Author's Note:
I just about hate and the site's interface and as such, when I am traveling updates will likely be delayed in comparison to my profile on Ao3. Additionally I have stories on Ao3 that will not be posted here. If you are a fan of my work then I suggest you check out my Ao3 profile. I am under the name House_Blackfyre
Jon
"You took my sister from me." Maelyx Honorro rasped. His right eye was filled with malice, the other was a bloody ruin from where Jon had plunged Judgement into the socket.
Jon would have answered, perhaps with a gloat, but the magic of Maelyx's twelve shadowbinders held his body in place. All he could do was move his eyes and glare. He was kneeling before Maelyx, arms spread, and body anchored by clawed shadows. The warlocks stood behind Maelyx, their expressions hidden by strange masks and their bodies obscured by dark robes.
"How many sisters do you have? Soon you'll have one less. A sister for a sister, and I'll make you watch as your beast tears her apart."
Jon struggled against his restraints to no avail. He couldn't shake his head or even clench his teeth, and it took all his strength to breathe. A fog covered his mind and Jon couldn't even feel Syraxes. Fear crept through him.
"And when that's done. I will make you watch when I take your dragon."
Weeks Earlier, Post Battle of the Dothraki Sea
Jon woke with a start, sitting up so fast that his head crashed into the membrane of Syraxes' wing. She lifted her wings instantly, craning her long neck so her large eyes stared at him, checking to see if he was unharmed. The horizon was beginning to glow from the rising sun and the animals of the Dothraki Sea were either settling down to rest and wait for the sunset or waking for the day. The air was clear in the grass sea, away from any horses and with miles of grass stretching to the horizon. He took a deep breath and stretched.
His body ached, not from sleeping on the ground for he had grown used to rough travel, but from the phantom pains of his dreams. Jon flexed his hand to remind himself that it was not this body that was trampled by a sea of terrified people nor it was this body that was burned by the fires of the earth. Quick deaths in his dreams were the easiest to overcome and soon the pain abated. The wounds that were allowed to fester could trouble him for days after he awoke.
They weren't simple dreams; that he knew. For the sensations he felt, the heat of the sun, the weight of steel in his hands were as real as any waking moment. It wasn't greensight either, for Lord Reed's son Jojen described the green dreams as vague and more like imagery that had to be interpreted. Wherever Jon went, he was not just witnessing the past but experiencing events as time unfolded.
There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where he journeyed in the past, except for that he was always in the proximity of the freehold or its colonies. The earliest he had journeyed was sometime during the first Ghiscari wars, when the Valyrians had yet to truly master their dragons or their magic. He had fought side by side with his Valyrian brothers and sisters, killed men in the name of the fledging civilization with a bronzed tipped spear. Fear was as visceral there as it was in the present and when journeying into the past, he had no connection to Syraxes or Ghost to draw his strength.
When in the past, it seemed that his Valyrian Blood came to dominate, and his hair and eyes turned his father's colors. The features allowed him to blend in with the citizens of the freehold. In the early days, the Valyrians formed a tight brotherhood with one another, most likely born out of necessity. The Valyrian Peninsula was in the center of Essos, beseeched on all sides by the Ghiscari Empire, the Sanori Kingdoms, Qaathi cities and the traveling warbands of ancient Dothraki. The beauty of the early Valyrians had made them into a prime target. Rape and slavery were chief among their concerns which made the Valyrians wary of outsiders.
Prior to taming their dragons, the Valyrians were simple shepherds that had little experience in warfare. They had relied heavily on their dragons in their earliest conflicts and the men on the ground were supremely vulnerable to the lockstep legions of Old Ghis without a dragon flying overhead.
Jon's experiences during the Rhoynish wars had shown him how much the Valyrians had learned with thousands of years of war. Unlike Westeros, the Valyrians did not place an emphasis on heavily armored, mounted warriors. They molded their army after the defeated empire of Old Ghis but expanded on the principle. Instead of legions of men marching with tri-tipped spears and shields, the Valyrian infantry was a mix of light and heavy armed troops armed with spears and then later pikes with swords as secondary weapons. Regiments of dragonbone wielding archers allowed the infantry to strike their enemies long before they could mount a response. Light armored troops and Cavalry allowed them to march incredible distances in days rather than weeks.
Once the freehold had learned the secrets of iron making and then later of how to work steel, they soon began to surpass any of their predecessors in military prowess. By the time they were arming their officers with spell forged Valyrian steel, they had also learned how to wield magic as a weapon as well. It made the forces of the freehold practically unstoppable.
The spellswords, as they were known, were among the most elite of Valyrian warriors. Often they came from the forty dragon riding families but normal citizens with a talent for magic were among their ranks as well. With dragons reigning fire from above, disciplined warriors on the ground, among them the spellswords who could throw or ignite their enemies with their minds and wield powerful spells that fueled, moving autonomous, siege weapons, not even the Rhoynar and their water mages could stand against the might of the Freehold.
Jon stood on unsure legs, wincing as the aches in his body protested his motions. At least my death was swift this time. His dreams came in uneven frequency, there could be days between when he journeyed or sometimes weeks. The journeys were never of the same length nor did he travel to the same period. Five thousand years of the Freehold's existence left plenty of points to jump along the timeline. I didn't even have time to make up an identity.
