Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 6

The gates of Meereen hung open, allowing legion after legion to march into the city unchallenged. The Meereenese looked on with a mix of fear and resignation as rank after rank of red-cloaked soldiers in mail hauberks and pointed caps with aventails entered their city, their booted feet slamming into the pavements with uniform and disciplined regularity. Round shields proudly displayed legion emblems in Valyrian glyphs, as did banners and standards of red edged in gold.

And in the skies above, dragons danced in a great spiral centered on the Great Pyramid, on which roosted a mighty beast greater in size than even Aegon the Conqueror's Black Dread. There, standing on the shoulders of his mount, Laemar Lennareon, Triarch of the Valyrian Freehold, stared out over the city of Meereen, largest, greatest, most populous and richest and most powerful of the so-called Slaver Cities, which now lay prostate before the might of Valyria.

Their armies and fleet destroyed, and with the Valyrian Army tightening the noose and dragons ruling the skies unchallenged, the Great Masters had wisely chosen to surrender their city. In recognition of this fact, the Valyrian commanders had ordered their soldiers to simply occupy Meereen, and had strictly forbidden looting or indeed, any violence against Valyria's newest subjects without permission. Any who did so would be punished in accordance with the strictest discipline.

In accordance with those orders, the Valyrian Army was spreading out as they marched into the city. Some cohorts took control of the walls and the city's defenses, ordering sullen Meereenese soldiers back to their barracks to await further orders. Others set up cordons and checkpoints in the city's main thoroughfares and more important streets, while others were setting up rally points in the city, in case things took a turn for the worse and the Valyrian Army had to come down hard on the Meereenese.

Others swept the Great Pyramid and other pyramids of the city, or surrounded the homes of the city's rich and powerful. Others made certain to ensure what was left of the Meereenese Army would stand down, while others gathered and escorted the Great Masters to the Plaza of Purification, where they would meet with the Triarch and hear Valyria's terms.

The Sun was setting when all the Great Masters were gathered in the Plaza of Purification, and there many shook with impotent rage as they beheld the shattered remains of the great bronze harpy that had once graced the plaza. Rage turned to fear and terror as they heard a great roar, and brilliant fire lit up the sky.

Dozens of dragons let loose with dragonfire, aimed at the harpies crowning the pyramids of Meereen. Bronze and gold softened like wax, and flowed in molten rivers downs the steps of the pyramids. Grief and resignation followed fear and terror, and more than one Great Master collapsed to the ground sobbing at the sight, as the truth of their situation was driven in with unrelenting and unstoppable force.

Soon, the mightiest dragon present was winging across the skies of Meereen, and then swooping down with a snarl that had more than one Meereenese running for cover or loosening their bowels, descended on the plaza of purification. The dragon's landing shook the ground, and such was its size that its landing collapsed many of the surrounding buildings.

Terrified, the Great Masters fell to their knees. On his dragon, Triarch Laemar surveyed the Great Masters with judging eyes, having removed his Andal-styled helmet to allow his gold-silver hair to flow freely over his shoulders. Turning his head slowly, the Triarch swept the Great Masters with his amethyst gaze, not one daring to meet it.

In truth, the Triarch cared little for the Great Masters, and would gladly order his dragon to burn them to ash in an instant. But alas, needs must.

Yunkai and Astapor waited further south, and beyond them was the specter of the New Ghiscari Empire. Valyria's economy was also still on shaky legs, threatening to give out at any moment, and so for now it was necessary to make compromises to maximize the worth of any gains made during this stage of the Freehold's reclamation.

Allowing the Great Masters to continue to govern Meereen under the Freehold, and paying taxes productively would serve the Freehold better than sparking a revolt here and now when victory was at hand, and leaving the Freehold with naught but a burnt out husk of a city that would contribute little in the short term. And so, if the Meereenese would submit, then the Freehold would allow them a place.

"You have made a most wise decision." Triarch Laemar began. "Had you chosen to resist, all around you would be ash and dust. But as you have chosen wisely, that fate is averted, both for your city and yourselves."

