Aegon was starting to get anxious. He had waited all his life to reclaim his families throne and assume his place as the rightful ruler of Westeros.
He and Connington walked by the outskirts of the little sea of tents which had sprung up around one of the river bends. Parts of it were walled by great canvasses of art in varying styles, though there was a thematic thread subtly woven through them all. Indistinct figures holding up scythes and swords, with the notorious banner of the Golden Company proudly in the middle. The banner had been created, when Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers had commanded his lieutenants to dip his skull in gold and parade it through King's Landing, once they took the city.
The high walls of Myr were dripping red under the afternoon sun. The sun was, although it was already starting to lower itself on the horizon again, still burning with great intensity, making Aegon yearn for a cold bath.
He could see magisters of the city walk outside of the city through the carefully laid out gardens. Well, they didn't actually walk, most of them were sitting in their carriages, pulled or carried by their servants. At least what they called servants. Myr was a Free City in name, yet slavery was a common sight.
All of them were accompanied by slaves. Most of the noblemen of the Free Cities had dozens, hundreds, sometimes even thousands of slaves. Some of them would fan their master to keep him cool as he slept. Slaves to pour him wine, slaves to wash his back, slaves to feed him, slaves be ordered about at a thousand different tasks. And always, always, bed-slaves kept near at hand, exotic beauties from every corner of the world worth naming.
If there was something he admired about his aunt, then it was her ending these old traditions, regardless of how brutal her methods might have been.
The Golden Company was currently hired by the city to offer them protection from the Dothraki horselord Khal Jhaqo, a notorious savage, that had raped and pillaged across the entire western half of Essos.
They had paid the Company lots of wealth and had even provided them with lots of comfort, while they were there. The Captains of the famous sellsword group were often invited into the great mansions of the city, adorned with green terraces and the fragrant pools, that always had a relaxing cool temperature, a result of having dozens of slaves that maintained them constantly.
Still, beneath all of the glamour and comfort that Myr offered, was a poor, dirty city of violence and slavery, all hidden away in the lower slums of the city. He knew that the foul smell in the air, that lingered over the great city, was the stench of rotting bodies that laid openly in the streets of the city, wasting away in the hot sun.
The two of them walked in silence, taking in their surroundings in silence.
Not far from where they walked, a woman stood under the persimmon tree, clad in a hooded robe that brushed the grass. A beautiful necklace was around her neck, embedded with diamonds and gold. Beneath the hood, her face seemed hard and shiny. She is wearing a mask, Aegon realized, a wooden mask. He looked at the woman in confusion, but she only stared back unflinchingly, eyeing him without a trace of emotion.
The mask was painted in dark red lacquer, making her seem out of place, amongst the myrish magisters, all of them clad in bright clothing, to show off their wealth.
He was just about to point her out to Connington as a possible spy, however, he turned away from her for a moment and suddenly she was gone. Aegon shook his head in confusion. The woman had disappeared immediately and without a trace.
The woman with the red mask, was definitely not someone he would forget anytime soon.
They finally reached their destination. They had walked through the absolute mess of an encampment dodging stray dogs and hangover soldiers. They quickly found the centre of the labyrinth of tents, angling his horse towards the biggest pavilion, from which countless banners, embroidered with golden skulls seemed to leer at him, hanging atop poles. It seemed a feast was in progress… to his honour no doubt.
They could hear the roaring laughter of captain-general Harry Strickland, and the buzz of conversation as they strode towards the pavilion. A couple of sellswords that were positioned at the entrance barred the way, but quickly opened up, once they saw Aegon.
Aegon nodded gratefully at them, but said nothing as he pushed the flap aside and entered the tent, alongside his foster father Jon Connington.
Many of the company's commanders stood or sat inside the great tent. Harry Strickland, Black Balaq, Brendel Byrne, Dick Cole and Will Cole, Rolly Duckfield, Lysono Maar, Gorys Edoryen, Malo Jayn and Ser Pykewood Peake, all of them in various stages of being drunk. They laughed merrily at each other's jokes, talking loudly and boasting about their achievements even louder. Squires and pages served wine and smoked mutton, but were mostly disregarded by the men present.
"This is what you call a strategic meeting?" Connington's voice boomed through the tent, quickly making all mirth leave the room. "I thought the leaders of the most famed sellsword group in Essos might actually be of use for something."
"Careful, Connington," Black Balaq replied. He was a white-haired Summer Islander with dark black skin. He wore a feathered cloak, coloured green and orange, as well as lots of jewellery forged from gold.
"Remember, that we are the only support you have."
Connington was about to reply heatedly, however, Strickland quickly defused the situation. "Pardon, Lord Connington," he spoke. "We were just waiting for your presence and got... carried away."
The old griffin still looked annoyed but accepted his words. Both he and Aegon sat down at the table and took a look at the map that was laid out in front of them.