The longest he had been immersed in Old Valyria was for over three months. That had been his first and most confusing journey; brought on by the weeks he had been unconscious when his party had first journeyed to the ashes of the freehold. The longer he slept, the more time he spent back in the past, though the time he spent sleeping was not linear with the time he spent in his jumps.
Those first few jumps revealed little of the rules that governed the magic behind his jumps through time. Warning those in the past of the calamity of the Doom guaranteed suspicious looks before some unseen force pulled him from reality and dropped him right to the end of the freehold. Informing anyone of his Targaryen heritage was even worse. Those of the forty families were seen as near divinity in the early days and by later periods, those of the blood wielded enough power and influence that common citizens were likely to kill impersonators. A detail that he had learned the hard way.
It was better to blend into the crowd as a commoner, Jaehaerys was a relatively common Valyrian moniker. The anonymity allowed Jon to observe and mentally record what he could. Witnessing from the sidelines the replacement of an amputated hand of a dragonlord from House Belaerys with one made of Valyrian steel, enabled Jon to voice the spells needed to heal Jaime.
Traveling took its toll though. Syraxes and Ghost were his only anchors to the present and Elaerys had been the only one who knew the toll he paid.
His dragon watched as he stripped down to his trousers, exposing his scarred upper body. He shifted into the first stance of his kata, grateful as the aches began to lesson as he proceeded through the movements. His time in Volantis, a city that was a bridge to the east and west, allowed Jon to meet travelers who would have never gone as far west as King's Landing. Among them was a female sellsword from the lands of Yi Ti, who had thoroughly schooled Jon in unarmed combat before teaching Jon the art.
The kata was an amalgamation of multiple martial arts practiced in the far east. It was designed to quickly disable much larger and stronger opponents with strikes and grapples that neutralized the advantages of strength by targeting weak points along the body and turning your opponent's mass and momentum into your own weapon against them. In combat it led to quick and absolutely brutal takedowns. Outside of combat, the movements became an explosive dance, where each was designed to flow into another. Exercise was the simplest way to clear his mind, tempo became his paramount concern and the burn in his muscles made forgetting other concerns easier.
He trained until his breath came out in ragged pants and the sun rose in the horizon. Then he snatched up Judgement and moved with the sword. The influence of the kata made his fighting style more aggressive and he incorporated a number of punches and kicks into his repertoire. Fighting alongside the Valyrians and learning the water dance of the Braavosi had made his fighting style unlike any other.
Judgment was longer and lighter than a traditional longsword but double edged with a sharp point that was effective against armor. It allowed for the traditional slash and bash style that longswords favored but he could also emulate the stab and thrust fighting style that Braavosi blades favored. I can't wait to see Egg's face when he tries keeping up with me.
By the time he was finished, beads of sweat ran down his back and the sun had cleared the horizon over an hour ago. He sheathed Judgement, delighting in the cool breeze that ruffled the grassland. Syraxes shifted and snorted puffs of smoke. He rubbed along her muzzle to calm her. His dragon was always the most anxious to fly in the mornings and barely tolerated any delays. I wonder how you'll tolerate King's Landing? I can't have you burning any stable boys.
She bumped her muzzle against his chest, nearly knocking him off balance. "Very well, I get the message." He said with a laugh.
Running a hand down her flank, Jon marveled at his dragon's size. "You grow a foot or more every day. Your saddle won't fit you by the time we reach King's Landing." Her silver scales were as hard as stone and growing tougher still. Dents and cracks in her natural armor made from the battle with Khal Drogo's Khalasar during the previous day were healing already, the wounds were self-cauterized and proto scales were growing to fill the gaps. A dragon's healing factor is formidable. Jon thought with a measure of awe.
He pulled his water-skin from the side pouch built into her saddle. The skin emptied before Jon's thirst could truly be quenched. He frowned. His meal of salted beef had only made the thirst worse. Packing light to save weight in battle had made sense at the time but the lack of supplies guaranteed the need to stop in Volantis for his journey. Syraxes could hunt all of her meals and his dragon could even drink sea water to sate her thirst.
Smooth clay met his fingertips when he reached in the saddle pouch. He pulled out the small urn. It was made of simple red clay, simple, without design. A thick bowed string and circular cover sealed the ashes from the elements. All that is left of you. You deserved better.
Elaerys was of the Old Blood, and both the scions of the Freehold and the Targaryens cremated their dead. In death, it was the only thing he had not failed her in.
"If it is a boy, I want to name him Aemon." Jon whispered.
"Aemon? Not Aegon? I thought that was the only name you Targaryens knew."
He laughed. "Very clever. But no, Aemon is my great uncle on the wall. He's over a hundred years old and my father says he's among the smartest men he's ever known"
"Well, let us hope our son inherits his mother's or his great uncle's wits."
"Not his fathers?" Jon grinned.
Elaerys tugged a strand of his hair. "No, you're too pretty to be clever." She sealed his protest with a kiss.
After they parted Jon asked. "And if it is a girl?"
"Daenys." Elaerys answered without pause.
"After the dreamer?" Jon asked surprised.
Elaerys nodded, her eyes twinkled under the light of the fire and her hands traced the barely there bump at her midsection. She looked at him and held his gaze with an intense stare that made him burn for her. "Without her, your house would be among the ashes. Our child will herald a new beginning, just as Daenys did."
