The Daughter of the Sun
Wake Up. Wake up.
His thoughts were blurred as if gray storm clouds obscured the sun. Before Nymeria appeared at the tower, Jon was focused on the plague. They had made progress but the final step eluded him. Outbreaks of disease were shrouded in mystery. Fear of death led to panic, fervor, and hysteria as desperate men, women and children struggled to come to grips with an epidemic. They failed because people wanted complex explanations - superstitions, divine intervention, scapegoats. But the simple answer was almost always the best one.
Jon had been careless with his security. He relied on Ser Garlan to secure Maidenpool, and Sandor and Brienne to ward against any personal attack. The dire wolves roamed the hills near the town, their hearing and sense of smell acute enough to detect any large-scale threat. He had thought those precautions would be enough to ensure safety as he dealt with the plague. That was clearly wrong. When Arya followed Nymeria, Jon warged into Ghost, only to see the Kingslayer through the white wolf's eyes. Jon left Florian's tower, intent on helping Arya apprehend Jaime Lannister. That was when the two bolts had slammed into him. A simple but effective trap and one that would have killed him, had it not been for the cat and the old man.
"You look terrible."
He had seen her often in dreams - a beautiful woman with dark curly brown hair in ringlets, olive skin, and deep indigo eyes. She was dressed in lilac and lace that like the gowns of Dorne, both revealed and concealed her lush figure. "Rhaenys. Am I dead?"
She rolled her eyes in gentle exasperation. "Are you in pain?"
His shoulder and side burned. So did the right calf from a certain cat's claws. "It hurts badly."
"Good. Pain means you are alive. The dead do not suffer, not physically at least. Take my hand, beloved."
He floated upwards, fingers locked with his shadow lover, as they watched the wounded body from above. The eyes were closed, the breathing shallow and rapid, and the skin cold and clammy. The face was bruised where he fell. Rhaenys was right. He looked like shit.
Jon had been placed on the now bare cot. The head and nock of one bolt had been hacked off, and the shaft pushed through the right shoulder. Thick bandages soaked with blood covered that area. The healers left the tip of the other quarrel on the left side. Had that barbed head been ripped out, he might have bled to death. Chett was applying honey and a salve of dittany, wax, and oil to staunch the blood flow. Other boys and girls prepared linens, crushed fresh herbs, and covered Jon's body with thick clean blankets. The wound would need to be widened and probed carefully before a wire loop and feathers could be used to extract the bolt.
"Did your cat have to claw me?" Jon groused.
"Balerion saved your life." Rhaenys said in mock outrage. "You should thank him."
"He could have found another way to warn me."
"And whose fault is that? Did you forget that you are a warg?"
"My mind was on other things." Jon admitted. In Maidenpool, he had not spent much time with Balerion, Ghost or Nymeria. Two dire wolves were more than a match for any one man, even Jaime Lannister. He should have stayed in the tower and allowed Arya to deal with the knight.
"Keep the dire wolves by your side. Ghost will defend you with his life. The Iron Throne wants you dead. Are you going to make it easy for them?"
"No, of course not. I won't go gentle into the night." Joffrey and the Lannisters had played their hand. Jon would not make the same error again. He would make them pay.
"You are the last child of Rhaegar. He dreamed that the Prince That was Promised would come from his line. You must fulfil that prophecy."
"Our father dreamed of many things, sister. It did not help him much."
"Not during his life, no. But some things matter more than the lives of princes and kings. The Targaryens have always dreamed of things to come. Daenys saw the Doom of Valyria. Rhaegar believes that you are the Prince That Was Promised and yours is the song of ice and fire."
"How can anyone trust that prophecy? The tales of Azor Ahai were old when the Valyrians were herding sheep in the shadows of Fourteen Flames." Jon complained. "The song of fire and ice - What does that even mean?"
The lady shrugged. "Only the gods know. We can only play our roles the best we can. It is your glory and burden to redeem the name of House Targaryen."
"I never asked for this, Rhaenys. Thoros claims that the Lord of Light has chosen me as champion against the Great Other. Why can't the gods bugger off, and fight each other?"
"I never asked to be murdered when I was three. Or to see my mother raped and killed before my eyes. The world is cruel. But if you do not fight for our house, then our deaths will be in vain. Will you fight for me? For my memory?" She placed her hands on his face.
"Of course, Rhaenys. I would do anything for you." Jon said.
A smile lit up the beautiful olive face. "We don't have much time, beloved. I have three visions to show you before you awake."
"Our father's?" Jon asked skeptically.
"No. Mine." Rhaenys pressed her sweet lips into his, and he fell once again into darkness.
The maesters and acolytes had been pushed away, forced to wait with the guards and the nobles. A small group of Jon's confidants were allowed to come closer - Owen, Alleras, Alayn Hightower. Prince Oberyn squeezed in by offering Myrish Fire to clean the lacerations. The WinterTown crew took the vial but refused to allow anyone else to attend to the body. Chett and the other boys took sole responsibility for cutting away the shafts, stopping the bleeding, and bandaging the wounds. The little birds delivered hot coals, washed scalpels and dry blankets.
Arya agreed with their caution. She did not trust anyone in Maidenpool, not the maesters, the Dornish, and certainly not the Tyrells. Ser Barristan had saved her brother from the third bolt, so he received a grudging pass. Besides the old knight, Arya wanted only Northmen near Jon. The Winter Town boys were loyal, and so were the two dire wolves and the black tomcat prowling the hall. Nymeria and Ghost frightened the servants and Reachmen but Arya didn't care. Her brother's safety was far more important.
"Lady Arya. We are ready to take out the second bolt." Chett called out.
"How is he?" She demanded.
"We have stopped the bleeding in the shoulder. His right arm will be weak for some time, but it should heal. The second quarrel did not hit bone, and the head did not break. Thank goodness. We have widened the wound area, and fixed the loop around the tip. There will be blood when we take the bolt head out, but it should be manageable."
'That's good news, right? Jon will recover."
"Ordinarily, it would be but..." He held up the broken shaft that had gashed the right shoulder. The head was streaked with multiple colors. The reddish brown might be dried blood but the dark purple was certainly not.
"What is that?"
"Poison." Alleras took the quarrel gingerly. "My father is an expert on the subject."