"We have waited way too long to strike," Gorys Edoryen, the company's paymaster declared. "Secrets can never be kept for long. It won't be long until word reaches Westeros about Aegon's existence. Our plans. They have way more men than we do, taking them by surprise and taking hostages is our only viable option."
"The lands of Westeros are too united in the moment," Malo Jayn countered. "Even with hostages, they have a dozen times our numbers, and even with the Tyrells and Dornish we would still be hopelessly outmatched. Let the Spider work his magic. We need chaos in Westeros, not peace. Then is our time."
"We should ask Daenerys Targaryen for help," another general added, still sounding a bit drunk from his previous activity. "She has an army of Unsullied and her dragons. Make her Queen and none of Westeros shall stand against you."
"The first Aegon took Westeros without eunuchs. Why shouldn't the sixth Aegon do the same?" Lysono Maar asked heatedly, shooting a glance towards Aegon.
"The plan-" Harry Strickland started, but he was quickly interrupted by another general, a man named Tristan Rivers.
"Which plan? ... The Magisters plan? The one that changes every time the moon turns? First, it was told that we would invade, directly after Viserys, when he acquired the support of the Dothraki. Then, we were supposed to capture his aunt. A pliable young girl, who had fled in panic from Braavos with three new-hatched dragons. Instead, the girl turns up on Slaver's Bay and leaves a line of burning cities in her wake. I have had enough of Illyrio's plans. Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne without the benefit of dragons. We can do the same."
"No, we don't necessarily need her," Ser Duncan Strong admitted. "But can we afford to have her as our enemy?" he asked, shaking his head. "She is on Bloodstone, no matter where on the western coast we land, she could easily stab us in the back... -Or burn our backs. Having a potential enemy behind us is not something we can afford, especially if we are already outmatched by the Westerosi."
"King Aegon is the one true ruler," said a man in a fine purple doublet with a silk voice as he stood up to point at the map, where King's Landing was located. "No man shall accept his wife overruling him. The girl is a threat, but making her a queen, is not the way to go."
"No victory comes without a price," Jon Lothston, a serjeant of the company countered. "Better a king with an entitled queen at your side, than dead on the field. A marriage to her would bring us far more military power than the Tyrell girl or the Dornish princess ever could. Remember the field of fire."
He sighed, before continuing. "Maar has the right of it, the first Aegon didn't need eunuchs to take Westeros. But he did need his dragons. Since the Andal invasion, no one has been able to take Westeros, besides the Conqueror himself."
Silence lingered in the tent for a while, only interrupted by the sound of blunt swords clashing, just outside of the commander tent.
"He is right," Connington finally said, earning a surprised look from Aegon. Did he just agree, that we would need my aunt's support? Aegon wondered. "We can't afford to have her at our back. We will go with Illyrio's plan. We need to get her support, but for her to respect us, we need to negotiate from a position of power."
"What do you suggest, Connington?" one of the generals asked him.
"We take Volantis. They have a great fleet, that will prove useful, once we sail west."
"We could offer the Dragon Empress Volantis afterwards," Tristan Rivers added slowly. "We won't have any use for it afterwards."
"You say that, as if we had already taken the city," another serjeant spoke up. "The First Daughter of Valyria is strong. It's Black Walls are strong and very high. The Black Walls are so thick that six four-horse chariots can race around its top abreast, which is done annually to celebrate the founding of Volantis. Taking those walls shall not be easy, that I can promise you."
"But not so high as to keep out dragons," Aegon whispered, a tad melancholic. "Dragons fly," he repeated the words, that the Conqueror himself had spoken hundreds of years ago when he burned Harrenhal, with Harren Hoare and all of his men.
Connington gave him a knowing look and a small smile, before continuing.
"The Tiger Cloaks of Volantis are impressive warriors, that I grant you. Masters at what they do. But even they can be defeated."
"The Old Blood is facing lots of pressure," Lysono Maar spoke up. The Company's spymaster was always the best-informed person in the room. "Behind the Black Wall, these old lords who boast with their valyrian ancestry sleep poorly, listening as their kitchen slaves sharpen their long knives. Slaves grow their food, clean their streets, teach their young. They guard their walls, row out galleys, fight their battles. And now they look south and east. The slaves look up to Daenerys Targaryen and what she did in Slaver's Bay. There are many that yearn for freedom. Give them an opportunity and they will take it. Give them an opportunity and the city will conquer itself.
"But how?" Aegon asked the spymaster. "How can we give them this opportunity."
They all remained silent for a minute, thinking about the ways they could make this work. Finally, it was Connington himself who spoke up.
"Why are we here?" he asked the men present loudly, but he received only confused stares in return. "Is this a religious question?" serjeant Malo Jayn asked. "Sounds like something a red priestess or a septa of the faith would ask."
"No," Connington replied annoyed. "Why are we here, outside the gates of Myr?"
