The Riverlands
"It does not work like that," Wood said with a tired sigh.
"Why not?" Daeron asked, almost childishly. "I've seen it. Magic does work like that. There's something we're missing, Wood," he added, more to himself than to the Earthsinger before him.
Once his headache had passed—and after eating enough to feed three grown men for breakfast—Daeron ran to the Earthsingers. Well, not exactly ran; he and his white shadow, Ser Arthur, rode there on horseback. The dream, though as confusing as hell, had given him one crucial piece of information: magic could be done by mere words—no focus, no wand, no ritual. Just words. Even if those words sounded like the screaming soul of the caster being ripped apart.
Not that Daeron should complain about eerie sounds—his Parseltongue already creeped Arthur out on a regular basis.
The power that man—Valyros—wielded still boggled Daeron's mind. It didn't help that Daeron was convinced that kind of magic would've served him well against the lite version of the Long Night looming on the horizon. He discarded any thoughts of how to control or repeat the dream; all he could do now was hope it would come again. He was sure the Order of Sorcerers would be able to see him again if his dream took him to the past again.
Burning a man to ash in seconds with one word—and they had mentioned ensuring he would be born. Why? It was a question Daeron couldn't answer. Nor could anyone else. Another mystery was their mention of his mortal lifespan and their supposed immortality, though he decided not to dwell on that. He'd cross that bridge once he was over fifty and had done his duty to end the Long Night. Now was not the time to worry about his mortal coil.
"Where? If someone has that kind of power, how haven't we heard of him?" Patch asked, eyeing Daeron with suspicion and curiosity.
"I saw it in a dream. His name was Valyros. He reduced a man to ash—no bones left—in the blink of an eye. A heartbeat, Patch. That's all it took. A word and a heartbeat. And the heat… I felt it, even though I wasn't there in my physical body." Daeron's voice was filled with awe. "He said he was a sorcerer of the Dawn Empire."
"You could speak with others in your dreams?"
"Dawn Empire!"
Two voices cut in—Patch in shock, Wood in anger. Daeron wasn't sure which startled him more. The former made sense, but the latter?
Daeron could understand shock, but why did the mention of the Dawn Empire anger Wood? He had never thought Earthsingers capable of rage, envy, or greed. At least not without great provocation. Even then, they had forgiven the race of men in the past with well well-done apology and a pact signed by both races. Maybe that is why his ancestor called them children and not only because of their appearance.
"Aye, they could see me, and I could hear them. But they couldn't hear my voice," Daeron answered Patch, who was still visibly stunned.
"That is… extraordinary," Patch murmured. "Not even Bloodraven managed such a thing."
"Did you not hear 'Dawn Empire,' Patch?" Wood asked sharply. And this time, the anger was unmistakable.
"I heard. But they're gone—buried and forgotten by time," Patch replied gently. "Did you forget what Leaf taught us? We are Earthsingers. It was emotions like rage and hate that led our people to extinction. The gods of the forest and rivers teach only love and peace. Leave hatred to the race of men."
Patch's tone was calm and patient, and Wood deflated almost immediately. His anger faded into guilt.
"You're talking about my race in front of me, you know," Daeron said, though his tone held no heat. He wasn't offended. Patch hadn't spoken a lie.
"If I've offended you, King of Men, I ask forgiveness," Patch said with a slight bow of his head. "But I only spoke the truth."
Daeron waved off the apology.
"Now," Patch continued, "if you could share your dream in full, I would like to hear all of it."
Daeron nodded eagerly and recounted the entire dream—the room, the sorcerers, the ash, the fire, and the recognition shining in their faces, hearing the term 'blood of gods'.
Patch's face shifted into deep thought. After a few minutes, he finally spoke.
"It must be your two bloodlines… or perhaps your magic is growing at an unprecedented rate. But even then, I'm shocked they could see you—even though they didn't hear you."
"Well, it surprised me too," Daeron admitted. "But it would be helpful if it weren't one one-time thing. If I meet them again, then I can learn even a little from them…"
Patch and Wood both looked troubled. They remained silent, but Daeron noticed. There was history between the Earthsingers and the Dawn Empire—a dark one, if Wood's earlier reaction was any clue. Still, Daeron chose not to press. He doubted they would tell him. And, pressuring them to tell him only would see their budding acquaintance turn to ash. And it is of no use to him either, like Patch said, the Dawn Empire was gone.
What he wanted to know was why he couldn't cast magic like Valyros.
"So," Daeron asked, "you still haven't answered my question. Why can't I use magic like that man—Valyros?"
If anyone could answer, it was Patch—the thousand-year-old child of a different race who had seen more than most ever would and could.
Patch sighed but nodded, finally ready to explain.
Daeron leaned in, eyes sharp, not wanting to miss a single word.