The Red Viper sniffed the head. The fragrance was slightly bitter, like unripened fruit in summer. "Deadly nightshade. In small quantities, it makes you drowsy and sleepy. But the juice of the berries can cause convulsions, delirium and hallucinations."
"That is not my concern." Chett said. "It is the dried blood. The bolt head went through the shoulder quickly. That is not Maester Snow's blood. We scraped the brown off and examined it under the near-eye. It is the plague."
"Monstrous. To use the plague against a man trying to cure the disease! Will Snow fall sick?" Olenna asked.
"Not from the first quarrel. But the second has been embedded in his body for many hours. Any poison smeared on the head may have already spread. The maester believed that plague in the blood was the deadliest of the three." Chett bowed his head.
Arya glared at the seated Jaime Lannister, his wrists and ankles bound in thick rope. Capturing the knight had not been difficult. The Hound and Brienne arrived soon after Ghost but the credit belonged to a company of Tyrell guardsmen. A dozen long spears forced Jaime to surrender. "This is your fault, Kingslayer. You are responsible if Jon dies."
"I was at Jonquil's Pool. I had nothing to do with the attack on your brother."
"Then how do you explain this?" Garlan held out a crossbow, with a golden lion on the prod. Garlan's men found the well crafted weapon on the floor of a private room at the Old Plough Inn. The shooter had disappeared.
"It is not mine. I have never touched a crossbow in my life."
"You were part of the plot." Arya insisted. "Jon has not left the tower for weeks. Yet the assassin was waiting to take a shot from the window. He must have known you would attract my brother's attention. You lured Jon out so he would be killed."
Jaime's face turned serious. "I was not aware of any plot. I knew your brother had come south, to treat Garlan Tyrell's wife for the plague. But I did not come here to kill him."
"Why are you here, Kingslayer? And what about you, Ser Barristan? We heard that you left Westeros in a huff. Has Maidenpool become the new home of the white cloaks? How did you know to come here? Without you, Snow would be dead." Olenna said.
"I am no longer a white cloak." Barristan said calmly.
"Men of the Kingsguard do not change." Oberyn said. "White cloaks enjoy taking orders. So who gave them? Who told you to come to Maidenpool?"
"I don't answer to you, Prince Oberyn." Barristan replied.
"But you answer to someone. As for Ser Jaime, did you come on the orders of your father or your son? Both were humiliated at Tyrion's wedding." Oberyn smiled at the memory.
"I am not here to kill Jon Snow. I swear on my honor that is the truth." Jaime said.
"And you are so very famous for your honor." Olenna quipped.
"Ser Jaime has committed many crimes. He profaned his sword with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend. He broke his oath to Robert Baratheon in a different way. But I doubt he would help kill your brother with a crossbow." Barristan said.
"He might have hired the shooter." Arya argued.
The golden haired knight snorted in disgust. "I don't pay people to fight for me. I am a knight. If I wanted to kill your brother, I would do it with my own hands."
"You wouldn't have succeeded. Jon Snow was well protected in the tower. Sandor Clegane and I would have stopped you." Brienne said.
"Maybe. We will never know that now. Snow will die from the plague, if he doesn't bleed to death or pass away from poison. I am sorry for that. When I was a captive at Riverrun, he treated me well. I hoped that he would cure the plague."
"My brother is not dead yet. And I still believe that you were involved, Kingslayer." Arya turned to the Winter Town boys. "Lock him up in a cell."
"For what crime? I didn't attack Snow." Jaime protested.
"That remains to be seen." Arya said.
"My lady, I am not sure we can imprison Ser Jaime." Brienne said uncomfortably. "The Tyrell men captured him. It should be Ser Garlan's decision. His men keep the peace in Maidenpool."
"I don't know if we can take him prisoner. There is no proof that Jaime Lannister was involved in the shooting." Garlan said.
"You can and you will. My brother came to Maidenpool at your behest. He risked his life to help your wife. House Tyrell failed to ensure his security. I want the Kingslayer arrested. Otherwise, Jon will return North on a ship, and your maesters can fail to do anything about the plague."
"We agree, Lady Arya." Chett said. "We are here only for Lord Snow. We follow him. If he dies, then we follow you."
"He won't die." Arya said fiercely, holding the cold clammy hand. "Remove the second bolt. My brother will return." Others might question the logic of her declaration, but she believed in him. Jon Snow was too stubborn to die.
The city was beautiful, full of gardens and fountains. Wide cobblestoned streets crisscrossed canals and bridges, and a mighty river flowed past temples, plazas and palaces on both banks. There were even marble buildings artfully placed on islands in the water. The stone arches and slender domes reminded him of the architecture of Dorne, but this was no wasteland of deserts and rocks. The land here was far richer, and the structures grander than anything in Westeros.
"Do you know where we are?" Rhaenys asked.
"The Rhoyne. This is one of the city-states of Essos. But the cities of the ancient Rhoynar were destroyed long ago."
"Not just any city. Chroyane, the beautiful and great. The Festival City of Mother Rhoyne."
Jon nodded. The Rhoynar never had a true capital or empire. They lived in many city states along the branches of the river, often embroiled in petty feuds but uniting against common enemies. No one presented a true danger until the dragons came.
They walked down from the western bank along a large bridge, rising forty feet in the air. Beacon lamps glowed brightly under the pale arches, and out of the clear flowing water, thick black vines reached up the tall piers. They descended down a long flight of marble steps. Lomas Longstrider was wrong. The Palace of Love, the greatest building in a great city, deserved a place among the nine wonders of the world. The Westerosi traveller had seen the ruins, when the fortress had been renamed the Palace of Sorrow.
The castle was famous as a lover's retreat where torrid affairs were conducted in lush gardens bursting with flowers and by fountains of ivory and gold. Jon saw no one frolicking or laughing. The palace bristled with warriors - thousands of armed men and women. Ornate iron armor, thick gold armbands and jeweled torcs showed that these were not soldiers but captains and chieftains. They entered a great hall, filled with the leaders of Rhoynar.
"It shall go ill for any man who fails me." The olive skinned speaker was slender and had a sharp nose. He wore less gold and finery than others, but dominated the room. The grey eyes surveyed the other princes and lords, daring anyone to challenge him. A touch of madness filtered through the ardent gaze and cruel mouth. This was not a man to be taken lightly.