Jon scowled at the memory and stuffed the urn back into the pouch. Despite what the songs said, vengeance did make him feel better, but it simply didn't bring Elaerys back. He dressed quickly and wrapped a dark kerchief around his head to cover himself from the sun. Hours spent on dragon's back under the sun led to fantastically painful burns that he sought to avoid.
He strapped Judgement to his back and then mounted Syraxes. The she dragon was already moving, and Jon had to scramble to tie his legs to the saddle before they took to the air with a single powerful snap of her wings.
The coast was a least a hundred miles away and it was another couple hundred until Volantis. Faster it would have been to fly straight to the city, but Jon had yet to master navigating on dragon's back and so following the coastline was the most reliable way to ensure that they wouldn't end up horribly lost. Syraxes could fly far swifter than any bird so the detour would only cost an extra hour.
They would likely reach Volantis before mid-day. The daylight would give Jon time to plan his approach to the city. Flying over the black walls was one option but he was hesitant to do just that. Volantis was built well over two thousand years ago as an outpost for the Freehold. The black walls were made of fused black dragonstone, harder than steel or diamond and two hundred feet high. The Valyrians had lined the black wall with battlements, ballista and scorpions. The scions of the Old Blood manned their walls with an army of slave soldiers who ensured what lay behind the black walls would never been sacked.
He was loathed to test whether the discontent of Elaerys' father had spread to the other families of the Old Blood. The Honorro's were well connected, tracing their rise to power all the way to the century of blood. They had fallen out of power in the centuries past and Elaerys' father was determined to restore their prominence. Elaerys' marriage to the son of a Lyseni magister was a piece of her father's plan that Jon had inadvertently thwarted.
Elaerys was the youngest of twelve siblings from her father's third wife. Jon had only met three of her siblings himself, but if the rest of her family shared Maelyx's opinion of Jon then he knew it would be a short, bitter journey. I owe it to them to at least try and bring some peace.
Volantis was not the only stop on his journey. Jon was convinced that there had to be some greater force driving his visions. Why would he be granted access to the past if there was not some reason to be discerned? The past is already written… but perhaps there is some detail that is useful for the future.
Indeed, there had to be. He had learned sorcery that was long since forgotten, arts that would reestablish his family's power and perhaps propel them even higher than they had ever been before.
It wasn't just change for his family that he sought but for the citizens of their kingdom as well. The Valyrian legacy was stained by the practice of slavery but Valyria had made more advancement in any field of learning than their precursors and the societies long after them. Their citizens lived longer and had more time for leisure than those of the modern day. Even their commoners learned to read, in schools not tied to elitist organizations like the Citadel in Oldtown.
Before Jon could make the changes that he wanted, it was imperative that he learned how it all ended. The Septons had called the Doom the will of the gods, thinking back on the monstrosity that he had seen ravaging the city, Jon considered it as one possibility. Though the Valyrians themselves wielded magic that the men of today would consider power reserved for their gods. It was just as likely the Valyrians experimented with some powerful sorcery that engulfed their empire when they lost control of it.
Jon's greatest hope was that following the pathway of Aurion would grant some insight. The Lost Emperor led a host of thirty thousand from Qohor to reclaim the peninsula. His actions suggested he expected some sort of battle when they arrived. Aurion had split his host, sending a portion down the demon roads that connected Volantis to Montarys, and he raised a fleet of ships at the city of Elyria, which despite the proximity of the city to the ruined peninsula, had survived the cataclysm.
Elyria might have records of Aurion's journey that didn't exist in other cities. It was a farfetched plan but Jon couldn't think of any other options. The fear of something sinister stirring in the ruins was a feeling that would not abate. I need to know and it is safer than going into the smoking sea again.
Syraxes made good time and they were soon exiting the Dothraki Sea. He could see the coastline in the horizon, followed by a dazzling unbroken line of blue.
They passed over the river Rhoyne, and the river city Selhorys in the direction towards the orange shore. Jon had Syraxes fly high above, among the few clouds in the sky to mask their presence as much as possible. Any onlookers on the ground would likely mistake them for a bird. Those armed with Myrish lenses would know the truth of the matter but Jon was counting on confusion and speed to reach Volantis before his destination could be discerned.
High above the ground Jon couldn't help but feel a sense of Euphoria. He knew why his ancestors had tried so hard to bring dragons back into the world. There was no greater feeling than soaring among the clouds on the back of a beast of legend. An unadulterated sense of power came with flying on the back of a dragon. The wind through his cloak, the heat radiating from Syraxes to combat the chill, the sight of the town's people, so small and distant that they looked like insects. He felt higher than any king. Even the vibration from the strokes of Syraxes' wings brought him joy. Jon tightened his grip on her reins and leaned forward on her saddle.
Syraxes responded to the unspoken command and increased her speed. They entered a fast, shallow dive right through a cloud. Jon laughed as Syraxes summersaulted, rising and diving at will. Every day she grew stronger, larger and faster. Syraxes loved nothing more than to show him her progress.
