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4/7/2025, 7:33:23 PM
>>6224644
>>6224714
You speak.
Your voice is raw from disuse, rasping like rust dragged over stone. “You. Whispering. Are you talking to me?”
Silence answers first. A stillness so deep you wonder if he’s slipped away entirely, melted into the dark like breath on a mirror.
Then—
“…no.”
The whisper is patient. Dry as old paper. “I speak to the stones. The rats. The ghosts. You merely happened to listen.”
You shift, slowly, letting the chains rattle just enough to say you’re still alive. “What are you, then? A priest? A prophet?”
A breath. Not quite a chuckle.
“I was a man once. Perhaps a maester. Perhaps more.” A pause. “I served… a prince who loved songs more than war. That was a long time ago.”
You hear the drag of cloth over rough stone. The rustle of parchment. The faint tapping of fingernails against metal.
“They call me mad. Or they would, if they remembered me at all. But I remember. I remember the ravens that didn’t fly. The letters that were never read. I remember a song of ice… and ash.”
You inch closer to the bars, careful not to catch your cuffs. “What’s your name?”
A long silence. Then:
“I had one. I gave it up. Names are chains, and chains are heavy things in this place. But you… you have the smell of wolves. Of snow and blood.”
Another whisper, lower now, conspiratorial.
“You carry the shadow of someone important. Someone who trusted you. And the shape of that trust…”
A finger taps metal again.
“…was carved in wood.”
Your breath catches. You didn’t mention it. You couldn’t have.
“Where is it?” you ask. “Do you know?”
The whispering man doesn’t answer right away.
“I know what was carried. And what was taken. But not by whom. You came in broken, brother. Not all your pieces arrived.”
You grip the bars. “Tell me.”
He hisses softly. Not unkindly.
“Not yet. You have more ears than you know. And some of them don’t bleed when they listen.”
Something scuttles across the ceiling. A rat, or something worse. The whisper resumes.
"You're marked, you know. Even down here, something clings to you. Something colder than chains, and older than thrones. They smell it on you. The rats. The guards. Even the dead man opposite."
You glance across the hall.
That cell door hangs open a crack, the torchlight faintly illuminating a pale, slumped figure within. A dead man, unmoving for days, weeks—long enough for the stink to become part of the stone. Something dangles from his wrist—a thread of cloth, possibly Northern in design—but the shadows don't let you look long.
(1/2)
>>6224714
You speak.
Your voice is raw from disuse, rasping like rust dragged over stone. “You. Whispering. Are you talking to me?”
Silence answers first. A stillness so deep you wonder if he’s slipped away entirely, melted into the dark like breath on a mirror.
Then—
“…no.”
The whisper is patient. Dry as old paper. “I speak to the stones. The rats. The ghosts. You merely happened to listen.”
You shift, slowly, letting the chains rattle just enough to say you’re still alive. “What are you, then? A priest? A prophet?”
A breath. Not quite a chuckle.
“I was a man once. Perhaps a maester. Perhaps more.” A pause. “I served… a prince who loved songs more than war. That was a long time ago.”
You hear the drag of cloth over rough stone. The rustle of parchment. The faint tapping of fingernails against metal.
“They call me mad. Or they would, if they remembered me at all. But I remember. I remember the ravens that didn’t fly. The letters that were never read. I remember a song of ice… and ash.”
You inch closer to the bars, careful not to catch your cuffs. “What’s your name?”
A long silence. Then:
“I had one. I gave it up. Names are chains, and chains are heavy things in this place. But you… you have the smell of wolves. Of snow and blood.”
Another whisper, lower now, conspiratorial.
“You carry the shadow of someone important. Someone who trusted you. And the shape of that trust…”
A finger taps metal again.
“…was carved in wood.”
Your breath catches. You didn’t mention it. You couldn’t have.
“Where is it?” you ask. “Do you know?”
The whispering man doesn’t answer right away.
“I know what was carried. And what was taken. But not by whom. You came in broken, brother. Not all your pieces arrived.”
You grip the bars. “Tell me.”
He hisses softly. Not unkindly.
“Not yet. You have more ears than you know. And some of them don’t bleed when they listen.”
Something scuttles across the ceiling. A rat, or something worse. The whisper resumes.
"You're marked, you know. Even down here, something clings to you. Something colder than chains, and older than thrones. They smell it on you. The rats. The guards. Even the dead man opposite."
You glance across the hall.
That cell door hangs open a crack, the torchlight faintly illuminating a pale, slumped figure within. A dead man, unmoving for days, weeks—long enough for the stink to become part of the stone. Something dangles from his wrist—a thread of cloth, possibly Northern in design—but the shadows don't let you look long.
(1/2)
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