"Our armies have taken Selhorys and Valysar. We rule the waters from Ghoyan Drohe to Sar Mell. Why not stop, Prince Garin? Volantis will agree to terms. The Valyrians want ports on the Narrow Sea." The woman wore a shirt of beaten copper scales that extended from the neck down to the knees. Iron greaves and pauldrons completed the armor.
"Why should we stop? The Valyrians began this war. They burnt our cities, despoiled our temples and stole our land. Are we slaves to kiss the hand that would force us to bend the knee?" Garin said with passion.
"They have dragons."
"And we have the greatest army ever assembled and water magic gifted by Mother Rhoyne. We can defeat a few dragons."
"Volantis has three dragons. Valyria has many many more. We cannot hope to win this war. Swallow your pride, Prince. Make peace. Let the Valyrians have Volantis and their ports while we keep the Rhoyne."
"No. That only delays our subjugation. Look what has happened to our lands. Norvos and Qohor to the North, Pentos and Tyrosh to the West, Volantis to the South. Their colonies surround us. The Freehold wishes to absorb us. The cost of freedom may be high but the Rhoynar will pay it. We always have. I will never choose to be a slave. Who will fight with me?"
The crowd roared in affirmation, swayed by Garin's boldness. Only the woman had better sense. The wistful frown was a foreshadowing of suffering to come. Jon wondered if any of the other nobles in the hall survived the Second Spice War.
Rhaenys took his hand, and the palace faded away. "What do you think of my people?"
"A proud and difficult bunch. Nymeria is a credit to House Martell." Jon said. No one but the Princess of Ny Sar spoke against Garin the Great. She was what the story books proclaimed - beautiful, strong-willed, shrewd.
"The Rhoynar should have listened to her. Had they made overtures, the Freehold would have agreed to a truce. Volantis is a city of slaves and rich families, not fighters."
"It might not have mattered. Prince Garin was rash but not wrong. The dragons would have not left the waters of the Rhoyne alone. Great empires are not maintained by timidity."
Rhaenys shook her head. "The Freehold did not care about a few walled towns on the Rhoyne. That was not why Garin was the wonder of the Rhoynar. Three dragonlords fought for Volantis. He killed three dragons in one battle. That was what sparked the fury of Valyria."
"How did he achieve such a feat? Poisoned arrows? Scorpion Bolts?" Jon asked, his curiosity piqued. Full grown dragons flying in the sky were hard to kill.
"I cannot see the battle at Volon Therys. Prince Garin was strong in water magic. He was blessed by Mother Rhoyne, as the Valyrians learned to their cost."
The sky began to lighten. Rhaenys and Jon were among soldiers, thousands of men, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, overlooking a great harbor. The Rhoyne flowed South under a long Bridge that stretched east to the great Black Walls of Volantis. They felt the presence before the great black shapes broke through the morning clouds.
Dragons. Jon did not need to hear the flap of leathery wings or the eager screeches as the beasts readied their flames. The greatness and glory of his house - and the terror and horror of others. A green and gold dragon swooped down, and set the hill on fire. A dozen more followed, strafing the tents, destroying the wagons, ripping apart horses and men like giants swatting flies. A thunder of dragons filled the skies, their angry roars drowning out the screams of burning soldiers. Aegon and his sisters had won the Field of Fire against the Kingdoms of the Rock and the Reach with only three dragons. The Valyrian Freehold had unleashed three hundred against the more than two hundred thousand strong host. Dragons blotted out the sun.
The men died bravely. They held their positions, their archers and crossbowmen firing into the sky. But the scales of a dragon thickened and hardened with age. These were war dragons with experienced riders, and missiles only enraged them. Death came out of the dragons' mouths. The soldiers began to break and run, only to be annihilated by fire. The air itself seemed to be burning. No army known could withstand three hundred dragons. Perhaps not even the old gods and the new could defeat such a host. This was not a battle but a massacre.
Garin did not surrender. He drew his sword and stood on a hill as the army attempted a fatal retreat up the banks of the river. The Prince of Chroyane meant to sell his life as dearly as possible to buy time for his men. The dragonlords had other ideas. First they killed Garin's retainers with lances and arrows. Then the Valyrians threw weighted nets, dragging the prince down. They hooted and jeered as Garin was bound with rope and forced to watch the utter destruction of the Rhoynar forces.
"They tortured him for weeks. The Valyrian lords carried him in a golden cage and dragged him back to the city of Chroyane. Along the way, they destroyed Sar Mell in an orgy of looting and plunder. The dragons flew North and crushed every city on the Rhoyne. They saved Chroyane the Beautiful for last. But that was their great error. Do you know the story?"
Jon nodded. "I do, but you tell it far better."
"They hung Garin in a golden cage over the Bridge of Dream as the Valyrians lords and their Volantene lackeys sacked the city. The Rhoyne ran red with the blood of slaughtered men, women and children. Every soul in Chroyane was put to the sword or sold into slavery. As his captors mocked and taunted him, Prince Garin called upon Mother Rhoyne to destroy them. That night, the waters rose and drowned the invaders, and the survivors began to die of greyscale. From then on, Chroyane and the other cities have been lost to the Sorrows. For a thousand years, there has been no law or customs on the Rhoyne, just stone men, pirates, and merchants afraid of ruined cities but the dragons never returned."
"A terrible tale of a terrible time. Our Valyrian ancestors were cruel people in a cruel world."
"Our ancestors were not just Valyrian. We are also descended from the Rhoynar. The blood of Nymeria flows through your veins."
"Not very much, Rhaenys. Elia Martell was your mother, not mine."
"Daeron the Good married a Martell, and his son Maekar married a Dayne. The Targaryens have a great deal of Dornish blood. You were born in the Tower of Joy. Your last name may be Snow, but might have been Sand. The story of Prince Garin matters. He deserves justice."
"The past is the past. This was a thousand years ago. Terrible things were done by both sides - although the dragonlords killed more women and children. But they are all dead."
"Not all of them. Prince Garin is alive - his body is buried under the waters of Chroyane. Find him, Daemon. He has suffered for a thousand years. He deserves peace."
Jon nodded. He did not truly understand but that was not an unusual state of mind. Could anyone survive a thousand years? How did Garin slay dragons? Those were mysteries to be unraveled, puzzles to be solved once he had time. Besides, he could never say no to Rhaenys.