The Triarch paused. "The Freehold's terms will be simple." He continued after a moment. "You and yours will swear allegiance as subjects of the Valyrian Freehold, and in return your property and the property of the citizens of this city will be respected. You will also be allowed to continue to govern the city, albeit in the Freehold's name henceforth. In recognition of this fact, an Archon will be appointed by the Lords Freeholder to oversee the city, and of course, annual taxes will be levied and will be expected to be paid in full and on time. Meereen shall also forfeit its fleet and army, with the defense of the city to be entrusted to the Valyrian Army and Navy. Households will continue to be allowed to hire their own guards within reason, however, and of course, you will be granted a say in any revisions of the city's laws when and where they do not conform with Gaenor's Code and the Fourteen Tablets. What say you?"

What followed was a confused chorus of agreement and oaths and assurance of loyalty, and which had the Triarch sneering. "One by one," he said loudly. "Come forward, and express your submission and swear allegiance."

The confused chorus died down, and one by one the Great Masters came forward and kneeling before the Triarch and his dragon, expressed their acceptance of the Freehold's terms and swearing allegiance. Once all were done, Triarch Laemar nodded and made to depart.

"Excellent," he said. "You are truly most wise. Return to your homes, and rejoice in your wisdom and what fruit it has allowed you to reap. Others are not so wise, and lack such privilege. Go, but know that come tomorrow, your presence will be required to place your signatures on the official documentation for Meereen's submission to the Valyrian Freehold."

And with those words and the thunder of titanic wings beating into the air, the Triarch soared up into the sky.


Located in the approximate middle of the straits which connect Slavers' Bay and the Gulf of Grief is the Isle of Cedars. Named for the cedar forests which grow on the island, it was also once known as the Isle of a Hundred Battles, calling back to the countless struggles for control of the island thousands of years ago during the wars between Valyria and Old Ghis.

Though the former inhabitants of the island were of Ghiscari stock, like much of their people they were forced to submit and adopt the language and many customs of the victorious Valyrians in the wake of those wars. Ghozai and Velos, the two cities on the island, grew rich from their control of shipping passing through the surrounding waters, but ultimately it would be those same waters which would bring their doom.

When the Doom of Valyria came, great waves hundreds of feet high drowned the cities. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, all the houses and hovels, the wall, pyramids, aqueducts, dragons and sphinxes…all of them were swept away by the waves, leaving naught but broken ruins that would ultimately be reclaimed by the land.

In the centuries since, many attempts have been made to reclaim the island. The Ghiscari first and foremost, even the Volantenes, and of course pirates and common slavers, among other such lowly ilk. All failed.

All the death and destruction unleashed on the island had seeded the ruins and their surroundings with dark and terrible echoes, which drove men mad and turned nature against them. So it had been for centuries, and though men of wealth, power, and lore scoffed at such tales, neither did they press too eagerly to reclaim the island, and in taverns along the surrounding waters, tales of horror and dread were whispered of the haunted ruins of the Isle of Cedars, where the animals grew fearless of man, so unknown was he to them.

So it had been for centuries…

…but with the return of Valyria, the dragonlords decreed that not even the echoes of their seeming doom wouldhold them back from reclaiming what was once part of their domain.

Ships surrounded the Isle of Cedars at a safe distance, having brought men – sorcerers, acolytes, slaves and servants – and what they needed with them. Now they waited and watched, as the adepts of the arcane sought to enact the dragonlords' will.

At fourteen points around the island, circles were cut into the ground. Twin, interlocking septagrams were then overlaid over the circles, and at the fourteen points produced by those septagrams fourteen glyphs were similarly inscribed into the ground. Sorcerers stood before each of those points, clad in red and gold, and holding aloft staves of gilded wood, topped with golden dragons wreathed in sorcerous flame.

Behind the sorcerers were arrayed a great choir of acolytes, clad in pure white, chanting in the background and kindling the faintest hint of…something, supernatural, earie, otherworldly, magical in the air. It was just something on the edge of comprehension, lurking in the back of a witness' mind, the exact word to describe it at the tip of one's tongue but could never be right, and marked by the faintest touch of acridity in the air.

The sorcerers stayed silent, merely tapping their staves against the ground in unison at timed intervals. Before each and every one of them, a slave knelt on the ground, stripped naked and with long, flowing scripts carved into their flesh, the glyphs bleeding happily and refusing to even so much as begin to heal, kept open by the power represented by each glyph and what they together meant.

And beyond the chanting acolytes, sworn servants of the sorcerers clad in black and masked in silver sacrificed more slaves by the hundred. A hundred slaves at fourteen points around the island, fourteen hundred lives taken and their blood and living energies fed to power the spells of the sorcerers.