"Magic was not a gift given to your race, King. It was a gift bestowed only upon the Elder Races by the gods. But as with all things in nature, balance was not wholly tipped in the favor of the Elder Races either. Though we possessed great power, we were not without flaws—flaws that the gods themselves chose to bestow upon us. Power we had in spades, but not numbers. That gift—the ability to multiply, quickly at that—was given to the race of men.
Your race bred like flies. And though peaceful, ignorant, and powerless at first, mankind did not remain as such for long. It began when one among the Elder Races grew envious of your people's fertility, and for that reason alone, the first blood was drawn. Most Elder Races, though not particularly tolerant of one another, did not wage war among themselves. The world was young, and peace held sway—no blood had been spilled. Magic flourished then, used only to nurture, never to kill.
But that changed. The race that killed the first human was not like us, the Earthsingers. Though the first death came from an unknowing burst of anger, it soon morphed into something else—a game. They began hunting the weakest race that walked the land. And to them, it was amusing."
The golden-brown eyes of the Earthsinger stared at Daeron, but Daeron was sure they weren't truly looking at him. They gazed past him—so far and deep into time that he dared not follow, lest he come face-to-face with how insignificant the race of men once was.
"Being hunted merely for existing led men to fight back—but they had no weapons. Only sharpened stones, useless against magic that could reshape the land itself. So they fled. They hid. But it did not save them. Their hiding only excited their hunters further. Eventually, with no hope for salvation, the chieftains of men turned to the other Elder Races, begging for aid.
None agreed—save one. A race that abhorred bloodshed and longed for peace. That was our race, King. That was the first interaction between Earthsingers and Men. We tried to end it peacefully, to stop the hunts without war. But they turned their weapons on us in response. And so the first war between the two Elder Races began.
I was never told the full tale—how much blood was spilled, what horrors were unleashed. I was only told that we Earthsingers won… but not without steep cost."
Patch stopped. Daeron thought it was to catch a breath, but then noticed her eyes were not on him. They were fixed over his shoulder. He turned to see Ser Arthur, his Kingsguard, standing hesitantly at a distance, eyes wary.
"What is it, Ser?" Daeron asked, trying to keep the irritation from his tone.
"Your Grace, it's time for the midday meal. The sun is high—we should return to Seagard."
Arthur, as always, maintained a respectful but cautious distance from the Earthsingers. It was Daeron's own order. He disliked how Arthur watched them with such suspicion.
"I've no appetite, Ser. You may go if you're hungry. I'll summon Caraxes to stand guard in your stead. Don't deny yourself food—"
"I've no appetite either, Your Grace. I'll return to my post." With that, Arthur moved off without another word or glance.
"He fears us," Wood muttered. "And doesn't like us, either."
"He'll come around," Daeron replied. "Ser Arthur is a knight of the South—an excellent one, but a Southern one. They've been told tales of your race. Bad tales. That you sacrifice humans to trees and wield dark magic."
His voice was neutral, distracted by the story. He was too deep in history now, Patch's voice like a song pulling him through the past. He turned back to her eagerly.
"Forget him. Please, continue."
Patch smiled softly and resumed.
"I should mention, we were not alone in that first war. Your people helped us. United under one man, the race of men joined us. Despite their long oppression, their numbers were vast. Together, we triumphed—but the price was steep. Both our peoples were reduced to a few thousand.
It was only thanks to the gods of the woods and rivers that the other Elder Races did not follow the example of those accursed watery demons and attack us. Peace returned. Men did not forget what we did for them. They gave what help they could. It was a time of mutual respect."
Patch's voice softened, almost smiling—but then it faded, her expression darkening.
"My race forgave those demons. We vowed never to trouble them, and to end their kind only if they end this bloodshed and return to peaceful ways. Men, however… men did not forgive. Rage and vengeance burned in their hearts. But they were powerless. Even few in number, those watery demons could have wiped out all mankind if we had not protected them. So men hid their fury and returned to their lives.
But the world did not know something vital at that time: the race of men does not forget. And it certainly does not forgive. They kept their heads low, because the gods had made them weak—born without magic, unlike the Elder Races. Their only gift was their fertility and their numbers… or so we thought.
But there were other gifts. Hidden. Unknown even to your race and ours—until he came. He was called an abomination. A child born of two races. A mistake, some said. An event deemed a mistake that should never have happened. Yet it did. And with him, the world discovered that men were no longer powerless.
He chose his mother's race—mankind—over the Elder blood of his father. All the Elder Races, who believed themselves superior to mankind because men lacked magic, were stunned. And rightly so. The sheer power that child wielded shook them. Mankind crowned him their First King after he had grown into manhood, as your kind like to claim. Till then, their First King was a god to them, a god in mortal flesh. Mankind revered the very ground he walked on, and he loved mankind no less than his mother's race loved him. And at their behest, he unleashed his wrath upon their former enemies.
What wrath it was… enough to make the Elder Races tremble. Some began to view men not as prey, but as breeding stock—to beget powerful offspring. And that fear, that desire, birthed the second war. A war far more bloody than the first."