There was no sign of the shooter. Ser Garlan's men searched the town and the castle thoroughly. They emptied out the taverns and inns, checked the pavilions, and scoured the shanties and huts outside the pink stone walls. Besides five silver stags, and the crossbow with the golden lion, there were no clues. The fat innkeeper happily handed over the coins but did not remember who paid for the room. He was too frightened to lie, Arya thought, as she picked up the stag with Joffrey's smirking face with a gloved hand.
Arya held up the silver coin to Nymeria. The she-wolf sniffed, and then looked at her quizzically. Nymeria twisted her head away from the inn to the mill on the commons. Then, the wolf bounded south, toward the pink stone walls. Several times, Nymeria stopped, unsure, until they came to the fish market next to the harbor. There, the smells assailed them - baskets of trout and salmon, crabs of three different types and sizes, mussels, clams, shrimp, and long snake-like eels. The wolf rested her nose on the ground, unwilling to go down to the docks.
Arya sighed. The trail was cold - the stags might have been handled by the innkeep, his wife, and the serving wenches. Like much of the port, the Old Plough Inn was crowded with strangers. Smallfolk fishing the Bay of Crabs hawked fresh and not so fresh fish from stalls to the Reachmen. More patients along with their families travelled on the ferry between Saltpans, the Quiet Isle, and Maidenpool.
She turned to go back when a slender man with shiny long straight hair stepped out of the shadows. This time he wore the gray robe of an Essosi priest rather than prisoner's rags or soldier's plate. "Jaqen H'ghar." Arya stepped back into a crouch.
"A girl looks lost. You are far away from Florian's Tower, Arya of House Stark."
"Why are you in Maidenpool?" The worn iron coin with the strange Valyrian words rattled in her pouch. Nymeria growled. "Were you sent here to kill Jon? Did Joffrey hire you?"
Jaqen chuckled, and held out two open and clean hands. He was weaponless but Arya recalled how easily he had killed the targets at Harrenhal. "A man had no part in that. If I shot a crossbow bolt at Jon Snow, he would be dead. And your brother is not."
She relaxed her grip on Needle. "Do you know who the shooter was?"
"A man is not certain but he suspects a name. There are many plotters in King's Landing. And that crossbow was made for the king." Jaqen said.
"What name? Is he still in Maidenpool?"
Jaqen shook his head. "A man owed a girl for three lives that she took from the Red God. He has repaid those lives back. To get something, a girl must give something. Very little is free in Braavos and even less in the House of Black of White."
Arya bit her lip. Nymeria sat on her haunches, watching carefully. "I have the iron coin you gave me. I have some gold and silver back at the tower." She knew that would not be enough. "Why are you here? In Maidenpool? Jon told me that your order was founded in ancient Valyria."
"Your brother is correct. How is he? Is he healing?"
"He has not woken in a day. The WinterTown boys think that he should recover but the quarrels were poisoned and smeared with the plague. He has not developed signs of being sick yet."
"The plague strikes quickly. Even the healthy can die in a few days. Can Snow truly cure the disease?"
"I think so. He was close before he was shot. Jon discovered a great deal." Arya thought of the near-eye and the dishes of animalcules.
"What will your brother do if he finds the cure?
"What do you mean? He will cure the sick patients in Maidenpool. More and more are coming every day." Arya said.
"The world is more than Maidenpool. The plague rages in Braavos and the Free Cities. A man who can cure the plague would be showered with gold and much more. The magisters will be eager to acquire such a medicine - very, very eager. What will your brother do?"
"I am not sure. I don't think he has given much thought. Jon was focused on treating the plague. Would you kill his enemies for the cure?" Arya asked.
"A girl asks for much. Your brother has many enemies. But Braavos, from the Sea Lord to the Iron Bank, the merchants to the priests, would pay much for the cure and the Secret City will not be the only bidder. The Iron Throne, the other kingdoms in Westeros, the Archons and Lords of Essos - they will all covet your brother's remedy."
"Jon will do what Jon wants. No prince or king will make him do anything." Arya said fiercely.
"A girl has a great deal of confidence. Very few survive alone against princes and kings. A word of caution. Men tried to kill Jon Snow. They may try again. Protect your brother, Arya Stark. All men die." Jaqen H'ghar bowed slightly and slipped away into the dark.
The sun gave forth light without brightness. It was noon, but there was a chill in the air, and a strange lack of shadows, as if the feeble light was as unclear as darkness. Rhaenys held his hand, as they looked out at the dense forest. The pine and cedar trees were large, the trunks wide and thick, and the leaves a canopy of gold and green. A faint smell of ash and sulfur infused the air, like the residue of dragonflame.
"Where are we?" Jon asked.
"That is not the right question. You should ask when."
The primordial forest stretched far in every direction. The trees were larger than the pines, firs and evergreens near Winterfell, and matched the oldest oak trees of the Wolfswood. There were forests that Jon had never seen - the kingswood south of Blackwater Rush, the rainwood in the Stormlands, and smaller diminished forests that remained in the riverlands, the Vale of Arryn and the Reach. None of those had the grandeur of this place or the silver tailed lemurs jumping through the branches, hiding from treecats and harrier hawks.
"This must be the Forest of Qohor." The vast woodlands separated the cities of Western Essos from the Dothraki Sea. Before Qohor became a center of armorers and sword making, the wealth of the free city rested on trading caravans and timber. "But why is it so cold?"
"Why do you think, beloved? You have dreamed of this, many times."
Jon realized what she meant. "The Doom of Valyria - when the Fourteen Flames erupted and threw ash and rock into the sky. But Qohor is fifteen hundred miles north!"
"Very little is written about the Doom. The maesters claim that fourteen volcanoes destroyed the greatest empire ever known to man but they never explain how. Either they don't know or they lie by omission." Rhaenys said.
"It must have been a terrible death. Not by fire but by everything that came afterwards. Sulfur and ash spewing into the air. Waves of hot gas and lava sweeping down the mountains. If the sun was dim in Qohor, then the skies must have been dark in Valyria."
Rhaenys nodded. "The dragons died quickly. They nested near the volcanoes and burned alive in the great heat. But the people - they died in fear and suffering. Clouds of gas killed the lucky ones. Mudflows with molten fire poured into the streets and squares of the cities. And after the explosions, the lands were shattered and a great tsunami formed that destroyed the port cities in the Isle of Cedars and coastal villages in Slaver's Bay. The waves were a hundred feet high. In the rest of Essos, ash and dust covered the sky. Crops failed, trees shriveled, snow fell in summer, people starved and the plague spread."
