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[---]
123 AC, Qohor
Moqorro had finally done it. He was able to do as he was bidden by his god, the Lord of Light, had, for the Night was dark and full of terrors. It had been a terrible test of his faith, for much of his brethren had fallen, including his own master, Benerro.
He had not known how it happened, only feeling the temple in Volantis in flames, while also his inner flame becoming hollower. Much of his might had been diminished, with only a spark remaining through his faith, and likely also his blood, for the blood of Dragonlords ran in his veins, though that did not stop him from being treated as a slave by his own blood, and eventually being sold to a master in Volantis before the Doom.
Alas, that mattered very little, for he felt his flame diminishing, and he had needed a steady supply of blood and sacrifices to continue fuelling it, to keep it alive, just as his god's whispers had urged him to. These whispers turned more pressing with every moment, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was what Benerro suffered through constantly. After all, he had been the voice of R'hllor for centuries, yet that burden never seemed to dull his greatness.
That mattered very little now, for Moqorro's master was now gone, and as his right hand, it seemed that the Lord of Light had asked him to take his place. He had saved him from the flames of Benerro's death and guided him to flee Volantis as many of his brethren, faithful followers of the one true god, were massacred in the streets by the forces of the Old Blood, who had seized the opportunity to regain the control that they had lost over the Daughter of Valyria.
Moqorro had been tempted to fight to the bitter end, or perhaps attempt to save some of the men, women, and children that he had interacted with during his time in the Red Temple. Unfortunately, that was not to be, for the Lord of Light asked him to flee to Qohor of all places. He had not known why this city in particular had been chosen by it. The Red Temple there was quite weak compared to the ones in the Free Cities or even in Slaver's Bay, and yet, his decision was firm.
He had snuck into a ship headed there, sailing to the Qhoyne all the way to Qohor. After all, the city was famed for being a hub of trade to the Far East, especially those who would refuse to pay Qarth's exorbitant taxes. It was also a place to trade everything that related to magic in any way, without the issue of having to deal with the Warlocks of Qarth, when they remained alive, of course. There was a reason why most called Qohor the City of Sorcerers, though Moqorro always wondered why the Red Faith had not pushed to gain more control over the city.
Moqorro limped into the city while doing his best to sustain the glamour that hid his presence. Qohor had enough sorcerers that the risk of being detected was far higher than it was on the merchant ship. Even then, it had taken many sacrifices to sustain himself, to stop his flame from withering away. He regretted killing many members of the crew, draining them of all life, but at least they fulfilled the Lord's purpose, even in death. It was only the glamours and a few suggestions using magic that stopped them from suspecting anything, but even then, Moqorro could feel his power slipping away with every breath he took.
Thankfully, it was enough to slip past the Unsullied guards and finally walk through the city before his glamour collapsed, revealing his hooded form. It was not strange to see someone wearing such garments in the City of Sorcerers, for his scars would have drawn much more attention, something that he hoped to avoid at all costs for the sake of his lords.
He winced inwardly at the memory of his burns, for he did not escape the great fire of Volantis unscathed. It was with the grace of the Lord of Light that he even survived such wounds, let alone not scream in pain with every move he made. Most would have never expected him to survive for more than a day or two, but so long as his faith burned bright and his inner flames were fed, he would live, for it was the Lord of Light's will.
Speaking of which, with his fire dimming to dangerous levels after his heavy use of glamours, he needed to replenish them, but it seemed that R'hllor had different ideas, for he felt the whispers from his inner flames all but urged him to move towards the religious regions of the city, which held the temples for the many gods worshipped in this city.
He still did not understand why his Lord had tasked him to come to this city, but there was no mistaking the urgency, and though the thought was blasphemous, the fear. He remembered Benerro claiming that Death was walking amongst them. He had not believed it, not truly. He had expected to be one of his theatrics, a political play that was meant to tie the emerging magical factions to the Red Faith and eventually show them R'hllor's light. In a century or two, he had expected that their faith would have spread from Braavos to Yi-Ti, with armies of mages serving the Lord of Light's will, united against a great enemy.
He had begun doubting this when he had seen the remains of the Temple of the Undying. It had been a victory, no doubt, but to destroy an order of magic users that had withstood the might of the Valyrian Freehold for thousands of years was beyond his expectations. He trusted Benerro to guide them to prosperity, even if he played with forces that he did not understand.