Already the fetid energies were swirling around the sorcerers and their acolytes, the servants of the former standing in a great circle with their backs to their masters, silver masks staring into the growing darkness while blades of dragonglass were raised point upwards before them. The energies of death stirred, like calling to like, the veil thinning as the energies gathered by the sorcerers of Valyria hung heavy, like stones weighing it down and pulling it to the breaking point.

The monkeys and birds on the Isle of Cedars screamed and fled. The latter were fortunate in that they could fly, winging their way into the skies and vanishing into the distance. The former were not so fortunate, many seeking refuge in the deepening shadows of the forest, fleeing from what they could feel was coming.

None would return.

The shadows deepened, countless whispers echoing outwards to be joined by screams and the sound of roaring waves, breaking wood and rock, and the thunder of the land being drowned. In the ruins of Ghozai and Velos, translucent images shimmered into existence, superimposed over the broken ruins, of mighty walls that towered protectively over the houses and buildings behind. Stepped pyramids that reached up high into the sky, dragons of gilded bronze and sphinxes of marble with eyes of garnet, mansions and galleries of colored stone, cedar, and glass, trellises covered with vines, and gardens from which the sound of music could be heard.

And then the sky darkened, black clouds shot through with touches of angry red blotting out the Sun, lightning bolts crisscrossing the darkness and punctuated by blasts of thunder. The waters receded from the shores, beaching hundreds of boats and ships before the astonished eyes of those present, while others stared with apprehension at the angry red in the distant horizon.

And then the waters returned, great waves hundreds of feet high. Men and women and children turned and fled, desperate to get out of the cities and reach higher ground before it was too late. And too late it was, and the waves swept over the harbors, shattering the beached boats and ships into countless fragments and tearing apart the stone quays. They swept past, swallowing everything and everyone in its wake, countless dying in the darkness of the Doom of Valyria, whether broken by the waves or drowned in its waters…

…and now those ghastly shades screamed as their rest was disturbed, the veil tearing and spilling forth a tide of unquiet spirits. Their appearances echoed the violence of their deaths, many mangled beyond recognition as the waves smashed them against the ground or the broken ruins of their cities, while others were pale and rotting, having survived the initial violence only to be dragged out to sea as the waters receded, drowning and rotting in the deeps.

They screamed and wailed, ghastly cries and echoes that would have struck men dead in an instant, and reached out with grasping, half-real fingers and claws that would have stolen a living man's soul out of his body, or should he have the strength to hold fast, at least have a portion of his life taken as a price for his resistance, and thus aged prematurely as a result. But the sworn servants of the sorcerers, the men and women of the Obsidian Brotherhood stood fast, and as the wraiths threw themselves against their circle again and again to no effect, many among the wraiths began to hesitate. Something was getting through to them, an instant and an eternity of restless sleep unable to stop the faintest hint of comprehension returning, as the Obsidian Brothers and Sisters' unnatural…no, inhuman resistance, and with it came fear, fear as to what lay behind their silver masks, at the power imbued into their dragonglass blades, at the price paid to achieve such, and what chains the dragonlords laid upon them to keep them in check.

The sorcerers struck their staves against the ground in a single, ominous motion, and the acolytes stopped chanting. Ominous silence fell, even the wraiths struck silent by an impossible feeling of dread. And then as one, the sorcerers drew dragonglass daggers and struck the slaves before them dead.

Corpses fell and blood spilled…and the circles blazed with sorcerous fire, the sorcerers singing a spell as the acolytes chanted once more. As they sang the flames roared and grew and merging into one, fourteen dragons of sorcerous flame rising into the sky. As one they flew in great circles, before striking down, back to the ground.

As they struck, the sorcerers completed their spell on a rising note, and struck the ground with their staves as one.

The flames died. The wraiths vanished with a single, terrified scream. Every last animal on the island died. In distant Braavos, the faces in the House of Black and White opened their eyes and mouths.

And they laughed.


"And how are you today, my prince?"

Prince Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, gave his Myrish host an unreadable glance. The smug and self-assured magister didn't seem to register, and after a moment Viserys nodded and gave a polite smile. "Better," he said. "Much better, than when myself and my sister first arrived in this city and you took us in."

"I am glad to hear that, my prince." Magister Malan Sanios said with a nod. "Let it not be said that I am an ungenerous host."

