Roads to Power

 Betrayal, betrayal is as common as the changing of the seasons. Few people know this better than I do. You quickly learn to keep your cards close, protect your interests, and never reveal too much—especially to those watching, waiting for a chance to use your secrets against you.

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(MID-288AC)

When we finally arrived at the port town, I took in the sight with an appreciative eye. The place was clean enough, certainly better than the dreary, wind-swept lands of House Darke; though I have done a lot to improve its standing, it has yet to reach its epitome. The port bustled with the trade of fish, grain, and lumber. The salty scent of the sea mixed with the earthy smells of the town, and for a brief moment, I let myself enjoy the mundane sound of life happening all around me.

The inn was a simple, unassuming place tucked away from the main street. The standard room smelled faintly of roast meat and ale. My companions, the guards, and the men I'd traveled with wasted no time retreating to their rooms. They had been on the road for days, and the sight of a warm bed was too tempting to resist. They scattered like rats seeking shelter from a storm, each content to let the day slip away in sleep.

But I wasn't like them.

While the others rested, my body still felt the aches of rough camping and long rides, but my mind was too alert to succumb to the heavy pull of sleep. I had a purpose. And the night was young.

"Alright, I'm heading out for some sightseeing," I announced to the few still awake.

One of the older guards glanced up from his bowl of stew, his brow furrowing. "Sightseeing? After everything we've been through today, you're heading out at night?"

I gave him a half-smile, shrugging. "I'm not as worn out as you. Some of us still have energy to burn."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, right. Just don't go doing something stupid. You need a guard?"

I tapped the pouch at my side, feeling the reassuring weight of my Gold Dragons and Silver Stags. "I'm good. No need for an escort."

The town, though small, had a certain charm to it. The buildings were squat and made of stone, their thatched roofs sagging with age. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the docks—men shouting commands, the creaking of ships moored at the piers. But I wasn't interested in the docks tonight. I had a different destination in mind.

Damien moved through the crowded streets of the small town with practiced indifference, his cloak drawn tight against the chill of the evening. The lanterns in the alleys flickered dimly, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The scent of fish, damp earth, and stale bread hung in the air, and the low hum of evening conversation filled the space between the buildings. He had been searching for hours, speaking to one person after another—traders, beggars, farmers, anyone who might know something about Maggie the Frog. They all knew the name, of course. The woman was notorious in these parts, a shadowy figure, whispered about in the taverns and alleys, feared by the superstitious and the desperate. But finding her was another matter entirely.

He stopped before a crumbling building, a worn inn with a tattered sign hanging crookedly above the door. An old man with a thick white beard sat on a bench outside, his eyes bloodshot from too much drink. Damien approached him, his footsteps light but firm. "Old man," he said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the man's stupor. "You've heard of Maggie the Frog?"

The old man grunted, eyes narrowing. He was one of those types who spoke only when it suited him, but Damien had learned over the years how to prompt people like him. He kept his expression neutral, but there was an edge to his words, the promise of something valuable if the man cooperated. The old man looked him over suspiciously before muttering, "Aye, I've heard of her. Dangerous, she is. Lives out in the woods. Keep away, you hear? People vanish around her."

Damien wasn't interested in warnings. He had his reasons for seeking the woman. "Where exactly?" he asked, his tone clipped.

The old man took a swig from a flask, squinting up at him. "Out in the woods, just past the creek. But I wouldn't go there if I were you."

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Tell me again, more clearly. I'm not asking twice."

The man hesitated, sensing the edge in Damien's voice. After a long pause, he grumbled, "Take the path to the east, follow the creek till you find a crooked tree. From there, you'll see a small shack, near the rocks. That's where she's been staying."

Damien nodded, expression unreadable. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a Gold Dragon, pressing it into the man's trembling hand. "Keep your mouth shut about this, and your next drink's on me." His gaze hardened. "But if I hear that you've told anyone else... well, let's just say the price of silence is higher next time."

The old man's hand shook as he clutched the coin, nodding vigorously. "I won't tell, I swear it. I haven't said nothing to anyone."

Damien didn't bother to reassure him. His business with the man was finished. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his thoughts already focused on the next step. He didn't trust the small folk, not fully, but they had their uses. He had the information he needed now.

As he left the village behind, Damien followed the path east, moving quickly but carefully. The forest grew darker as he ventured deeper into the trees, the sounds of the town fading away with each step. The creek bubbled quietly ahead, and as he passed the crooked tree the old man had described, he saw the faint outline of a cottage in the distance, barely visible through the thick undergrowth. Maggie the Frog was close now.

Damien's hand rested on the hilt of his blade as he approached the cottage. It was a small, dilapidated shack, smoke curling from the chimney. No one could mistake it for a welcoming place. His eyes darted over the surroundings, watching for movement. He was almost there. The game was about to begin.

Tension surged through Damien as he stood in the small, dimly lit cottage, his eyes scanning the space with cold precision. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of Maggie's worn, threadbare clothes as she moved about. The stench of decay and dried herbs filled his nose, but he hardly noticed. The smell of power was more important than any discomfort. His mind was already calculating the next steps, the strategy to turn this meeting to his advantage. He had come for something, and he would leave with it, no matter the cost.