Already his dragon could fly so fast that the wind stung his eyes or so high that he struggled for breath, occasionally Syraxes needed to be reminded of his limits and after ten minutes of her aerial aerobatics, Jon pleaded with her through their bond to fly normally. She snorted in frustration but he could feel a tendril of amusement.
From this height it was easy to see how densely populated Essos was. Selhorys was considered a town by the Essosi but this 'town' was bigger than King's Landing. Civilization stretched along the river like a second snake with farm land stretching for miles outward. Away from the city center, the settlements narrowed, barely straying from the banks of the wide river.
Nearest to the eastern banks, the river muddied and turned a dull brown but the water west and to the center was a dull blue. East of the Rhoyne put a wall of water between the town and the Dothraki sea. The horselords had yet to figure out how to ride their horses across water, and so the river provided a natural defense.
It was strange seeing the Rhoyne so peaceful when the last time he had been present here, the Rhoyne was engulfed in a war between its city states and the Freehold. A thousand years ago the banks were red with blood and the river corrupted by bloated bodies floating in its current. Today, he could make out hundreds of river galleys filled with goods traveling in the direction of Volantis. Syraxes moved so quickly that the ships looked as if they were standing still.
By mid-day, they were already flying over the last river city Volon Therys. Several weeks of travel by river and months on foot had been covered in hours. Part of Jon wanted to keep flying east. There was a whole word to the east that few Westerosi, even the dragon riding Targaryens had ever seen.
It took two years by ship to reach the Jade Sea, ships that would fill with exotic wares and sell their load at Volantis to make the captains and crew rich beyond belief. Corlys Velayron, the Seasnake, had done just such and became the richest man in Westeros. Jon had no ship but in two years, Syraxes could be large enough to carry as much as a small galley. It was tempting. Tyrion could handle the construction of the temple on his own; Sam would likely find himself a position in the court, Gerion would love the tales of the far east and Jaime would merely shake his head. The call of home was far too strong however. Jon missed his mother's smiles and his father's wisdom. He missed training with Egg and surely hoped that his brother hadn't slacked on his training. He missed Visenya spouting random facts and the chorus of her and Daenerys' voices. His fingers hadn't done much but grip a sword so his skills with a harp had likely waned. Hopefully, the two would forgive him for that. He even missed Rhaenys. His hot tempered elder sister was one of the few who could ignite his temper. His father called them Fire and Ice. Destined to clash but they were dragons and as such tied by blood. But most of all he missed Daenerys. The woman who would have been his wife.
His time in the North had brought some conflict surrounding his feelings about his young aunt. It was hard to think of Dany as his aunt for she was nine months younger than him and as much as a younger sister to him as Visenya.
Theon Greyjoy teased him mercilessly about Jon only desiring women of the same seed as him and Jon had tried denying it. He even kissed Sansa to prove Theon wrong, but Theon only laughed harder and pointed out that they were first cousins. The situation only got worse when Arya demanded he kiss her as well, so Sansa couldn't one up her. He had tried explaining to his eight-year-old cousin that she was too young for kissing but Arya lunged at him, bloodying his nose in attempt to meet his lips. Even his cousin Robb worried about Jon's preferences when Jon had the cook in Winterfell make lemon cakes for Sansa's birthday.
"Jon… you're not wanting to marry Sansa, are you?" His cousin looked almost scared to ask.
"No Robb. Just doing a nice deed. You should try it for a change." Robb didn't rise to the barb. In fact, he looked almost relived. "Even if I was, what would be so bad about it?" He hadn't ever thought of Sansa in that way. Sure, she was pretty, but she listened to Septa Mordane and her mother too much and had a tendency to talk about songs as if they were the true history of the Seven Kingdoms. Her constant gossip with Jeyne Poole also grated on his nerves. Perhaps if Arya was older then Robb would have a cause to worry. For Arya was fierce, wild and carefree, she reminded him of his mother and home.
"Well with your pretty hair, I was scared you'd upstage my sister at her wedding." Robb japed. Jon growled and chased Robb throughout Winterfell. Their direwolf pups followed, nipping at their heels.
Aegon had taken the taunts in stride and boasted that he could have any women in Winterfell. Theon called his challenge, and the four of them snuck down to Wintertown and pooled their coin to buy Aegon time with Ros. Egg was too nervous to do it sober and so they all got blistering drunk, forgetting the original purpose the coin.
Lady Cat was angry at their behavior and brought them in front of their uncle Ned for their punishment. His uncle had laughed at their tale, harder than Jon had ever seen before and then they were sentenced to stable work for that week. It would have lasted longer until they started flinging horseshit at each other.
In the end, all of Jon's protests were for naught. What was a man supposed to do when the most beautiful woman in the world was your sister-aunt? When said woman was fierce, quick witted and confident. When she could ride a horse better than you ever could, speak High Valyrian as well as an Arch Maester and looked as good in leathers as she did a dress. The fact that she was related to him, his father's sister, did not repulse him. It drew him to her as much as her silver hair and lilac eyes did. She was nine months younger than him, and they had joked the gods had intended to make them as a pair but had forgotten her somewhere along the way.
Daenerys was so pretty that it almost hurt to look at her. His heart had threatened to burst out of his chest when he first laid eyes on her after returning south from Winterfell. He would have never been able to speak an intelligible word to Daenerys if it weren't for his little sister. Visenya was the one who suggested that he learn the high harp because Daenerys loved when their father played his own.