The magister clapped his hands, and slaves appeared, serving spiced wine and iced water with sweetmeats and confectioneries. The magister took a seat opposite Viserys, and after a slave poured him some wine, the same slave poured for Viserys as well. Viserys raised his glass.

"To your health, magister." Viserys said.

The magister nodded. "And to yours." He said, the magister and the prince toasting each other before taking a drink.

For a few moments the magister and the prince drank in silence but for the soft fanning of the slaves, and then Malan placed his glass on the table between them. "Now then," he began. "Since it seems you've recovered from your previous travails shall we get down to business?"

Viserys paused mid-drink, and then finishing also placed his glass down. "Indeed," he said. "I'm not one for playing with words, magister, so I'll ask your pardon first if I seem…impolite, in our coming conversation."

"I find that hard to believe, my prince." Malan said with faint surprise. "As one of royal blood, I'd have assumed you would have been well-taught the importance of diplomacy, and how to conduct it."

"So I have," Viserys agreed. "But alas, with nearly half of my fourteen years of life spent in exile, and all the recent hardships…I confess myself…lacking, the stomach for games of words."

The magister sat back, thinking in silence for several moments. Finally, he gave several small nods. "True," he said. "And I suppose plain words will do much better in private company. Very well my prince, you have my pardon in advance for…uncouth, words."

"Then I shall take you at your word." Viserys said before his eyes and voice hardened. "Speaking frankly magister, what is it you seek to gain by harboring myself, my sister, and indeed, what does Myr seek to gain by harboring the refugees cast out by Braavos and Norvos, and turned away by Pentos?"

"Ah, I see." Malan said with a small smile, and nodding softly. "Very well then, answering in the reverse order you gave your questions in, I am certain you are well aware that all the refugees from the north are like yourself, those with strong strains of Valyrian blood?"

"I am aware." Viserys said bitterly. "I am also aware that is why we were cast out as well."

"And you are also aware that as of this moment, for the first time in nearly three hundred years," Malan continued. "Myr is in the middle of talks with Lys and Tyrosh to revive the Triarchy of the Three Daughters?"

Viserys blinked, and then nodding slowly sat back. "I see." He said. "So that's how it is."

"Valyrian blood runs strong in the people of Lys." Malan said with a nod of his own. "Universally so, in fact. And while there are those among the Tyroshi and even here in Myr who would like to act as the Braavosi and the Norvoshi have to those who can call themselves true-blooded children of Valyria…alas, doing so would likely doom our plan to revive our old alliance and with it a chance to stand against the reviving power of Valyria and Volantis. That would not go down well with just as many if not more, not just among the Three Daughters, but also in Braavos as well."

"Braavos?" Viserys echoed incredulously. "Surely you jest. Did not the Braavosi…"

"The Braavosi are a pragmatic lot." Malan interrupted. "They wanted you out of their city, but at the same time they know unity among the Free Cities is needed to stand against Valyria and Volantis. And they know they cannot push the issue of casting out those of true Valyrian descent here in the south, given the nature of Lys' populace. And ultimately, the ones who acted as they did in Braavos was merely the mob. The Sealord and his magisters and keyholders, never officially sanctioned their actions, and indeed, once the mob had sated its thirst for blood, did not hesitate to apply sanctions for damages incurred during the riots."

"And yet," Viserys countered. "Neither did they try to stop the mob."

"Indeed," Malan agreed. "They stood aside."

For several long moments there was silence, and then Viserys leaned forward. "That answers my second question," he began. "And the first?"

"Tell me Prince Viserys," Malan said softly. "Do you honest think we can stand against Valyria and Volantis both? Not just their fleets and armies, but their dragons as well?"

Viserys was silent for a long time. "Dragons are not invincible." He finally ventured. "The death of Queen Rhaenys during the First Dornish War proves that, as did the deaths of numerous dragons during the Dance of Dragons."

"Her Grace was but one rider, admittedly the most skilled among her siblings and on a mount worthy of the Freehold both of old and returned," Malan said. "But just one rider for all that still. And those which were felled during the Dance of Dragons fell at the fangs and claws of their own, or if felled by siege engines, they were by then pale shadows of the dragons of old."

"Which were not invincible either," Viserys said with narrowed eyes. "The Ghiscari held out for a thousand years, with many stories and legends coming from those times of…heroes, who slew Valyrian dragons in their empire's wars with the Freehold. And of course, there was the Second Spice War, wherein the Rhoynar slew three dragons."