"They hired us, to protect them from Dothraki," Black Balaq said, his deep voice booming through the tent.
"Exactly," Connington replied. "So pose a threat to Volantis. Make them hire us to protect them, and when their guard is down, we take the city."
"A bold plan."
"But how do we pose this threat to a city, such as Volantis?"
"You would have us ruin the Golden Company's reputations?"
"Silence," the old Griffin commanded. "There will be no need for the Golden Company's reputation, once this is done. His grace, Aegon, will give you, what Bittersteel and the Blackfyres never could. To take you home." He paused for a moment. "As for the threat to Volantis, I think I have a solution for that."
Aegon could see a dozen men approach the tent, that they had set up, a few leagues outside of Myr.
Many were Dothraki horselords, big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black hair oiled and braided and hung with bells. Yet among them moved bravos and sellswords from Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh, a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords from the Summer Isles with skin as black as ebony. But it was the man at the front, that truly pulled Aegon's attention.
Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as the panthers that fought in the fighting pits of Myr. He was younger than he would thought an accomplished warrior like him to be, yet he was no more than thirty namedays. His skin was the colour of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. He was an imposing man, and Aegon understood how he was able to strike fear into the hearts of lesser men.
He commanded a Khalasar of a hundred thousand, enough to pose a serious threat to Volantis. Many had been doubtful if the horselord would truly appear, as most Dothraki, especially the khals, looked down on all who weren't Dothraki themselves. Most of them would never strike a deal with men from the Free Cities, yet here they were.
A young slave girl, bearing the name Mina had accompanied them, to translate what the Dothraki spoke.
Finally, the Dothraki moved into the tent, though they did not leave their weapons outside. Drogo's arakh, the traditional Dothraki weapon was still firmly secured on his belt.
"You stand in the Presence of Aegon of House Targaryen, sixth of his name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Head of House Targaryen and the last true Dragon."
Drogo showed no visible reaction to the long list of titles and merely shook his head dismissively, letting out a short grunt. The three Dothraki men behind him looked a tad disgusted, making Aegon suppress a sigh. Should have known, that they would not care about any of this.
"Honoured Khal Drogo," he started to speak, while the translator immediately started translating his words into the crude language of the horselords. "We are very grateful, that you have come here. We have an offer for you, from which both of our sides could profit greatly."
The horselord didn't seem very impressed at his speech. He let out a short grunt before he started talking. It seemed that this Drogo new bits of the Common Tongue, as Aegon himself, could understand his words. "Speak, Andal," he said gruffly, looking at him expectantly.
"We intend to take the great city of Volantis. We ask you, mighty Khal, to threaten the city, so that they would hire us to protect them. But when the time comes, we shall open the gates from the inside and take the city."
The Dothraki seemed to contemplate his offer. He slowly moved his head, making the bells in his hair ring softly.
"And what do we get from this, Andal?" Mina translated shortly after.
"We shall offer you five thousand horses and half of the spoils of war. The city shall be ours and all within it." He felt disgusted at himself for making such an offer, but there was no other way. What would Septa Lemore say?
They would likely be unable to actually provide those 5000 horses, but what did it matter? They only needed the Khal to threaten the city, after that he would have to make do with whatever horses they gave him. He had to make grand promises, to pull him on their side.
It was a generous offer, one he knew the Khal would not refuse. A thousand strong horses and half the spoils of a city as large as Volantis was an unmatched prize. At least that is what Aegon thought.
The Khal merely laughed at his offer, as if it were the funniest joke he had ever heard. Even the bloodriders laughed merrily at the offer, their voices carrying over the vast, flat land around them.
"That will not do. Petty gifts. If I want gold or horses, I take them," Mina said carefully, observing Aegon to see if he would take offence at her. To her fortune, he didn't. "He says, that he wants something else. Something no Khal has ever had before."
Aegon took a confused look at the tall man that stood before him. He certainly didn't lack for ambition.
Slowly, and very carefully the slave translator continued. Aegon noticed the weariness in her voice and already dreaded what she would say. "A dragon to ride and a dragon to bed. A mount to ride and a mount to dread."
Aegon was confused for a moment until he finally fully understood the horselords demands. He didn't just want gold or horses. He wanted something no Dothraki Khal had ever had before. He wanted a Valyrian bride and a Dragon to ride upon.
He wanted Daenerys.
This is bad. Very bad.
He took a deep breath and looked upon the warrior in front of him. He was not an ugly man, Aegon had to admit that much. He would have to do for his aunt.
"Then you shall have it." He finally said as a small smile appeared on the other man's face. Connington frowned deeply next to him but stayed silent.
Aegon had secured an alliance with the horselords, and soon Volantis would be his.
But at what cost?
He couldn't get rid of the feeling, that this had been a huge mistake.
Just two moon turns later, they received a message from the Old Blood of Volantis. Aegon's lips slowly twisted into a smile, when he read the missive. They had asked for the Golden Company's help against a Dothraki warlord who threatened the city.
