has the knack to second mind the decree of the King of Westeros. Especially, if the rumors are true."

Wilas shook his head, "Oberyn, keep your thoughts to yourself, otherwise, the Spider will weaved a new web on your neck." He looked at Torrhen, "I am sad you've rejected my offer, but it is your choice in the end." He then looked at Oberyn and left the group.

Oberyn chuckled, and stared at Torrhen, "Be careful of the Spider, he can sense a slight tingle in his webs, be mindful of what you say about our beloved King." On the end of his sentence he left.

Torrhen nodded, deciding that conversing to Southron people are like speaking to snakes, well, the last one is said to be knowledgeable of snake species. He left the hall, but he doesn't know where to go. The Tourney is over, and tonight is the last feast, marking the end of the Tourney.

He then thought of the famed, and said to be cursed place, the Isles of Faces, where abundance of Heart trees are, one of the place where the Andals did not burn. He saw a boatman and said, "Can you take me to the Isles?" Then, he flashed a gold coin. The boatman's eyes was filled with greed.

"Of course, My Lord." The boatman said. Torrhen nodded and got on the boat. The boatman decided to talk in the mean time, "The Faces is said to be cursed and an abomination by the Septons, said to be filled with dangerous 'Green Men' coming to attack those who step foot on their territory. But in all those talks, many curious Lords and Ladies cannot satiate their minds before deciding to come themselves."

Torrhen chuckled, "I do not mean to antagonize the Seven but I hate how they declared the North as land of savages and godless people. What's worse, is that the Seven have a firm grip on the common folk. The North declared as heathens and the Heart trees as blasphemous."

The boatman had a small chuckled, "Aye, I am with the Seven, but I do not believe them as much as the past. They did not hear my prayer, even as devout follower." He didn't know why, but his feelings spilled emotions, "My 'Pa was a soldier forced into the Ninepenny, whilst my 'Ma was r*ped and killed by wandering bandits."

Torrhen nodded, feeling the sad atmosphere before saying, "I will not say I understand how you feel, but if there was a divine being listening, there is only three answers in your prayers." The boatman gave his attention to Torrhen, "Yes, he will grant you of your wish. No, because he has much greater planned. And wait, because your will come at the opportune moment."

"Then why? Why let people suffer? Why does bad things happen?" The boatman said.

"I do not know the answer, I would not presume I know the answers in the world. Our only choice is to endure, if it means never giving up." Torrhen said, shaking his head, before saying, ''I have observe people in Karhold or the Eyrie. Tell me, if one were born in poverty and suffering of the world, is it their fault?"

The boatman shook his head. Torrhen nodded, saying "It is not their fault, but it is their fault in the end if they died in poverty and suffering. People spends their lives once, creating no change is their fault." The boatman was about to ask another question before the boat bumped on the coast of the Isle.

Torrhen stood up and said, "You'll get the another coin when I come back."

"When will I expect you to return, My Lord?" The boatman asked.

"When I come back." Torrhen's figure was swallowed by the darkness of trees.

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Torrhen walked at the middle, where all the light was focused. Around him was hundreds of trees, Heart trees to be exact. The Isle of Faces is not really mentioned much on history books. Only said to be cursed.

Legend said, if you slept through the night in the Isles, you'll find you hand is filled with Weirwood saplings. Find a Children of the Forest to carve a face and you'll finally obtain a Heart tree.

Even without his magical sense, he knows many lingering souls are here. It was said, many were sacrificed at the Heart trees, their roots seeping from the blood of corpses. It was in that reason, the leaves of the Weirwoods are red from the blood sacrifice.

Torrhen felt sick, but felt a great opportunity present. In his old world's earlier times, alchemist wanted to create true gold, able to turn normal metal into gold. This true gold was mostly known as Philosopher's Stone, whereas you can turn any molecular entity to change identity. You can create something from nothing. You can change anything with the stone.

Though, the alchemists did not create it, the wizards did... or the bad ones, I should say. In order to create the stone, it will need the greatest kind of source of energy, soul energy.

The souls in Isle are in enormous amount, ranging to tens of thousands or close to millions of souls were sacrificed. Souls that were taken on the roots of the trees. It may be cruel to use their soul energies, but their soul essence should remain. Their souls shall finally move on.

Torrhen sighed, thinking this ritual isn't honorable, but quickly washed the thought away. After taking their soul energy, they can finally escape this hellhole. He knelt and brought out his knife, wounding his arm bellow the wrist. He let the blood flow out of his arm, while the other clutching at his shoulder. His blood touched the roots of the trees, before the surrounding were gathering a mist on blue and dark grey. The blood rose to the ground, forming a small and red ball of stone whilst the blue and dark grey mist, presumably the soul energy, swarmed at the stone.

Torrhen was pale, dangerously pale. His thoughts rambled, his body unresponsive from his conscious mind. "D*mn, that was exhausting."

He felt his mind wandering away, falling unconscious.

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Torrhen woke up, god knows what hours. This time he felt the surrounding absent of the eerie feeling. The souls probably escaped, now that he harvested their energies.

In his right hand was the red stone, the Philosopher's Stone. In his left was three sapling of Weirwood trees. Torrhen's mind was baffled, he guessed the legends were true. He kept the stone and saplings to his storage ring, for now.

His attention was abruptly focused on the middle of the Isle, where daylight only past through. A lone long sword of nothing of brilliance, but with Torrhen's senses, he felt the presence radiating from the sword. He walked to the sword, feeling the familiar presence.

His hand fell to the pommel, before touching the handle. He raised the sword, feeling the resistance, as if challenging his authority. This time, two of his hands were pulling, along with his internal strength and miniscule magic power, strengthening his bones and blood.

With a loud roar, he finally tore the sword from the ground, his armor inside his tunic, were tore off, replaced with his bulging muscle. He felt the power flowed to his body.

Torrhen's eye fell to the words on the sword blade, 'the light in the dark, lightbringer'.

Lightbringer!

The famed sword of Azor Ahai, who fought with the Others or White Walkers, they were called.

In the dark forest, anyone can see the faint smile on Torrhen's face. He felt a familiar motion, stabbing the long sword at his left arm. The sword burst into sparks of light, luminating the dark forest.

Torrhen walked away, without the sword to be seen. But, in his left arm is a symbol of red sun. Now he calls it the Red Sun of Torrhen Karstark.