Surprisingly, music calmed his nerves and the added benefit was that Daenerys was a fantastic dancer. Eventually, Jon was able to find his tongue and hold a conversation, without his sister acting as the emissary.
He spent months with Daenerys, first in the Red Keep and then on Dragonstone, while Aegon joined Rhaenys in Dorne. Their first kiss was shared on that island and then several hundred more. Dragonstone's court was barren compared to the Red Keep and it was easy to sneak around their chaperones. Ser Jaime was the laxest of the Kingsguard, at least if Ser Arthur wasn't present, and the man cared not what Jon did with his time, so as long as he maintained his training and wasn't in any danger of being killed. Still he and Daenerys hid their romance, even when he asked Daenerys to marry him in Aegon's garden.
Their fear had always been that if their affections were discovered, his father would separate them. Jon knew of his grandfather's legacy, and the other Targaryens who were accused of madness. Septon Chayle, Winterfell's Septon, told Jon it was incest that gave his family the propensity to go mad. Septa Mordane told Jon it was in the Kingdom's best interest if their family ended their practice of incest. Even Maester Luwin spoke of how the Targaryen's legacy was likely stained by the effects of incest.
Daenerys was convinced that Rhaegar would be more concerned about their happiness rather than the unfounded conclusions of the faith and the Maesters. And so, when they left Dragonstone, Jon had worked up the courage to ask his father for Daenerys' hand.
When his father refused his request to marry Daenerys, stating that it was already planned for Jon to wed Myrcella Tully, Jon was furious. It was the closest that he had ever come to hitting his father. He had stayed his hand after council from Ser Arthur on the importance of duty.
On the road to Casterly Rock, Jon had wanted to hate Myrcella, to ignore her and prove a point to his father that even a king could be wrong, that Daenerys was the only one who could bring him any happiness. Samwell had told Jon that misdirecting his anger onto Myrcella was unfair to her, as she had just as much choice in the matter as Jon did.
When Jon met Myrcella, he knew that he couldn't hate her. She was shy and sweet, quick to smile or laugh even when what he said wasn't meant to be funny. His harp had been left in King's Landing but there was a harp in Casterly Rock and Jon spent his time between training and his studies to play the harp. It was only meant to calm his mind but whenever he played, Myrcella and her cousins Rosamund and Joy, as well as a dozen other girls formed an audience to listen.
Still, Jon had jumped at the chance to join Gerion and Tyrion on their journey to find Brightroar. Convincing Sam to sneak out of the Rock with him had been a challenge. An even greater one was convincing Jaime to not drag them back when the Kingsguard had followed them to Gerion's ship.
The decision to leave wasn't an easy one, but it was the one that he made once he had learned of Daenerys' betrothal. Even then Jon knew there was wisdom behind his father's decision. Wedding Myrcella would appease her powerful grandfather, a man even his father was wary of displeasing. But the thought of Daenerys wedding someone else, against her will no less, was something Jon couldn't stand to endure. Aiding Gerion in reclaiming the secrets of Valyria was a longshot, that he knew. But doing so would do more for his family than a political marriage ever could.
The point where the turquoise waters of the Rhoyne met the dark waters of the summer sea soon became visible. Straddling the great river was the massive city of Volantis. It was a sprawling mess of a city on the west and heavily ordered on the east, each half larger and the west alone more populous than that of King's Landing. The western half was the more recent addition to the city but even it was older than any city in Westeros, save for Oldtown. From his height above, the western half seemed to have no rhyme nor reason in its planning. Some streets pressed in so tight that the buildings seemed built on top of one another, others were wide, manicured and paved in stone. It was easy to tell where those with money frequented as there were sections of the city lined with gardens and ornate buildings lined with stone. Palaces sprawled across acres of land with enclosed courtyards guarded by gargoyles and slave soldiers. Those sections were small paradises in a sea of chaos.
Connecting the western half of the city was the Long Bridge of Volantis. The bridge was an incredible reminder of how far Valyria's engineering prowess had risen. It was over three miles long and over a hundred feet wide. Made of fused black Dragonstone with massive piers anchoring the bridge into the Rhoyne, the structure was unquestionably Valyrian. There was a slight curve to its shape and the outer stone of the pillars was scaled, giving the structure a serpentine appearance. The bridge narrowed dramatically as it reached its eastern end and was only wide enough so that two carts could pass through the gateway.
His breath hitched as he took in the eastern half of the city. East Volantis had been built almost two thousand years ago, when the freehold was firmly in their days of expansion and conquest. It was older, less populated, yet far richer than the western half. Whereas western Volantis grew naturally with the increasing demands of the population, Eastern Volantis was meticulously shaped and each detail planned beforehand. Massive public gardens dominated the city, landscaped so that they formed giant green outlines of exotic beasts. Pools of shimmering water interspersed throughout the gardens formed the eyes of the beasts. The Rhoyne penetrated the city in the form of narrow canals that were nearly as numerous as the roads. Sitting on hill high above the basin of the city, and rising like a glimmering fist of red and orange was The Temple of the Lord of Light.