Finally, it's coming together.
When the bards and maesters would tell the story of Aegon the sixth... They'll say my conquest began today.
"Assemble to commanders," he told Connington with a smile. "We're going to Volantis."
Jon
Jon slowly walked into the dark cove, followed by Coldhands and Ramsay. Frost slowly trailed after him, his blue eyes fixed on him.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness before him. At first, he thought it was a child, as its figure was small and slender, but there was more. The figure seemed to blend into their dark surroundings, it's skin was nut-brown, dappled like a deer's with paler spots. Her hands had only three fingers and a thumb, with sharp black claws instead of nails. The stranger's harsh, yet warm eyes were slit like those of a cat, glowing softly in the darkness that surrounded them.
Jon stared at her, something told her that the figure was female, in amazement. He had never seen anything of the sort before. It took a while until he finally realized what he saw before him.
The child of the forest cocked its head, looking at him intrigued, while at the same time distrustful.
Coldhands muttered something to the child in a strange tongue. The child herself, replied quickly in the same language, though when she spoke it sounded like a song, beautiful and sad.
Her eyes lingered on him for a while, until she nodded and started to guide them through the dozens and hundreds of twisted pathways, that led beneath the cave.
The child of the forest walked quick and softly, moving without making any sound. The child walked onwards, guiding them through the maze of tunnels, its steps like those of a nimble cat. The tunnels twisted everywhere, for miles and miles. They walked for hours through the dark pathways, that twisted and turned, with roots of weirwood running through and along the paths.
More and more ravens appeared that sat on roots and stones, eyeing the newcomers warily.
The child went in front with the torch in hand, her cloak of leaves whispering behind her, but the passage turned so much that Jon soon lost sight of her. Then the only light was what was reflected off the passage walls. After they had gone down a little, the cave divided, but the left branch was dark as pitch, so they knew to follow the moving torch to the right.
In the pale, distant light of the child's torch, the roots around them looked like great white snakes slithering in and out of the earth around them. A nest of milk snakes that they had blundered into. Even Ramsay looked around uncomfortable, seeming a bit reluctant to go on.
They passed another branching, and another, then came into an echoing cavern as large as the great hall of Winterfell, with stone teeth hanging from its ceiling and more poking up through its floor. The child in the leafy cloak wove a path through them. From time to time she stopped and waved her torch at them impatiently. This way, it seemed to say, this way, this way, faster. There were more side passages after that, more chambers, and Jon heard dripping water somewhere to his right. When he looked off that way, he saw eyes looking back at them, slitted eyes that glowed bright, reflecting back the torchlight.
The weirwood branches ran deep, trailing along the tall walls of the cave, twisting through earth and stone, closing off some passages and holding up the roofs of others.
The heart tree at Winterfell had roots as thick around as a giant's legs, but these were even thicker. There were hundreds of them, each of them wider than Jon was tall. They were not the roots of a single tree. There had to be a whole grove of weirwoods growing above them.
They moved forwards, feeling the eyes of the children of the forest in their backs, their eyes watching them with burning intensity.
Suddenly Jon stopped abruptly when something crunched beneath his feet, a scary sound. The sound of breaking bones.
The Floor of the passage was littered with bones of birds and beasts. But there were other bones as well, big ones that must have come from giants and small ones that could have been from children.
There were hundreds of skulls, littered around the area. Bear skulls, wolf skulls, half a dozen human skulls and even the skulls of giants. A mammoths skull stood tall in the middle, almost as tall as the rest of them combined.
Finally, they reached their destination.
Before them a pale lord in ebon finery sat dreaming in a tangled nest of roots, a woven weirwood throne that embraced his withered limbs as a mother does a child. His body seemed frail and weak, his face gaunt and withered. The pale weirwood roots had grown through his body at multiple places, piercing the gaunt flesh like a sharp sword.
What skin the corpse lord showed was white, save for a bloody blotch that crept up his neck onto his cheek. It was a red birthmark, forming a red raven that ran across the side of his face.
Roots coiled around his legs like wooden serpents. One burrowed through his breeches into the desiccated flesh of his thigh, to emerge again from his shoulder.
Leaves and mushrooms sprouted from his skull, making him merge with the nature around him.
He didn't have three eyes, instead, he had one eye, red and piercing, that stared at him motionlessly. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words.
"Snow," he rasped, his rotten face twisting to form the words.
"Welcome..."
"JON!" Ned shouted, shaking him. Jon blinked quickly, looking around to find himself in his father's solar. They both sat at the huge circular table that dominated the wooden room.
"What happened?" Jon's uncle asked worriedly.
Jon smiled at him, a tad reassuringly. "I just drifted off, my apologies."
"You drifted off for 5 minutes, murmured strange things and didn't react in the slightest to anything I did?" Lord Stark asked incredulously.