"The gods are cruel." Jon said.
"Was it the gods? Or a conspiracy of men?" Rhaenys said.
"Could men have really destroyed the Fourteen Flames?"
"You saw the carnage at Volantis - how dragons annihilated the army of the Rhoyne. They were the glory of ancient Valyria but the terror and dread of our enemies. Why wouldn't they attempt to kill the dragons? And by killing the dragons..."
"Millions more died." Jon said.
"The Doom killed hundreds of thousands. The famine that ensued lasted for five years and came with the plague. Volantis declared itself the Heir to Valyria and waged war for two generations. The Dothraki descended like locusts from the grasslands and steppes, and pirates raided Sothoryos and the Summer Sea for slaves. All this to kill the dragons." Rhaenys spat.
He wondered whether that was the way of the world - blood followed blood. Some ancient king decreed an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, and had been lauded for handing down a code of justice. But personal vengeance was a poor way to rule. The dragonlords who tortured Prince Garin deserved disgrace and censure, but the Doom of Valyria, whether it was the wrath of the gods or the sorcery of men, fell seven hundred years later. And the death toll included far more than a few dozen dragonriders.
The birds scattered, taking flight deeper into the darkest parts of the forest. Large beasts - elk, deer, monstrously large boars, and spotted bears - fled past them, driven away by the steady clip-clop of hooves. A detachment of light cavalry invaded the forest, likely the outriders for a much larger force. Through the trees, Jon saw the glint of steel from helmets, mail and spears.
"Aurion's army. He was in Qohor during the Doom. Aurion declared himself the first emperor and raised forces from the Qohorik and sellswords. He attempted to lay claim to the remains of the Freehold with thirty thousand men and a dragon." Rhaenys said.
The dragonlords were too proud for their own good. Power did not equate to wisdom. "Did his army even make it to the Valyrian peninsula?" Jon asked.
"He was never seen again. I don't care very much about some dragon lord hell-bent on power or soldiers hired with promises of loot. It is the other deaths that I mourn. After Aurion disappeared, the Qohorik killed his children. The dragon seeds in Tyrosh and Lys were hunted down. Volantis calls itself the First Daughter but was a thankless child. They offered no shelter to those who survived the Doom. The Old Blood only cared about power, wealth, and enslaving others. Volantis is a city of slaves and masters. They have no claim to the heritage of the Freehold - not our steel, science, sorcery, or dragons."
"Volantis has all the sins of Valyria, but none of the greatness." Jon quipped.
"The heart of the slave trade resides there. A million people live in the city, and four out of five are slaves. The curse of ancient Ghis - when Valyria destroyed the Old Empire, it took on the worst practices of the Ghiscari."
Slavery was an abomination. The Andals and the First Men both forbid the trade, although Jon wondered if life as a thrall in the Iron Isles was much better. At least the children of a thrall were born free. He had no doubt that the Ironborn, like the Dothraki, sold prisoners in the flesh markets of Essos. "The Valyrians took thousands and thousands of slaves, Rhaenys. The slaves built the cities and roads, fought in the arenas, served as concubines, tended the fields, and died in the mines under the Fourteen Flames. Our people are not without blame."
"No man or woman wants to be owned. Dragons were born free. They choose to give their loyalty to a rider. But it is their choice alone. The way of the dragon should be the model for all."
"Westeros has no dragons. The sailors say Daenerys has three but our aunt is far away. The world is full of sheep - and lions, stags, and roses who squabble for a throne."
"Once we were dragons. Once the world looked to us to bring order and peace. The Freehold. Aegon the Conqueror. Jaehaerys the Wise."
"Those are the stories. The truth is always messier. Only a few kings were ever just and good. We remember them because they were the exceptions, not the rule."
"You are a dragon, Daemon. Never forget that you are the heir to Valyria. Show the world what the Freehold should have done. Make peace the custom, spare the conquered, and wage war until the haughty are bought low."
"Those are hard things, and more difficult without armies or dragons." He complained.
Rhaenys laughed and kissed him. "No one said it would be easy, my love."
Alleras stood over the sleeping form of her sister. The Breath of Life kept her alive, but Nymeria Sand suffered. Her red lips had turned pale, her dark eyes sunken, and her elegant cheekbones gaunt and bony. Surviving a month was impressive but no herb would forestall the plague forever. Alleras patted the long black braid of hair that ran down to the waist. Nym had always been the loveliest of the Sand Snakes, as beautiful as their cousin Arianne.
"Why aren't we doing more?" Obara asked angrily. Their sister Tyene hovered nearby, the pale soft hands clasped together in a simulacrum of prayer.
"There are no known cures. Jon remains our best hope."
"He hasn't woken up." Tyene said.
Alleras thought that was for the best. Archmaester Ebrose taught that in severe trauma, the mind could heal better asleep. Upon further examination, her father determined both quarrels were smeared with different poisons in addition to the plague. "It has only been two days."
"Nym doesn't have the time. Take Snow's tools and notes. With Father's help, you can find a cure just as easily as he can." Obara said.
Alleras shook her head. "Father is an expert at poison, not medicine. Snow is a better healer than both of us. And no one can take his tools."
The Winter Town Boys had set up a vigil over their fallen master. Since the attack, nothing had been moved. The work desk remained undisturbed with papers and parchment scattered near glass dishes and oddly shaped flasks, tubes, and bottles. With heat, the vessels could be used to condense, dissolve and purify all sorts of substances. Metal frames and clay crucibles were stacked in a corner with tongs, rods, and mortars. A tray piled high with untouched bread and cheese lay next to the near-eye along with three small notebooks.
"What is in those notebooks?" Tyene asked.
"Sketches and drawings. At the Citadel, Jon recorded everything that interested him in journals. Those three likely contain his most recent thoughts on the plague." Alleras guessed.
"I have heard that the books hold much more - designs for bridges and dams, flying machines, studies of the stars, and theories on the movement of water. The Northmen say that Snow created a farm on the White Knife that might feed the whole of the North." Tyene said.
"So? We know from the war against the Lannisters that Jon is capable of invention. And while he has many ideas, not all of them may work."
"Tyene wants to take the books back to Dorne." Obara said.
"Theft is theft, no matter what you steal. The North will never agree." Alleras said.