It was three times larger than the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing and so old that the date of its founding had been forgotten. Against the greens, blues and blacks of the city, the temple stood out like a flame. It was an enormity of pillars, buttresses, bridges, domes and towers that flowed into each other as if they were constructed from one colossal rock. Colored in a hundred hues of red, yellow, gold and orange that dissolved into each other, the same as clouds in a sunset.
Jon and Syraxes were high enough that his eyes could only make out the larger details of the structure. He had never been near the temple during his last stay in Volantis but a few of its towers were tall enough that the tops could be seen over the black walls encasing the domain of the old blood. Out of curiosity, he reached across his bond with Syraxes and peered at the temple through his dragon's eyes.
Her eyes were so sharp that the world was magnetized. Thousands of feet in the air and he could still see the individual bricks of the building and the facial features of the slave soldiers who guarded the temple. The warriors of the fiery hand were tattooed on their faces like all the Volantene slaves; writhing flames were their insignia. Each wore ornate armor over orange robes and wielded spears with points shaped similarly to their flame tattoos. Every warrior was male, with ancestry that hailed from all over the continent, from those whose silver hair could pass them as the old blood to those who if they wore braids would be at home in a Khalasar. It took Jon several moments to realize that each of the soldiers were staring into the sky.
Syraxes flew high enough that they were barely visible from the ground and the membrane of her wings blended with the backdrop of the sky. Still the warriors scanned the air as if they were expecting something to appear. Jon frowned and bid Syraxes to climb higher. He didn't want them being spotted until he worked out where to land.
The Honorro's were behind the Black Walls of Old Volantis. The walls rose two hundred feet high and were made of fused black dragonstone that was harder than diamond. They hid a city within a city, thick enough that twelve chariots could ride abreast, as they did after the election of the three ruling Triarchs. Behind the walls were a collection of palaces, courtyards, towers, temples and cloister, all done in the style of the freehold. Jon never felt more like a dragonlord of old than he did now, hovering over a city that belonged to the scions of Valyria.
Elaerys' family resided in a manse that housed a palace nearly as large as the Red Keep. Flying his dragon directly behind the walls could be seen as a sign of aggression. The Valyrians had built Old Volantis as a fortress city, meant to withstand the might of the fallen Rhoynar and the ruling entity of the Old Blood had not allowed the Old City's defense to go into the disarray. Along the battlements of the wall were massive ballista, capable of launching bolts taller than himself. Prowling along the expansive wall and interspersed throughout Old Volantis was an army of slave soldiers known as the Tiger Cloaks.
The last thing Jon wanted was to risk Syraxes if the alarm was raised. Even if she were older and larger he might have second guessed making an abrupt entrance. I wonder if the Conqueror ever flew Balerion above Old Volantis and decided Westeros was easier to conquer.
Fused black dragonstone was even resistant to the high temperature of dragon fire. Aegon the Conqueror would have needed a far more massive army along with his sister-wives and their dragons to take the city. Jon figured that he needed some sort of invitation to remain on the safe side.
He steered Syraxes away from the city and they followed the western coastline. Along the western coast, between two mouths of the Rhoyne were a string of cliffs with caves that overlooked the sea. They were difficult to access on foot and isolated enough to guarantee some privacy.
Elaerys' father had sent men who had chased after their party until they disappeared into the Smoking Sea. Even after they first left the Smoking Sea, Elaerys went by aliases to remain hidden. Jon knew that tales were spreading across the continent about him and his dragon, and word of their actions in the Dothraki sea would soon reach the free cities.
No flow of information could fly faster than dragon flight so he knew that news of their battle with the Dothraki wouldn't precede their arrival. It would be smarter to return here with my own guard, maybe even an army… but I owe it to you Elaerys. You deserve to be with your family.
Syraxes dropped in altitude as they drew further from the city and its surrounding settlements. It wasn't long before they flew low on the coastline, scanning the cliffs for a place to land. The cave they chose was deep enough that Syraxes could disappear inside. Stones smoothed by dragonfire and a scattering of bones that looked to belong to marine animals, marked the cave as a lair of an ancient dragon.
The outside of the cave was wide enough that Jon could train without fear of falling and it connected to a narrow pathway that traced down the cliffside.
The pathway abruptly gave way to a fifty-foot drop. Beneath them was a narrow beach of pure white sand that was caressed by strong waves of the hightide. Their cave was only accessible by air, unless someone made the vertical climb up the cliff face.
Jon climbed off Syraxes back and quickly relieved her of the saddle. He knew she liked wearing it because it meant that he would join her in flight, but the saddle also grew uncomfortable after hours of wearing it and between her hard scales and the stone, even the tough leather could fray. Once he had the saddle removed, the dragon curled up, resting her head on the forelimbs of her wings. Large amber eyes watched as he unclasped his cloak and set Judgement between his legs to polish.
Valyrian steel swords required less upkeep than any normal blade. The blades didn't rust or lose their edge, even after hundred of years or thousands of battles. Only dust and gore could mar their image, so Jon abandoned his whetstone in favor of a polishing rag. It was a habit that he inherited from his uncle, Lord Stark, who would often sit in the Godswood for hours, polishing House Stark's ancestral great sword, Ice, until the blade shown as bright as its name sake.