"Yes," Jon smiled. His uncle merely sighed and didn't pursue the topic any further.
"Jon..." Lord Stark started, but Jon quickly interrupted him, earning a frown.
"How did Lady Stark feel about my arrival here?" He asked joyfully. "Miserable? Did she not care about it?" he paused for a moment, before speaking in a mocking tone. "Happy?"
Ned sighed and leaned back in his wooden chair while fixing his son with a piercing gaze. Not that Jon seemed to care much.
"You will not speak about my wife in this way, Jon. I know you two have had our differences, but that is in the past. You will respect her authority in this castle."
"Has it ever occurred to you, that our... differences might also come from the fact, that you refuse to talk about my mother? Must be hard for her as well... To know that there is another woman out there... She doesn't even know if you still love my mother... if she is still alive... if you love her more than her...?"
Ned felt his throat tighten at those words. He knew that keeping this secret came at a steep price, but one he would be willing to pay.
"My mother..." Jon continued unbothered by Ned's lasting silence. "Let's talk about her, shall we? I know some... suspect more, but tell me - How was my mother like, growing up? What was Lyanna Stark like?"
This hit Ned like a bucket of cold water. What was Lyanna Stark like? the words echoed in his ears.
How?
How could he possibly know that?
"I... I don't..." he stammered, and for the first time in many years he found himself speechless, desperately searching for words.
Jon just looked at him, slightly annoyed, his dark grey eyes piercing.
"Let's not insult each other's intelligence, shall we? You know it's true and so do I. Don't lie to me."
"Aye," Ned finally grunted. "How did you find out? I never told anyone, only Howland Reed ever knew and I doubt you visited him at Greywater Watch."
"Does it matter how I found out? What matters is that I did?" he said, glancing at his uncle.
"I need to know how you find out," Ned stated, his fingers drumming the circular oak desk. "If you can find it out, others can as well."
"The secret is safe, Lord Stark," came Jon's curt reply.
"So how did you find out?"
"Visions."
"Visions?!"
"Visions. Saw my birth, the Tower of Joy, the Kingsguard," he paused for a moment. "And now it begins," he said slowly, in a deep voice.
"No, now it ends," Ned muttered in response before he looked up at his supposed bastard son.
"Does Ramsay know?" he finally asked. "Ramsay could prove to become a problem, you know the boy as well as I do. Such powerful knowledge in his hands could become the reason for a war between the north and the crown. House Bolton has long envied our House's position of Lord Paramounts."
"Our house?" Jon intoned. "Your house, you mean."
"You'll always be my son, Jon," Ned sighed. "I hope you know that. You surely know who your father is by now, but regardless - Your mother was still a Stark and even if you might not share the feeling, you will always be my son."
Jon nodded ever so slightly. "So what was she like? My mother."
"Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time. 16 years of age when she perished. One of the few women to rest in the crypts of Winterfell," Ned replied. "Many saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. I still remember everything about the day she died, even all those years later." He paused for a moment, to gather himself. "I came into the room, Ice still in my hands. The room smelled of blood and roses. The beautiful Winter Roses were all over the room, on pots that stood on the shelves, on the windows, some were in her hair. A fever took her in the end. I held onto her hand for hours, I slowly felt how her hand grew colder and colder. Many hours later Howland came into the tower and separated us. By then her hands were as cold as stone, but still, I held onto them."
His voice grew heavy and tired, Jon could even see the glint of tears in his eyes. "But her last words remained. 'Promise me Ned' were her final words, words she had repeated a dozen times, even after I had vowed to fulfil it."
"Me," Jon stated, no question evident in his voice. "I was the promise."
"Yes."
"What will you do now?" Ned asked, after a long pause. "The King is coming to Winterfell with his entire entourage. He'll want to name me the Hand of the King."
"And will you refuse?"
"I can't"
"You always can. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I will go north for the time being. An old relative of mine, Aemon Targaryen, still lives at the wall. Brynden mentioned him."
"Aemon Targaryen? The brother of Aegon the fifth? He must soon be a hundred years old by now. And who is this Brynden you keep mentioning?"
"Something... akin to a friend," Jon replied.
Ned opened his mouth to object but quickly changed his mind, and closed it again.
"So, the Wall it is then," he said.
"I won't stay."
Lord Stark just nodded. He took a poured himself a cup of ale but didn't drink it. He spent a lot of time just staring at the liquid. "I will go south with Robert."
"And Lady Catelyn will all but rule instead," Jon finished his sentence. "I'll find a place to go. I do hear I have a lovely aunt to the east."
"No one can enter Bloodstone. Many have tried, all have failed."
"I'll find a way," Jon shrugged. "I always have."