"If we don't take them, the Tyrells will. Those journals may have great value. Why should the Reach profit from Snow's knowledge? I have watched the other maesters. If Snow dies, they will grab the near-eye and everything else. The children from the North will not be able to stop the roses." Tyene said.
"Jon is not dead. Don't mistake kindness for weakness. If you steal from Snow or harm his people, he will not forgive or forget. House Martell is in Snow's debt. He captured Lorch, killed the Mountain, and cured our sister." Alleras argued.
"Nymeria is still dying from the plague. He did not succeed."
"Not yet. There is still time. I have not given up hope. Neither should you." Her sisters grumbled but grudgingly accepted her words.
After two days, Barristan decided that he served no real purpose in the tower. Snow was heavily guarded. Besides the Hound and Brienne of Tarth, Ser Garlan and Oberyn Martell watched for potential threats. The most zealous defenders were the young boys and girls, led by Arya Stark and the two enormous dire wolves.
Barristan knew his limitations. He was home in tourney grounds and training yards, both as a fighter and a teacher. In Meereen, he instructed dozens of freed slaves and noble children in chivalry and combat. The students had taken well to the lessons, although more to fighting than gallantry. If he returned to the queen, he hoped to train a new order of knights loyal to the Targaryens. Give him a clear opponent to battle - a Maelys the Monstrous or Simon Toyne - and Barristan knew what to do. Against invisible enemies, he was helpless. Snow might die of poison or the plague and then the mission would end in failure.
He entered the castle. The Mooton men at arms were outnumbered by a sea of Tyrell guards in green cloaks, particularly near the captive. The jailer, a young knight of a minor house sworn to Highgarden, took his sword before opening the cell.
"Come to kill me? I am an easy target now, without sword and armor. This is your chance to finally beat me." Even bound and shackled, Jaime Lannister was quick to mock.
"I have defeated you many times, Ser, when we were both armed and armored." Barristan had lost a few spars as well. Whatever his sins, the Kingslayer was a capable fighter.
"Last time we met, I knocked you on your arse."
"That was a joust at a tourney. It would go differently on a battlefield. I didn't come here to bandy words or compare our skill with swords and lances."
"Why are you here, Ser Barristan? You think too highly of yourself to enjoy visiting prison cells. These surroundings might stain your precious honor." Jaime snorted.
"I heard the Reachmen talk about the Wildfire Wedding. They said there were thousands of jars buried under the Red Keep and much of King's Landing."
"Yes. Aerys kept his pet pyromancers busy. Rats running around the tunnels. I should have killed all of them, not just three." Jaime lamented.
"Then it is true that Aerys wanted to burn the whole city?" Barristan asked uncomfortably. Jaime nodded. "Why did you not tell us about the plot?"
Anger crossed the handsome face. For a moment, Jaime resembled the fifteen year boy who crossed swords with the Smiling Knight and earned a knighthood from Arthur Dayne - brash, cocksure, and oddly vulnerable. It passed, and the Kingslayer returned to flippant banter. "Who was I supposed to tell? Ned Stark who scorned me as an oathbreaker. Robert Baratheon who was pleased to see the butchered bodies of Aegon and Rhaenys. Or my father, who ordered the children murdered and wrapped in Lannister cloaks to hide the blood."
"We would have known why you killed the king. We might have thought differently of..."
"I don't care what you think. I killed Aerys because he was a mad dog. He deserved to die. No one asked why I killed Rossart. He was Hand of the King for a fortnight. No one cared. They were only happy to divide the spoils and eager to move on."
The last days of the Rebellion were hard times. Barristan had been wounded badly at the Trident, pierced by arrow, sword and spear. By the time he could walk again, King's Landing was sacked, Jaime had killed Aerys, and Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys were all dead. He regretted taking Robert's pardon but what else could he do? Viserys was only a boy of seven.
"I should have killed Aerys earlier."
"You swore an oath when you joined the Kingsguard." Barristan said.
"You swore an oath as well. To defend the innocent. To protect women and children. To stand for justice. What did you do when Aerys burned Rickard and Brandon Stark? What would you have done if he ordered you to burn down King's Landing?"
Ser Barristan shook his head sadly. "Aerys was a terrible man."
"Rhaegar should have been king. I begged the Prince to take me with him. If I had been by his side, I might have killed Robert at the Trident. Then, everything would be better. Before he left, Rhaegar promised me that changes would be made when he returned."
"What changes did he mean?" Barristan wondered.
"I don't know. The prince never returned. House Baratheon won. The only thing Robert cared about was drinking, whoring, and fathering bastards."
"You fathered bastards, too, Ser." Barristan chided.
"Not twenty. And not in sight of my wife. He fathered a Storm in Stannis's wedding bed. Had Rhaegar been King, I would not have strayed from my vows. I would have been happy to fight on his behalf. To die for a king who was worthy of the crown. The last dragon."
But that wasn't true. Daenerys was the last dragon. Despite the prying of Lady Olenna and Prince Oberyn, Barristan had not revealed his loyalty to the last Targaryen. He prayed that she would be more like her brother than her father.
A strong summer breeze blew off the water through the high and narrow windows of Maegor's Holdfast. The sun glinted on the deep blue of Blackwater Bay, and the day promised to be pleasant for both sets of cousins - warm enough for the Martells and cool enough for the Starks. For once, he dressed in the colors of his house - blacks and reds, with the three headed red dragon prominent on his black surcoat. He even wore a crown, but only a plain gold circlet, unornamented. The courtiers whispered that such a coronet was unworthy of the Prince of Summerhall, but he had never cared.
"Your grace." A voice came from outside the bedroom. "The prince is still preparing."
"Daemon had better get his arse ready. My sister is scarier than my brother." The door opened and the Prince of Dragonstone pushed through.
"Egg." Jon fastened the red cloak with a brooch of a white wolf.
Aegon smiled mischievously. "I was worried that you would run away from your wedding."
"And what would you have done if I did?"
"Dragged you back to the altar. No one wants to make Rhaenys upset." Aegon the VI chuckled. He had all the beauty of their father, with silver gold hair and purple lilac eyes, but none of the melancholy. He was a true Dornishman - stubborn, fiery, and passionate in both the pursuit of pleasure and power. Some lords whispered that he was puerile, but they were wrong. One day, Aegon would make a great and fearsome ruler.