His mind went over how he would approach the city. Flying low over the western half of the city would likely cause a panic but it was safer than flying over the eastern half. Perhaps, he and Syraxes could land on the long bridge and walk to the gates of the black wall but the Tiger Cloaks patrolled the Long Bridge in force and Jon didn't want to gamble on their reaction either. Landing with Syraxes was the surest way to gain admittance behind the black walls but it also made his dragon the most vulnerable.
Syraxes outright snorted in disapproval when he considered leaving her behind. She was protective to a fault and the thought of them being separated was unacceptable. If Ghost were here, then his dragon would have been far more amiable to the plan. His direwolf had long since gained the respect of his dragon and was trusted by her with Jon's protection. Briefly, Jon considered landing at the Red Temple. It was directly adjacent to the Black Walls and guarded by the warriors of the fiery hand rather than the Tiger Cloaks. They were no less formidable of warriors, but the priest and priestesses of the Red Faith shared an obsession with fire. Syraxes was closes to fire made flesh, even her resting form heated the cool cave. Their obsession could make them an ally.
Elaerys had once told him of the disdain that some of the Old Blood had for the Red Faith though none would voice their derision in front of the Tiger Cloaks for the order had a large number of worshippers of R'hllor in its ranks.
Creating allies out of the high priests would shield them from any backlash the Honorro's could generate but Jon hesitated to commit to the decision. Of the hundreds of religions in Essos, The Red Faith was the most pervasive and the only one that truly scared him. The Seven spoke of piety, the Father's wisdom and the Mother's mercy. The black goat of Qohor demanded daily blood sacrifices, sailors prayed to the Merling King for fair weather and calm seas, and the Dothraki spoke of their tireless horse god. Yet, he had seen even the most pious of men, no matter which deity they paid fealty to, suffer or prosper as much as men who rejected the notion of Gods entirely. The Red Faith was different. They spoke of a god of fire, smoke and shadow who made vengeful demands to punish heretics. The entity that consumed Valyria could have very well been R'hllor himself and Jon wanted no part of a god that wiped out tens of millions in a single night.
Jon decided he would announce his presence and desire to talk and then retreat to a location where they could not be ambushed. Once an envoy was sent by the Old Blood, Jon knew that would be the closest guarantee to their safety that he would receive from Volantis. The rules of hospitality were as sacred to those of the Old Blood as guest rights were to Northerners.
He polished his blade until it gleamed, red-grey, even unbloodied the blade had a sinister, blood thirsty look. Woe to our enemies. A voice sheathed the blade and laid the scabbard on the wall of the cave. Jon walked to the cave entrance and scanned the skies. Scouting with Syraxes was far too conspicuous and he wanted her well rested, in case there was trouble on the morrow. A sea bird could fly for miles and their sharp eyes were ideal to search for defensible hills. He spotted a sea-raptor, a huge bird with gold and black feathers and wings that were near fifteen feet wide. It floated lazily in the upstream, hunting for food in the waters below.
Once he captured the image of the bird in his mind, Jon closed his eyes and expanded his mental barriers. Connecting with animals other than Ghost and later Syraxes was always difficult for Jon.
Robb had a far easier time of the whole affair and was the first to connect with his direwolf, not only in his dreams but consciously. Other animals came easier to him as well, stags, boars and even an aurochs. Though, Lord Reed cautioned against staying in the mind of a beast other than their wolves, less let they let too much of the creature into their being. Like Arya, Jon found it easier to warg predators rather than prey animals. Though his wild cousin used her ability to warg cats and terrorize the kitchen staff. Sansa had trouble connecting with any animals other than Lady, though she did have a snow owl she had grown used to. Bran though…, Bran was in a league of his own.
Complicating matters was the distance between Jon and the bird. It was easiest to skinchange when you could stare into the creature's eyes. Eyes were doorways into the soul. Doors could be opened willingly or required less force to break through.
The first brush of his mind against the eagles' own was painful. It recoiled from his touch, balking at the attempt to wrest control. If you could form a relation with the animal, establish trust between man and beast then connecting was far easier. With no trust, no established relationship then you needed to dominate the animal's mind with brute force.
Predators were generally cleverer than prey and required more effort to break but there was more familiarity between a predator's mind and a man's. The familiarity gave Jon insight into the cracks of the bird's mental armor. It fought him fiercely and put up an admirable struggle. It was the King of the skies, smaller birds chirped in fear when it flew overhead, ground-bound creatures buried into their hovels and waited. Even those of the sea feared its talons. Freedom was its currency, its entire being. And now the bird was under Jon's will.
The bird's struggle was another conformation to Jon that Syraxes was safe from similar attempts to seize control. Even when she was days old, her mind felt titanic. It was shaped like a fortress and her defenses were weapons themselves. Jon had warged her, yes, but the blood of his father gave him the chance to truly bond with her. Without it, she may have crushed his mind and made him simple.
He scouted the landscape for hours, taking care to make mental note of every village and military outpost. The land in the heart of Volantene influence was rich and heavily populated, as well as heavily defended. Every ten or so miles, the Volantene's constructed ringforts manned with soldiers ready to defend against the threat of the Dothraki. The forts were simple stone structures, elevated to serve as watchtowers and defendable gathering points. They allowed for an extremely quick response to any threat, a detail that Jon added to his calculation.