Maggie, standing by the hearth, turned to face him as if she'd known he was coming all along. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something hollow behind them—something that spoke of a life lived in shadows, steeped in regret. She was a broken woman, but a dangerous one. That much was clear. Damien's gaze never wavered.

"Do you know where the witch lives?" Damien asked, his voice low, feigning the tone of a clueless traveler. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the barest flicker of impatience beneath the surface of his calm. "I'm looking for someone… someone dangerous."

Maggie's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. Her laugh was short, bitter, like the sound of dead leaves being crushed underfoot.

"You really think you can find her?" Her voice was quiet, but there was a cutting edge to it. "She doesn't want to be found."

Damien didn't flinch. He'd already expected the resistance. People like Maggie, they enjoyed the game, the power of withholding information. They liked to see if you would bend, or if you would break. But Damien had never been the type to bend.

"I'm not here to find anyone," he said, his voice turning hard as steel, a slight chill in his tone. "I'm here because I need to learn something. You know the kind of magic I'm talking about, don't you?"

Maggie's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. "Blood magic, boy. It's not something to toy with."

Damien's expression didn't change. "I know. I've heard rumors." He allowed a small pause, letting the words hang in the air. "I've seen things that tell me you're the one who can teach me."

There it was—the tension between them. She knew what he was after. It was only a matter of time before she admitted it. Maggie hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing her options, before turning away and walking to a rickety chair by the far wall. She sat down slowly, the worn wood creaking beneath her weight. Her eyes didn't leave him, studying him in a way that felt like she was trying to peel back the layers of his soul.

"You want to learn magic, but you don't understand what that means," she said after a moment, her voice low, almost regretful. "You think it's a simple thing—something to be wielded at your command. But there's always a cost. Always."

Damien's gaze was unwavering, and his voice was firm, devoid of doubt. "I'm prepared to pay."

Maggie studied him for a long moment, her lips pursed in a tight line. She saw the coldness in him, the steel wrapped in flesh, and it was enough to make her pause. The world had not broken him yet, but there was a part of her that wondered if it might one day. With a sigh, she rose from her chair and walked to a small cupboard. After rummaging through it, she pulled out an old, worn book, its pages yellowed with age, its cover frayed from years of use. She handed it to him without a word.

Damien took the book, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It was a relic, no doubt, filled with knowledge passed down through generations. Strange symbols and cryptic words filled the pages, but Damien had seen enough to know that this was not his immediate concern. Maggie had just handed him the key to a power he could command, but only if he played the game the right way.

He opened the book, scanning the pages quickly. The symbols made sense to him, but there was no time to study them properly. Not yet.

"This is the path you choose?" Maggie asked, her voice quieter now, almost resigned.

Damien's jaw tightened, his gaze unwavering. "It is."

Maggie's eyes softened just slightly as she watched him. "Blood magic doesn't just take from others. It takes from you, too. The more you use it, the more you become a part of it. It changes you."

He smiled slightly, though she couldn't see it. "I'm not afraid of change."

Maggie let out a slow breath, her gaze turning distant as she sat back down. For a moment, Damien almost thought she would say something more, but instead, she simply stared into the flickering flames, lost in a memory that he wouldn't ever know.

Over the following weeks, Damien learned the basics of blood magic under Maggie's watchful eye. The rituals, the incantations, the way blood could be drawn and used—not just for power, but for control, manipulation, even the bending of life itself. The cost was steep, but Damien was prepared to pay it. He understood that power never came without sacrifice. But unlike others, he was not afraid of the price. He had seen too much of the world to fear anything, least of all magic.

But as he delved deeper into the teachings, he began to see the dangers for himself. The magic, the power—it wasn't just a tool. It was a disease, eating away at the user, changing them bit by bit, pulling them into a dark and endless spiral. It wasn't something that could be wielded without consequences. Maggie had warned him, but it had only made him more determined to continue.

In the evenings, after the lessons, Maggie would talk to him about the state of the world, about the wars, the houses, the endless struggles for power. She had once been part of something much larger—an order of sorcerers, she claimed. But now, she was nothing more than a broken woman, holed up in her cottage, clinging to the remnants of her magic like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

She had abandoned everything for the magic; Damien knew that. And yet, she had shared her knowledge with him, perhaps because she saw in him a kindred spirit. Or perhaps it was because she saw someone who would eventually take up the mantle she had left behind. Either way, she had provided him with the tools to become something more—something far more dangerous than he had been when he arrived.

And now, as Damien stood in the darkness of her cottage, feeling the weight of the book in his hands, he knew that the game had only just begun. There would be more to learn. More to claim. More to take.

But one thing was sure. He would use every bit of magic she had taught him, no matter the cost, and in the end, he would be the one to decide how much he was willing to pay.

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In Summary: The Power of Mystery in ASoIaF Magic

By hinting at magical systems and powers without fully explaining them, A Song of Ice and Fire becomes a world where the unknown is as important as the known. Magic isn't just about the how, but about the why—the cost, the changes it brings, the unseen consequences that ripple outward. This sense of mystery forces characters like Damien Darke, and the audience itself, to grapple with the implications of wielding power without truly understanding it. This uncertainty fosters tension, awe, and a sense of dangerous allure, which is central to the story's overall atmosphere of intrigue and complexity.