Jon slowly walked into the Great Hall of Winterfell. He clearly remembered the day many years ago, when he had stormed into the dark crypts after overhearing Sansa make some comment about his birth. It had been no more than a few years, yet still, it seemed like a lifetime ago. It was the first time he had seen his mother in the crypts, though he didn't know it at the time. Would he still hear the voices of the crypts, calling out to him? Sneering at him to leave the sacred domain of the Starks.
Knowing that his mother had been silent was a small comfort. It at the very least showed that she held more love for him than any of the other statues.
The Great Hall was just as he remembered, cold and simple, no glamour and no gold, yet still warm and comfortable.
Many wooden tables were standing all around the hall, carved from strong, old oak.
The scent of roasted beef lingered in the hall, while guards and servants sat at the lower tables, laughing merrily and enjoying the food.
"We've been here for a while," Catelyn Tully said when he finally sat down on the high table. For the first time ever, he saw the men and women of Winterfell, eating their food from above, not sitting with him.
"Where were you?" Robb finally asked. "You were gone for more than two years, soon it would have been 3. Where have you been all the time?"
"North," Jon simply replied and he could see Arya's eyes widen, as he took a sip of his ale.
"You were with the wildlings?" Bran asked.
"Not really... with them. We were at one of their settlements at the end, but that was no more than two weeks."
"A wildling settlement?" Ned asked. "Which clan did that settlement belong to?"
"There were many clans there. I think we stopped a new wildling invasion," Jon said, raising an eyebrow at his uncle. "I suppose, you have Ramsay to thank for that. He killed the new King-beyond-the-wall."
Everyone looked at Jon in shock, all of them at a loss for words at what they had just been told. Only Ned looked thoughtful, even if a bit surprised.
"A new King-beyond-the-wall?" he asked slowly. "The Night's Watch did mention more and more wildlings coming south. They might have indeed been amassing troops."
"There hasn't been a King-beyond-the-Wall in a long time," Catelyn replied, voicing her doubts.
"And that stops them from getting a new one. They don't crown their kings."
"You could put a dozen wildlings in a room and they'd start killing each other immediately. They would never muster the forces to attack the north."
"Have you ever met a wildling?" Jon asked nonchalantly.
Catelyn hesitated. "No, I haven't," she said.
"Then how do you know this?"
"Everybody knows this."
"Nobody knows this. If they can't form alliances, how do you think they invaded the north, all those times? There have been plenty of wildling invasions since the construction of the Wall."
"Rare cases. Special cases."
"It seems whoever taught you, was a special case as well."
"You should..."
"Stop this," Lord Stark commanded. "Can we not have a single dinner, without descending into madness?"
There was a hollow smile on Jon's lips. "Of course. My humblest apologies," he stated, though his expression made clear, that his words were empty, devoid of any meaning.
"Careful, Bastard," she hissed, though it was silent enough so that Bran, Arya and Rickon couldn't hear. Only her two oldest children, Sansa and Robb, as well as her husband were close enough to hear her words.
"Bastard?" Jon mockingly whispered back, while raising an eyebrow at Ned. "You want to say something, Lord Stark?"
Both Sansa and Robb were dead silent, staring at their mother and cousin. Bran and Arya strained to listen in, though they could not quite understand what was spoken. All they saw was a sullen expression on their father's face, an expression of confused anger by their mother, and their older siblings seeming to be in shock. Rickon however, had no care in the world and ran around the table, giggling and smiling.
"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" Lady Stark finally asked, her voice no more than a whisper.
"I don't know," Jon merely shrugged. "Ask your husband."
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, an uncomfortable silence lingering over the high table, a sentiment that seemed to stretch across the entire hall.
Everything became quieter, the cheerful laughter seemed become fewer and many glanced over at where they sat, to see what was wrong.
Jon however, was quite excited to hear about what his father his wife would discuss, once this was over.
Later that night, Jon silently sat outside, observing the endless flow of
servants, guards, maids, that rushed around the castle, carrying food and swords, wool and leather.
He sat far above them, on the top of the high, grey walls that surrounded the ancient fortress, where just faint sound could reach his ears.
Chunks of coal burned in iron braziers at the small shop where Mikken worked, the smell of smoke and molten Iron lingering in the air.
There was a certain feeling of home here, a feeling of being welcome, though he felt this, mostly due to his siblings. There was a certain warmth to be found in Winterfell; the walls were cold here, but the people were mostly warm and friendly. However, since his return, it all felt so... empty. As if all of it had become a distant dream, a different world in that he was simply misplaced.
He heard a soft crunch in the snow and he could immediately tell, who it was. In their years together, he had learned how he walked, the rhythm and how loud the snow crunched when he walked. Without turning he knew Ramsay was approaching him.
"I am... often overwhelmed by an emotion when you are not around, Ramsay. It is called... happiness," he told the older boy, not averting his eyes from the smallfolk beneath them.
"You're confusing something there, Snow," Ramsay's voice answered back to him. "No one can resist the pleasures of my company."