However, he did not, at any moment, expect this. He did not think it possible for someone to dismantle the Red Faith, for they were mighty and spread across Essos. He had felt that they were invulnerable, or at least, resistant to full-on assaults. Their leadership could retreat and use their wealth and assets to regain their dominance, just as they had after the Doom of Valyria.
One would have needed to conquer half of the continent to purge their religion, and yet, Death had come for them all the same. If he did not know any better, it would have seemed that even the Lord of Light had been taken by surprise, but that was impossible, for it was likely one of his great designs.
Hopefully.
Unless… Unless it was precipitated by the Great Other, the Lord of Light's great enemy. He hoped that this was not the case, for Moqorro could not imagine a world without his lord, without light, without warmth, without life.
He had to believe that the Lord of Light was beyond even Death, that he was guiding Moqorro, saving him from a painful death, for this holy mission to defeat death itself.
And so, he pushed himself, for the Lord of Light had put his trust in him, and he would not repay it with failure. He ignored as his burns flared up, as every movement caused him agony, for he was doing it for the sake of life itself, for the whole world. They might not know his name, in the end, but he would live forevermore with every breath they took, for he was a servant of R'hllor, and he would face horrors for their sake.
He repeated these words as he walked forward, up until he realised that the Lord of Light was not guiding him towards the city's Red Temple, but a strange one, made of dark wood of all things. Before the temple was the remnants of a tree being cut in half, made of the same black wood, with deep, dark roots burrowing into the ground. The bark itself, though cut, was very wide, and inside the wood looked like darkened blood.
Despite this, Moqorro could feel the power running within it, for the very air thrummed with it. He immediately recognised that sacrifices had taken place on this bark. The moment he walked past the gigantic cut tree bark, he noticed the world darkening around him. No, it was akin to colour itself having been sucked away from everything he could see. The sky was also darkening, with clouds appearing as if conjured by magic, making the world all the darker, as if it was preparing for a storm.
By the time he reached the temple, the world had become nought but shades of grey, and he heard thunder rumbling in the distance, despite not seeing any bolts of lightning illuminating the sky.
The temple itself was completely deserted, something that Moqorro found quite strange. Now that he thought of it, Moqorro had never truly noticed this temple in his previous visits to the city, brief as they might have been. It must have been some sort of magical effect, where only the Lord of Light's chosen could perceive it. If so, then Moqorro was glad to be honoured so.
As he walked forward into the temple itself, he noticed that blackened roots had emerged from the ground, each one as thick as a Dothraki horse. They must have originated from the sacrifice tree that he had seen in the entrance.
The roots themselves seemed to move deeper and deeper into the temple, specifically towards a gigantic statue, encircling it as if they were chains. He could feel the power in them; one built on sacrifices and faith, one built on binding.
However, it was the statue itself that shook him, but it was not for the size of it alone, for even if it was as large as the Titan of Braavos, the statue had a presence to it. It was made from mysterious oily Black Stone that he had seen across the world, especially in Asshai, though that city had fallen alongside Nefer, something that he had not foreseen in any way.
Only the statue's head was completely uncovered, and it vaguely resembled that of a goat, only far more terrible. He made the mistake of looking at it in the eyes and felt as if his mind had split apart from the sheer wrongness of what his eyes perceived.
Moqorro tore his gaze away with a strangled cry, clutching his temples as the echoes of that impossible visage pulsed behind his eyes like fresh wounds. He staggered, breath ragged, and for one terrible heartbeat, he feared that his god had led him here only to abandon him before this abomination. But he felt his inner flame flare, and the whispers grew almost audible, and he steadied himself.
If the Lord of Light wished him to see this horror, then he would endure it. He had endured far worse than pain. He had lived through the death of his order, through the slaughter of his brothers and sisters, through the flames of Volantis that still clung to his skin like a second, blistered shell. He would endure this, as well.
The flames within him seemed to agree, and he felt them burrow inside him. Without even meaning to, he felt his mouth open, and he spoke in a tongue he had never heard, never learned, a tongue that he knew was not meant for him. It scraped out of his throat like metal dragged across stone, with each sound feeling wrong to his ears.
Despite all of this, something primal inside him understood it: "It is time."
Every sound that came out of Moqorro's mouth hurt more than even the worst of the burns of Volantis, but he couldn't help but smile at it, for he knew for a fact that these were R'hllor's words, and the world listened. The giant roots slowly unfurled away from the statue, revealing it completely to the world.
Moqorro felt the pressure that he had felt increase drastically, but he was firm, for the Lord's flames were within him. They would protect him.