This was a wonderful dream, but only a dream - his wedding day in King's Landing. He would marry Rhaenys in the Sept of Baelor, before all of Westeros. In this world, Rhaegar was king, Lyanna and Elia lived, and his family was happy and whole. This would never be.
"Come, brother. You look pretty enough." Aegon led him away, past servants and men at arms. Several ladies turned red as they passed and Jon rolled his eyes at his brother's exploits. At last, they reached the gate where the kingsguard waited with a magnificent white stallion.
"This isn't mine."
"You are a Targaryen prince, Daemon. You can't ride a pitiful nag more fit for the knackers than a royal wedding."
The destrier was tall and high-spirited, with a majestic air. A Lannister or a Tyrell might ride this at a tourney, to prove their wealth and breeding. The saddle shone brightly in the sun, and the bridle and halter were soft supple calfskin. If they were not with other knights, he might have balked. He preferred rugged horses - smaller and stockier with strong legs and the stamina to deal with uncertain terrain. The destrier was perfect for a joust in the Reach or Stormlands but fared poorly in heat, cold, hunger and war unlike Jon's string of hardy Dothraki mares.
He mounted the stallion while his brother jumped on a golden sand steed, a gift from his Dornish uncles. Ser Arthur, as Lord Commander, rode in front, while Barristan and Jaime guarded the sides. With their escort of white cloaks, the princes rode down the King's Way to the Sept of Baelor with smallfolk cheering. As they passed under the arch to enter the white marble plaza, Aegon raised both their arms in triumph to the roars of the crowd.
Rhaenys waited under the central dome, where the light scintillated through the glass and gold and crystal. She was a vision in a sleeveless silk gown of red and gold and orange. Like him, she also wore a modest circlet of gold. Rhaenys did not need gems or jewels or extra finery to look like a queen. She radiated fierceness and grace - like Princess Nymeria reborn. Jon took her hand and they walked away from the laughing ladies in waiting.
"You look lovely but not very Targaryen."
"I am the daughter of the sun. In Dorne, the sun is deadlier than the spear."
He smiled. "Do you intend to resist my conquest?"
She cradled his head in her hands. "I never have, beloved. The sun can burn enemies, but it also leads the way with light. After darkness, after the rains and storms, the sun heals."
"Rhaenys, this is beautiful but…" It was beautiful. Near the marble pulpit, King Rhaegar sat on a high balcony, flanked by his two queens. Elia Martell was gentle and kind, and accepted him as her daughter's suitor. Lyanna Stark loved him like a mother should love her child - honestly and plainly, with tenderness and strength. At the pews, before the statues of the Father and Mother, a charming Aegon joked with both the Starks and the Martells. Even the Lannisters, Tyrells, and Baratheons were amiable and well behaved, at least for the day.
"But…?"
"This is not real. Our family died in the Rebellion. You died from Lannister treachery. I would fight a dozen wars but it will not bring you back." Jon said gently.
"I died but my love for you is stronger than death. We were meant to be together. Had Rhaegar forced Aerys to abdicate, this day would have come. Our marriage would have bound the North and Dorne to the Iron Throne and healed the wounds of the Rebellion. You would have been Aegon's strong right hand and I would have guarded his back. Our children would have married Aegon's so that our bloodline remained Valyrian. "
"Our children?" Jon asked.
"Two. Dragon riders. A boy named Aemon and a girl named Visenya. They will look like the dragonlords of old with silver-gold hair and purple eyes."
"They will look nothing like us." Jon said amused.
"No, but the realm will be at peace. They will be respected, honored, and happy. And their dragons will take them from the Wall to Sunspear and beyond."
"It is a beautiful dream - a better fate than I could have imagined. But it is not possible." A family of his own, a land without war, and dragons - nothing would make him happier.
"Not for us. Rhaegar's death meant our lives would be full of pain and suffering. But that is not true for Targaryens yet to be born. Restore our house. So that your children and children's children have a better tomorrow. One day, they might wed in the Great Sept before their family."
That would only be true if they were royal. Jon thought of Daemon's words on the Isle of Faces. Your sons will be kings, the rogue prince had said. He hesitated then, too involved in the conflict between the North and the Iron Throne. Jon never wanted power or riches. He did not care to be garbed in silks and satins or feast on roast swans washed down with Arbor gold. But to hold a child of his own blood in his arms - that he would fight for.
"Those children will not be yours."
"No, but they will be dragons." She pulled his face to hers. She tasted like cinnamon bark from the Summer Isles - rich, sweet and strong. There was fire in her lips - heat, warmth, and light. The world had forgotten Rhaenys as a casualty of war but Jon would remember the daughter of the sun and the three visions. He kissed the sweet lips again and savored the taste.
Wake up. Wake up.
"I have a gift for you on the desk." Rhaenys smiled. "You have been sleeping for three days. Enough time for the cure to appear. You must wake, beloved. Do not forget me."
Jon never would. The Sept of Baelor faded away, as did the faces of the family he never met. All he saw were gentle indigo eyes before darkness came.
The pain began on his right side, a throbbing sensation in the numb fingers and wrist that hammered the way up the arm. Something was wrong with the shoulder. He tried to twist but the joint was tender and swollen. The left side ached but at least that arm could move. He raised his left hand to the face. Jon's lips were cracked, and his mouth sore and dry. Was that blood or vomit? His eyes took in the darkened room. Even lying down, he was dizzy, and his thoughts were disjointed and jumbled. Through the stained glass windows, light filtered through and the black began to turn blue, almost purple. The sun was rising.
Pain was a good thing. It meant you were alive. Somebody had tried to kill him but he survived. The black tom glared at Jon, the yellow eyes still glowing in the dawn, like lamps on the bridge of Chroyane. Get up. Get up. Jon gritted his teeth, and forced his left arm against the bed. He would rise.
He stumbled against the bed as he got up. Balerion hissed, and Ghost woke up. The dire wolf immediately went to the left, allowing Jon to brace himself. There was warmth and comfort in the thick white fur. He lurched over to the table, the blood flowing back to his legs and arms.
His mind was still clouded but he began to take stock. He could move but not run. Walking felt like wading through water. Stained bandages covered his right chest and left torso, but the blood was dry and the wounds had not reopened. He concentrated on the desk, remembering Rhaenys's final words. The dishes were all in a row, the plague bacterium growing in gel, next to papers, beakers and the near-eye. Mold covered the stale bread, threatening the cup of sour red wine. One glass dish, closest to the tray, was contaminated with large spots of white, green and blue. Like very bad cheese, Jon thought.