Jon ignored him and simply stared into the air, a clear, cold sky stretching out above them. The stars shined brightly, illuminating the lands around Winterfell. The snow glowed in a dim light, reflecting the soft light of the moon and stars.
"There is something beautiful about the stars," Jon mused out loudly. "The gods likely created them to Illuminate the perpetual darkness and we use them for... relationship advice."
Despite himself, Ramsay let out a cackling laugh at that.
"Didn't take you for a poet, Snow," he replied. "But it fits you."
"Suppose it does."
"Happy we didn't take the wildling fuckers with us?"
Jon nodded silently. "Would have been a bad idea. I'll weep for the wildling raider you killed. Just kidding - I already forgot his name," he added when Ramsay looked at him incredulously.
"How did the trout take it?" the older boy asked him finally.
"What do you mean?"
"I ain't stupid, Jon," he said and said boy couldn't help but wonder when was the last time, Ramsay had called him by name. "There's something about your parentage. Something important. And you told the trout."
"Not exactly told her, but I gave her some very obvious hints. She was something between enraged and confused."
Finally, he turned around to look at Ramsay.
"I'll tell you soon as well. I'll leave for the wall soon, visit a family member. After that, we can see what adventure might wait for us."
"Who said I would come with you?"
"I know you too well."
"That you do. You should be more careful or I might have to kill you. Can't afford such a breach in security."
"You can try," Jon said, as he finally got up. "But who could replace me?"
"I could get a new Reek for entertainment. I'm a simple man, Snow."
"And simple men like blood and power. Come with me and you shall get both - eventually."
Daenerys
"Please, your magnificence, I have done nothing wrong," the maid named Nalia whimpered, her face twisting in agony. She cried out for help, over and over again, though nobody came.
"Screaming won't do you any good, Nalia," Daenerys spoke slowly, a tinge of regret in her eyes. "Tell me what I want to know, and we can make this quick."
"I don't know what you're talking about, your Grace," the girl cried out again. "I'm innocent, I swear it by all gods there are."
Daenerys sighed in annoyance and flicked her fingers. A small flame lit up for just a few seconds, directly next to the girl's face. Enough so that she could clearly feel the heat, the flames reflecting largely in her eyes.
"I was informed by a reliable source, that you were secretly sending out raven's north-east, just a few hours ago. What did you write and to who?"
The girl remained stubbornly silent, which only confirmed what Daenerys knew of her. A spy. But for who?
Daenerys walked over to the girl, staring into her eyes with piercing intensity. "You do not compare to me, girl, and you will not get in my way any longer. The only choice you have now is how your death is going to look like. Painful or Painless? A quick death or a very prolonged one?"
Once more the girl remained silent.
"It truly does surprise me, how your allegiance to someone can outweigh your own interests," she said with disappointment.
"Do you think, that anyone will avenge you? That anyone will care about your disappearance? Let me make you an offer. I spoke of a quick death. But tell me all you know, and you shall leave unharmed. I do hear you have a little son, no? How will he survive, if you die here? Orphaned and alone..."
Fury flashed on the maid's face, but it slowly turned into resignment, mixed with pure hatred.
"Is that what you will do, Daenerys Targaryen?" she asked angrily. "Threaten my son, a babe not even a year of age?"
Daenerys leaned forwards, her amethyst eyes sparkling with the flames that burned around them. "Yes, I do. But I offer you the choice to stop this, to stop all of this. Tell me what you know and your son shall suffer no harm, that I promise you."
A long silence ensued, only interrupted by the sound of the roaring flames. "Aegon," she finally muttered, barely loud enough that she could hear.
"Again, please?" Daenerys asked kindly, a huge change to a few moments ago.
"Aegon... your nephew Aegon," she muttered. "I work for him."
"Aegon, son of Elia Martell and my brother Rhaegar? That Aegon?" she asked the maid incredulously. "You know that lying to me will cost you dearly."
"It's the truth," Nalia said. Her dark brown eyes were large, wide in fear and Daenerys knew she told the truth. "He and a man named Jon Connington are with the Golden Company. They send me to inform on you."
"And how do you know, that this supposed nephew of mine is real? Tell me."
"I don't. I'm just a spy in their service."
"Very well," Daenerys said, accepting her answer. She could see the tension leave her former maid's face slightly, though not completely. "What else do you know?"
"They spoke of riding to Volantis," the girl said. "Something about them having hired the Golden Company as protection from a Dothraki Khal. But others whispered they intended to take the city."
"Anything else?" Daenerys inquired, taking a sip from a bottle of Dornish Red. Prince Oberyn Martell had visited her once and the bottle had been a gift from him. He had come under the notion, that her presence on Bloodstone posed a threat to Dorne, yet he had often made side remarks about a marriage of her, to one of the Martell children. Offers she had quickly refused.
"That's all, your grace, I swear it," the girl said, eyeing her carefully.