Just to prove it, the priest's mouth opened, and he released another sound, "It is time to regain your freedom. Time to pay the price for it. A great enemy comes. Defeat him… and be free of your chains forevermore."
The moment the final syllable left him, the statue convulsed.
Cracks raced across the oily black stone, widening slowly at first, before it shattered from the inside out, and something crawled free.
The thing that emerged appeared in fragments, as though the world itself refused to give it shape. Parts of it vaguely resembled the features of a goat, but not enough that the comparison felt wrong. The creature had horns, but the number of them changed with every blink of Moqorro's eyes, as well as their shapes.
If there was one way to describe it, Moqorro would call it a demon of some sort. He had heard that the god that many of the inhabitants of Qohor worshipped, the Black Goat, was considered a demon by many, but he never in his life would have believed that these rumours had an inkling of truth within them.
And the creature was certainly intelligent enough to respond, for it did so with a roar. The sound itself was impossible, as if there was much that Moqorro could not comprehend, and yet, he found inside him shattered impossibly as he tried to understand what was said beyond the fact that it was an affirmation. It was not to be for Moqorro felt blood trickle from his ears, though his inner flames rose to protect him.
Finally, the sound ended, and the creature blurred outward, phasing through the temple walls as though reality itself parted for it, disappearing to battle for the sake of the Lord of Light, the one true god.
Just as silence finally returned to the empty temple, Moqorro collapsed to the ground, feeling drained by whatever had occurred. His inner flames, gifted from his Lord, who had felt like bonfires just minutes prior, suddenly felt more than a spark in the rain, ready to be extinguished at any moment.
And yet, the lord's whispers did not abate, and that alone gave him strength. For R'hllor still had use of him, of his service, and Moqorro had faith in the god that he dedicated his life to. At least, if he perished, he would have done so as a faithful man, defending life itself.
The whispers urged him to move forward, to move past where the monstrous statue once lay, and he noticed that something had existed behind it, a secret passage of some sort. Utterly exhausted, Moqorro crawled forward, doing his best to ignore the great burst of thunder in the distance. However, he also found his inner flame becoming stronger with every moment, with every movement forward, and he couldn't help but smile at the feeling.
When he finally had the strength to open his eyes, he saw a strange clearing, one that should not have existed beneath any temple made by mortal hands. The space was vast, impossibly so, as it seemed far larger than the temple itself.
At the centre of it all stood a circular pit of Black Stone, which was surrounded by a thin golden string that released an ominous glow. The string looked as if it was almost floating above the pit, spiralling and twisting in impossible patterns. Moqorro did not know why, but he felt wary of that glowing string, feeling an echo of the power within it. It was a mystery that the Lord of Light did not deign to answer him with, though it did help.
However, that thought felt pale as he looked inside the pit itself and froze at the sight of something completely and utterly bright pulsing and convolving constantly. It looked like a flame, though it released no heat, and was constantly shifting in shape and in colour, changing, much like the Black Goat, as if reality itself could not comprehend it enough to give it a physical form.
Given Moqorro's growing connection with the Lord of Light, he could almost feel the god's elation at the sight. A few seconds later, he felt his god's will take form, and he knelt down, touching the Black Stone.
He releases a sigh of contentment as he feels his dwindling flames finally settle, the curse that had plagued him since Benerro's death lifting from it, being replaced by the comforting warmth that existed inside him for centuries, sourced from the Lord's flames, enough that even the unnatural, distant roars of the Black Goat in the distance had not bothered him.
However, that warmth slowly turned hotter and hotter, almost burning him. Moqorro wished to scream, but his body remained unmoved by the Lord of Light's will. He could feel more clearly, as if it were his own now. He could feel a faint sense of victory, or perhaps it was simply hope. Whatever it was, it was certainly powerful and intoxicating, or at least it had been before it suddenly stopped.
The clearing around him started to shake, destabilising his presence, and the infinite space around him started to shrink, as if it was falling apart, including the passageway back to the temple. Thunder rumbled above him, and he looked up for just a fraction of a second to see the silhouette of a gigantic figure looking down at him. It was completely and utterly dark, almost infinite, with only two great glowing green eyes that flashed for just a moment.
"Oh, R'hllor." He heard a voice echo all around him. It seemed utterly terrible, but the small part of what was once Moqorro could practically hear the disappointment that filled it.
Thunder rumbled once more, and he felt something behind him. He turned and saw these same ominous green eyes looking back at him.