"And brought down the wrath of hundreds more, turning the Rhoyne into an inferno."

Viserys sat back. "The Rhoynar aside," he continued with a calculating light in his eyes. "You do not believe in the example set by the Ghiscari?"

Malan laughed. "What did those wars accomplish for them?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that each and every war between Valyria and Old Ghis only taught the former more and more lessons, helped raise our people to greater heights, until in the end the harpy and its pyramids were cast down, and the dragon reigned triumphant. No, even if war with Valyria does not go the way of the Second Spice War, even if it ends with a stalemate like the First War between Valyria and Old Ghis, all it would do is teach Valyria how to defeat us when the next war comes."

"I don't imagine Braavos or others to appreciate such sentiments."

"Sentiment, you say?" Malan said with spread hands. "We would prefer to call it…calculation. Myr has long held the reputation of being the most advanced of the Free Cities, with some of the craftiest artisans and inventors, and innovative minds in the known world. And we can observe from the past patterns that can be used to predict the future. No…Braavos and the others are free to delude themselves into thinking they can defy and even triumph over Valyria. But we are not required to share in their delusions and fates of dying in dragonfire. Done right, we could reap great reward much like Volantis intends to by aiding Valyria. Whether covertly, or openly, one way or another, sooner or later."

Viserys tapped his finger against an armrest for several moments, and then leaning forward nodded. "What do you and your fellow magisters have in mind?" he asked.

Malan smiled.


"Jon, I'm tired."

Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King sighed. "Just a little more, and we'll make camp." He said.

"And after?" Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms asked.

"It's almost the middle of the day, so we'll make camp for a few hours, wait for the heat to die down before continuing to march." Jon said. "It wouldn't do to push the men too much, and tire them out. If we did that and get attacked, then we'd be done for if we don't have the strength to fight back properly."

"Alright."

The eight-year old boy settled down on his pony, riding next to the former lord and surrounded by knights in ornately-decorated armor and golden surcoats and cloaks. A black pike from which hung several gilded skulls on chains was emblazoned on their surcoats and shields, the emblem of the famous Golden Company. The same Golden Company which now marched behind Jon, Aegon, and their knights.

"Hey," Aegon asked after a few moments.

"What?"

"Will it really go well?" Aegon asked. "I mean…will the Valyrians really help us get what we need?"

"They will." Jon asked. "Or at least as long as we don't pick a fight against them, they'll at least be willing to talk to us. And while your family never were among the most powerful dragonlords, you were still dragonlords. Once the Valyrians hear about what the Usurper and his pet lions did to the rest of your family…well, you already know the story of Garin the Great, don't you?"

Aegon nodded, his eyes hard. "They'll kill them all." He said with utter hatred. "Lions, stags, wolves, falcons, and fishes…traitors all of them…they'll burn in dragonfire or drown in their blood. Fire and blood…those are my family's words, right?"

"It is, Aegon." Jon said with a nod. "Fire and blood…fire and blood…"

And then looking forward, Jon stared with distant eyes at the horizon, at the memory of a silver-haired man in black armor decorated with rubies.

"For you, my silver prince," Jon thought to himself. "All, and always for you…"


A/N

Meereen surrendered…which is actually quite smart of them. If they didn't, well, Meereen would be a smoking ruin, and the survivors led away in chains as slaves.

Sorcery, such a nasty business. All the death though, and unquiet dead forcibly being given peace…small wonder the many-faced god is laughing.

Viserys seems too…collected? Nonsense…what people always seem to forget is that the insane Viserys of AC 297-298 was only that way after decades of exile, humiliation, and hardship. Dany does remember that at one point Viserys was a genuinely kind and loving brother, and while Ser Barristan does say that Viserys was Aerys' son, it must also be kept in mind that Aerys never started out as mad. He only became paranoid after the events of Duskendale, which is actually quite understandable, plus the repeated miscarriages and stillbirths of his wife, which would have a negative effect on his already shaky mental health.

And which may not have been the result of inbreeding either, given Pycelle's true loyalty to Tywin, and Tywin's own ambitions to have his daughter be Rhaegar's queen. Make of that what you will.

Aegon, Jon, and the Golden Company are on the move. Now then, what will this lead to, I wonder?