Return

A man is seen standing near a body, ready to be lit and have a proper farewell. As he looked upon his father, he muttered a single 'Thank you' and lit the pyre.

For hours he stood there, not moving a muscle. As the pyre's flames dwindled, he made sure nothing remained of his father's body. Then, he took out Astra, put the sword slowly over the remaining fire. Once the sword was aflame, he stabbed the sword on the pyre and whispered

"Let this sword; Astra, be witness to the ascending of Octacius Atlas the 5,282nd Head of House Atlas. 'The Stars You Formed' shall forever soar the heavens."

The howl of the cold winds blew past, gone as fast as it came.

The tall dark haired man took his sword from the pyre and sheated it. Without uttering a single word, he turned around and left, never looking back.

For days he gathered fishes, and crops, food for his journey.

Then, he chopped trees, took them and started to build a ship. For weeks he worked on the ship that will guide him to his journey, the ship was designed to be long, but only enough to fit 3 Men, it had a single mast for a single sail, and a pair of oars.

After finishing the ship, he gathered the supplies he needed on the journey, and packed his belongings. He preferred to travel light, only packing the necessary things and none other.

Before he begun his journey, he went to the old village created by his Family. A village he grew up in, he took sight of the wooden houses gathered around the center, of how even after years since the families' living in each home died, the house was still strong, sturdy.

The colors of this Island was dark, cool, grey. It was as though no life could be established here, the weather were too cold, not like that of the Northern Winters, but still cold, colder than Northern Summers.

The winds were strong, and snow fell from time to time, although not thick enough to cover the land. It is like rain, yet it is not.

The village looked sad, so empty. Yet he did not dwell on the past, instead he walked to the biggest house, once inside the cold of the island vanished, replace with a gentle warmth. Fires cackled silently in the hallways, and the thousands of books and scrolls in the shelves gave the smell of parchment.

There was paintings on the walls; paintings of the stars. Each star representing an act, and each constellation representing greatness. Every constellation and star has a name, names of their Ancestors.

He ignored the paintings, the scrolls, and the books; Instead he walked to the altar, on the altar a golden sphere wss built into it, specially carved enchanted runes ornate it.

Marcellus grabbed the sphere with both hands and whispered

"Let this sanctuary for the Masters of the World be pure, untouched by the infedelity of this world. For all time, until the creator of the stars return. As I, Marcellus Atlas, wills it."

Runes outstretched from the sphere to the walls of the building, and unto the streets, until it reached the shores of the island.

Marcellus left the house of history and readied to depart.

Marcellus walked slowly from the library to his longship, for every step he took was a step away from this island, the island his Ancestors called home for the past millenias.

He took the sight of the homes, the roads, the farms, the trees. The mood of this Island was peaceful, with the coolness of the weather it was a perfect place to find peace, serenity.

As he walked he couldn't help but wonder, would he find peace like this in Westeros? Or would he find a land full of war, uncertainty and violence? And if he did find this what would he do?

Deep inside he knew the answer, it resided deep within him, the desire to conquer, to rule, as is his right. His House was the first to rule Westeros, it was even our Empire that named it 'Westeros.' He had a right to rule.

As he approached his longship, he couldn't help but look back, this place was his home, and he must leave it or die, along with him the line of Emperors.

With one final look, he turned around and pushed the longship out of the docks, then, he boarded, opened the sails and thus began his voyage.

When only a few yards away, the Island vanished, covered by the Enchanted Mist created by bis Ancestors. No one would ever step foot on this Island for centuries.

Marcellus only looked forward, towards the future, and what lay ahead of him. The memories of the past were past, the Exile of their House was over, it was time to once again make the world remember the name, Atlas.