"Snow, you are awake." Garlan Tyrell cried.
He ignored the pain, turning to the shocked faces in the room. There were the guards, WinterTown boys, little birds, Alleras, Owen, Martells, and the Tyrells. Arya and Nymeria had just awoken. "How long have I been asleep?" His mouth was dry.
"Three days." Arya said.
"My lord, you need rest." Chett cried.
"You likely have the plague. The crossbow bolts were poisoned and the nightshade may have caused hallucinations." Alleras said.
Dragon dreams were real. With his left hand, he took a swab of the mold on the dish and placed the glass in the pin of the near-eye. Before, the black rods had squirmed around. Now the rods were dead, stationary near the plant like strings of green mold. This was Rhaenys's gift. She was right. Three days had been enough time.
"What is it?" Arya asked.
Jon put down the near-eye. "I know the cure to the plague."
Author's Notes
Removing arrows and quarrels is a complicated business. If the missile head has gone through the body, then it was better to push it through. If it was stuck, you would need to use special instruments such as loops, scalpels, and feathers to cover the barbs to extract the pieces. Dittany and other herbs were believed to help.
Jon has two visions in the books. The first is more well known - going to the crypts and being told there is no place for him. The second vision doesn't get much attention but it is a dream of Jon as Azor Ahai turning back the Others. He is armored in black ice, and carries Lightbringer.
Rhaegar says "he is the Prince That was Promised and his is the song of fire and ice" to Elia Martell. Somehow he thinks this about Aegon, even though he has no Northern (ice) blood. Daenerys sees this vision in the House of the Undying.
It is an interesting question whether knights carried any missile weapons. In ancient times, soldiers were more versatile. Roman infantry threw javelins (pilum). Some Romans carried darts (plumbata) attached to their shields. Cataphracts (elite heavy cavalry from Eurasia and North Africa) used bows before closing with lances. So why didn't knights also use bows? Jaime doesn't because he is far too proud. But my theory is that the best bowmen needed to be very skilled to fire volleys of arrows far. So knights didn't use the bow because it had become too specialized. It may also speak to the greater discipline of the Romans, and the Mongols who used the horse bow and lance to devastating effect.
Tyrion Lannister travels down the Rhoyne and sees the ruins of Chroyane - the Palace of Sorrow and the Bridge of Dream. I have always thought the Tyrion meets fake Aegon plot to be contrived but I liked the descriptions of the ruined Rhoynar cities.
"It shall go ill for any man who fails me." This comes from Izembaro, the King of the Mummers, in a speech from Wroth of the Dragonlords in the Winds of Winter. Izembaro plays Prince Garin the Great on the eve of the battle with Volantis.
"Great empires are not maintained by timidity." This is a quote from Tacitus, one of the greatest Roman historians. He lived in the first century of the Roman empire. Like Prince Garin, Jon believes that a truce would not last.
In The World of Fire and Ice, the Rhoynar and the Valyrians had peaceful relations for a long time as Valyria instead crossed the Rhoyne to make war on the Andals of Andalos. Valyria drove out the Andals who settled in Westeros two thousand years ago. This allowed them to start the Free Cities, and in GRRM's timeline, Valyria and the Rhoynar had peace for hundreds of years. The conflicts between the Rhoynar and Valyria lasted two hundred and fifty years, with small hot wars breaking out between various cities. Whether true or not, it is understandable that Garin sees an encirclement of the Rhoyne.
A wolf's sense of smell is superb - a hundred times greater than a human but the silver stags left Baelish's hands at least a day ago. Also the disguised plague doctors have made multiple tracks through the town. So Nymeria can't find the shooter. Arya's idea doesn't work.
The basis for Rhaenys's second vision is the year 536. Coincidentally, this is around the time of the Plague of Justinian, the first incidence of the bubonic plague. The year 536 is believed to be the worst volcanic winter in the last 2000 years, due to an eruption in Central America. The ash and sulfur in the air blocked out the sun, lowered the temperature for over a year, leading to crop failure and famine. An eruption of the Fourteen Flames would do the same.
It is unlikely that a real world volcanic eruption would destroy an entire peninsula. However, the other aspects are quite believable. Pompeii was hit by pyroclastic flow, a dense fast-moving wave of lava embedded with ash and volcanic particles. Scientists estimate Pompei was enveloped for fifteen minutes. As for the tsunami, the eruption of Krakatoa created a hundred foot waves that killed 35,000 people. Historians now believe that Minoan civilization was destroyed by a volcano in 1490 BC that generated a massive (50 feet) tsunami. Some scientists believe that this was Plato's Atlantis.
GRRM has said that the Doom of Valyria was based on the fall of Rome and the legend of Atlantis. To be honest, the fall of Rome was hundreds of years in the making. The Doom is more shrouded in mystery and reads more like a cataclysm from a role-playing game.
"Make peace the custom, spare the conquered, and wage war until the haughty are bought low." This is a quote from the Aeneid - the speech that Anchises delivered to Aeneas in Hell. Essentially, it is the creation myth of the Roman Empire, (Aeneas was the founder of Rome), that their skill in war would bring a Pax Romana. Note how different this is from the Greeks who fought for glory or divine whims.
Jon's notebooks are based on Da Vinci's codexes. Over the course of his life, Da Vinci wrote over 50 notebooks, and one of his main interests was hydraulics and the flow of water.
In the books, Barristan thought poorly of Jaime as an oathbreaker. But then, no one knew about the wildfire plot. I would like to think that even white cloaks would not follow an order to burn King's Landing down as a funeral pyre, and kill half a million people. That changes Barristan's perception of Jaime.
In Greek myths, the daughter of the sun is a rarely used reference to Circe. Here, Rhaenys leads Jon back to the light as he wakes up from the coma. She is the guide out of the shadows.
The incubation period for penicillin growth is 5 to 7 days. So the three days Jon is out - one for every vision - is added to the last few days when he works without sleep.
The warlock's shade of the evening is most likely based on nightshade.
This is how Alexander Fleming accidentally discovered penicillin. The story is that he was quite messy and left the lab for a two week vacation. When he returned, bread mold had contaminated the Petri dish. No bacteria grew near the spots of the mold.