"You swore just a moment ago, on all gods you knew that you did not know what I was accusing you of," Daenerys stated. She drew Dark Sister from her sheath in a fluid motion and just a moment later it was embedded in the other girl's stomach.
"You... you promised..." the maid whimpered as blood started to pool from her mouth.
"Your son will be safe and taken care of," Daenerys promised and though she had just broken a promise to her former maid, she intended to keep this one. "It's such a shame it had to come to this... You just never understood the value of my work, Nalia. And therein lies the real tragedy."
She pulled the sword from the girl's body, as the life started to leave her dark brown eyes.
"See that her son is taken care off," she said, as she turned around to face Missandei, who stood obediently in silence, just a dozen feet away."
"Yes, of course, your Grace," the translator from Naath replied and scuffled away, leaving the room with a bow.
Daenerys slowly strode through the gardens of Bloodstone. It was always an impressive sight to look out into the ocean.
Hundreds of glass candles, a peace offering from the yellow emperor of Yi Ti flickered around the Island, creating a mystique, black fog that surrounded the Island, swallowing any ship that would dare to pass through, without being given passage from the inside.
The wall of fog floated over the sea, around half a dozen leagues away from the coastline.
Her own palace, forged from Dragonfire loomed at the edge of a great cliff. It was gigantic, its walls made entirely from dark black stone, though not the same fabled stone from which the cities Yeen or Asshai were created.
Great pillars were on every side of the building, the weathered black stone illuminated by the glow of the glass candles. There were columns and friezes and arched windows twenty feet high, along with a long staircase on the side, that wound up to the flat-roofed dragonstone castle with a crenellated roofline and a round tower at one end.
It certainly looked impressive. A great, looming palace, beyond it rough hills sloping into the sharp blue Narrow Sea.
Below the fort, just a few leagues away, there were a thousand Unsullied training with on the training ground. It was one of eight camps, spread around the coastline of the Island, to grant a better protection to them.
The training yards were mostly bare dirt with an occasional clump of coarse and ratty-looking grass.
Besides the training yard, Nature was blooming everywhere. The tall grass of the Island was far taller than any man, overgrowing almost everything. Even Daenerys own palace had bushes and brambles up against the door and sometimes even the windows.
In the distance, tall mountains could be seen. The cloud mist lifted in the far distance, gradually came the dull patches of red glowing far beyond the cliffs. Two active volcanoes could be seen, smoke slowly rising from their tops.
One single mountain stood out, one of the two active volcanoes. A spire of naked rock that rose into the heavens so high that you would believe the very sky was pierced.
Daenerys often came here to think. News had just recently reached her about lots of important events around Essos, as well as Westeros.
During her time in Meereen and later Bloodstone, Missandei had on Daenerys's orders build up something akin to a spy network, that supplied them with pieces of information.
It was nothing huge, and surely couldn't match the likes of what other people had at their command, yet it was still enough to quickly gather news of every major event.
Some of the news she received was useless to her, such as a minor conflict between Braavos and Pentos, or another conflict between Myr, Lys and Tyrosh.
The Dothraki declaring war against Volantis however made her curious. The Khal in question had to be quite bold to make such a move, as the walls of Volantis were high and strong. She could not imagine, how those Dothraki could hope to take a city of that scale.
An Ironborn fleet raiding at the Jade Gates and now heading west was another thing she would keep in mind. The Ironborn were always a nuisance, but something she would never forget about. How somebody could kinda forget about something so dangerous was beyond her. They might raid and reave mostly small villages, unprotected by any walls or armies, yet with the element of surprise, they could take entire cities, as they had proven in the Greyjoy Rebellion when Lannisport was burned.
For now, a brittle peace between her and Volantis had formed, yet if the Dothraki were now threatening it, she might soon make a move to finally take the city for herself.
But besides that news, that served for barely more than to spark her curiosity, two recent developments were quite huge and might severely influence the balance of power in the future.
Just like Nalia had just a few hours ago, Archmaester Marwyn had told her about rumours, that her nephew Aegon still lived, among the Golden Company with the loyalist Jon Connington.
Other than that, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn had recently passed away, leaving behind a power vacuum. Many suspected, that the king would name Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King, while others believed that he would name his old friend, Lord Eddard Stark to fill the position.
Truth be told, she hoped, that Lord Stark would become the new hand. This would slight Tywin and potentially create discord with the crown, while at the same time Lord Stark would be way more inefficient in dealing with her, should a conflict between Bloodstone and King's Landing arise.
She sighed to herself, as she kept watching the river, to see the coiling of its muscular currents, catch the shimmering of waves that caught the sunlight like scales. The river was a vigorous and optimistic blue, with the mouth of the thick sulfurous stream flowing into the Narrow Sea, where the waves softly crashed against the cliffs.
We'll see she thought to herself.
But first things first, we'll have to deal with this pretender claiming to be my nephew.