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The Mysterious Fall of the Free City of Qohor and Its Ramifications
By Archmaester Marwyn of Highgarden
Many consider the landscape of the continent of Essos to have changed greatly since the Second Century of Blood, for cities and kingdoms had risen to greatness, and others had fallen from their treacherous existence. However, we rarely find ourselves questioning the reasons why such a thing occurred. War, revolts, massacres, and natural disasters could explain the fall of such cities, and they are often sudden. Rarely does a Free City fall slowly, and yet, curiously, the once Great City of Qohor did.
Once part of the great Free Cities of Essos, it was once named the City of Sorcerers, for, aside from the fallen city of Asshai, it remained a centre of the Higher Mysteries in the continent of Asshai, almost certainly on the Western side of Essos.
Even after the fall of Valyria, this place remained the only place that could rework Valyrian Steel, a feat that we cannot replicate anywhere in the Known World to this day. Many mourn the loss of such knowledge, me included. The city was also known as a great hub of commerce for all who wished to avoid the taxes in Qarth, making Qohor at the start of the first century after the conquest, one of the richest cities in Essos.
Which was why its fall was so surprising, not because it was sudden, but because of the complete opposite. From 120 AC to 150 AC, the great city of Qohor fell from one of the great powers of the East to a shadow of its former self, and by 200 AC, nearly all of its inhabitants had abandoned it for greener pastures, mostly either to Braavos or Norvos.
Given the timing in question, one might attribute Qohor's fall to the Scourge of the East, or the year 123 AC, but none could attribute it. Although a few survivors had written down accounts regarding the death of the Black Goat, which occurred in 123 AC, they were nothing but suppositions, and there were no great moments of devastation in the city. There had even been rumours that the god itself had appeared for moments before it collapsed into itself, releasing its last cries to the world and to its worshippers, but logic dictates that they were nought but stories for fools and singers.
I, myself, was not satisfied with such illogical suppositions, and thus made my way to the lost city to witness traces of the remnants of a once-great civilisation. The journey was a difficult one, given the Forest of Qohor and the dangers within it. I encountered many beasts that defied nature and returned with many specimens to be studied in the comforts of my home. If not for my mastery over the Higher Mysteries, there were no doubts that I would have perished, especially against the giant bears, who were more feral than even in the Far North.
Alas, even as I entered Qohor, the mystery remained. The city was intact, even if it had fallen into disrepair, but there were no visible ruins. It was only when I attempted to contact my brethren in the Citadel using a Glass Candle that I realised that there was more to it, for magic itself seemed to warp unnaturally. Any form of magic inside the city became utterly unpredictable, almost morphing structure into pure chaos.
This singular cause, to my eyes, is the single greatest theory of the true reason regarding Qarth's fall. After all, blacksmithing and enchanting are delicate work, and while it was manageable to cast magic in the city, any precise form of the Higher Mysteries was doomed to fail, making this the most likely migration of every mage inside what was once called the City of Sorcerers. Unfortunately, the cause of the chaos itself remains a mystery, one that would remain so, given the lack of funds allowed to me for another expedition to Qohor. I have heard rumours from colleagues in King's Landing that the Crown itself interfered, spearheaded by Princess Rhaenys herself. I do not know if they have additional knowledge regarding what occurred to the City of Sorcerers, but I find this all curious, all the same.
Yet conjecture, however intriguing, is not proof, and I would be remiss to stain these pages with certainty where only fragments remain. The city did not burn, nor was it sacked, nor swallowed by plague; it simply became inhospitable to the very craft upon which it was built. Thus, the mages departed first, then the artisans who depended upon them, and finally the traders who found little profit in a place whose greatest export could no longer be wrought, leaving an empty shell, an echo of a city.
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AN: I'm trying something a bit new with this one, though I'm not sure I pulled it off. Essentially, the idea was to have Moqorro barely survive the fire of Volantis and slowly make his way to Qohor, under the command of the Lord of Light. I feel like I hinted a bit at what really happened, but it will be explained in more detail in the next chapter. I sort of didn't want to spell it out in this chapter, to keep the same atmosphere. I didn't show the fight between Harry and the Black Goat, since I didn't see the point of it. It all pretty much happened a lot of times before, and I didn't see any real reason to repeat it. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
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If you want to support me, check out my patréon at https://www.patréon.com/athassprkr
I tend to upload drafts of early chapters on there to get people's opinions on them, so you can read up to 20 chapters ahead as a bonus.
Thank you guys for your support in these hard times.