By the time the sun had set, Jon had found their desired meeting place. It was near ten miles from the city, in the middle of a field, between two outposts spaced near eight miles apart. The nearest village was miles down one of the many child rivers of the Rhoyne that split the land. A long road led to the field and even without being in the sky, Jon and Syraxes would be able to see any approaching parties. There were no forests near to hide soldiers or heavy weaponry within and if the envoy came with the intent to attack, Jon would have Syraxes burn them with ease.
Once he committed the location to memory, he released his grip on the eagle, to both of their relief. With Ghost, distance was meaningless. His connection to Syraxes was always present but distance muted their bond. Similar to having to shout at a distant companion rather than whisper to one near.
His body sagged from the effort and Jon fell against the hard flank of his dragon. His stomach rumbled its hunger and he pulled the last of the salted beef from its pouch. Dried fruits and nuts added to the meal and he washed it all down with warm water. Another benefit to a dragon was the heat from her dragonfire could quickly cleanse water for drinking. The meal didn't sate him entirely, but it was enough to sleep contentedly with.
It felt like only an hour passed when Jon was raised from sleep. Syraxes' sudden shifting paired with her agitated growl had Jon leaping to his feet, Judgement drawn. The light from the dawning sun had yet to pierce the cave but there was enough light to illuminate the cliff edge and the world beyond the mouth of the cave.
Standing on the ledge was a man in elaborate red armor, tiger stripes adorned his cheeks. He was weaponless, kneeling and making no motion to venture further into the cave. His eyes however stared into the darkness that blanketed Jon and Syraxes, they locked eyes with Jon's.
How did he get up here? Did he climb? How did I or Syraxes not hear him?! "Who are you?" Jon commanded. Behind him Syraxes' hackled raised, the temperature in the cave spiked dramatically as fire readied in her maw.
Despite the threat, the man's answering voice was even. "I mean you no harm, Prince Jaehaerys of the Sunset Kingdoms. I am an envoy sent by the order of High Priestess Kinvara."
"I know no Kinvara. What business does she have with me?" Jon asked. His muscle were tense. He counted the strides needed to close the distance. Three maybe four if he's quick. Syraxes' flames were swifter, but Jon didn't know if there were others down on the beach watching. They were other caves in the cliff face, this man could be a scout and dragonfire could give away their position.
"You have not met as of yet. But Priestess Kinvara knows of you. She has preached of your arrival for some time and now requests an audience." The slave soldier supplied. His face showed no fear at the sight of flames dancing between black, iron like teeth.
Jon wasn't convinced. "And how does this priestess know of me?" And how did she know where to find me?
"Priestess Kinvara is quite skilled, Prince Jaehaerys. The true followers of our Lord know there is non-other on this plane who possess more wisdom."
Jon breathed deep. A non-answer if anything but what else can be expected of a zealot? Similar to the Unsullied of Astapor, Fiery Hand were chosen as children, indoctrinated in the faith of the fire god as much as they were trained in arms. "Very well, where is this Kinvara?"
The man's stoic face then broke into a smile. "Outside, down on the beach, my Prince."
"She's here now?" Jon asked, surprised. Could we have been sighted? Jon threw out the thought. Even if they had been spotted, none could have followed Jon and Syraxes to their cave with this accuracy.
"Yes, she has led us all here to meet you."
Jon took a moment to digest the information. It could be a trap. And if it is, they will rue it. "I will meet with this Kinvara. Stand to the side."
The warrior's smile grew wider and he rushed to follow Jon's order. "Further, we need room. Unless you wish to be blown off the cliffside." The warrior obeyed.
Jon quickly saddled Syraxes and then mounted the dragon in a single leap. He tied Judgement to his belt, loosely buckled his leg straps and then gripped her reins tightly. "Soves" He commanded.
Syraxes' response was instant. She bounded forward with immense speed and then her claws found purchase in the stone, catapulting them out of the cave. Her wings tucked tight and they fell hundreds of feet in a second. Syraxes broke into a roll before they could hit the waves.
Jon grit his teeth. The move was aggressive and precautionary. No scorpion bolts flew and no arrows. He chanced a look at the beach.
Dawn light spilled over the horizon and the white sand suddenly grew bright. At least twenty figures were on the beach, ten of them in red and orange armor that formed hues of a sunset. At the front of the congregation was a figure garbed in red.
Jon and Syraxes landed twenty feet away from the group. Syraxes fixed a powerful stare on the onlookers while Jon unstrapped himself and slid from her saddle. He steeped in front of Syraxes who looked ready to bathe the beach in dragonfire.
The red robed figure was a woman. One of the most beautiful that Jon had ever laid eyes on. Her lips were full, and her eyes looked red as blood. "Kinvara?" He asked, ignoring her honorific.
The Priestess stepped forward, her face entirely without fear, even as Syraxes' hackles rose, and the dragon lowered her head, so the bottom of her jaw was level with Jon's shoulder. Syraxes' eyes were narrowed and full of suspicion.
Kinvara drew closer and extended a hand. Jon watched, dumfounded as Syraxes first sniffed the offered hand and then let the priestess pat her muzzle.
Kinvara locked eyes with Jon. "Welcome your grace." And then she turned to her entourage. "It is him. Our Lord's champion. All hail the Great Emperor of the Dawn. "And then they knelt.
