Chapter 1: City of Slaves
Bran
1 A.C
The dark coat swayed from below the tailored parting beside dried, muddied boots, one foot on its heel while the other balancing a side-turned body on one foot; observing the quiet man sweeping the streets around the strange hall that was the end of the side road here in Braavos one early, empty morning. The man had an upturned lip, smiling about something privy only to him as dried yellow Bryola leaves slowly piled up to one side under his naked feet. Bran patiently watched as the man crossed over to an elevation and continued with his motions.
Oh well, here goes, Bran told himself, soon leaning forth as the lone figure approached the frail-looking monk stood out in the light. The Drakebane came close prepared, already a tally worth of questions that soon escaped him when he saw those milk-white eyes on the young man with graying dark hair, suddenly unsure on how to proceed.
The monk's smile unwavering; he turned around to look up at him, pausing after the light exertion as the broom came to both hands, his smile facing Bran's eyes as those pale whites looked nowhere but at him. Not at his eyes but somewhere behind his coat, he could tell. A cool winter breeze blew past them from behind him, his coat hugging his back as the man stood motionless through that gust in the simple gray robe he wore, not a sight of discomfort at exposure to the elements.
"The man twice-born," the blind man announced, a knowing smile greeted him next, bowing low the speaker went on, "It is an honor, drake-strider." he said with some amount of amusement, "And an ever-warg, drake-sire, Otherkin-slayer, also a green-"
"Okay, mate, listen", Bran quickly cut off the words, looking behind his back then catching the younger man by the shoulder, pulling him to one side where the foot traffic opposite would not see the pair converse. The excited man would no doubt have gone on for another half a minute without his interjection, he figured. The man before Bran was quiet once he was pulled aside, waiting to listen to his quandary.
"I'm here to check something." Bran spoke quietly, coming close and trying to pinpoint where exactly he was supposed to look, finally resting on those white eyeballs that knowingly returned his gaze, "You work here?" Bran asked with a raised eyebrow, a finger pointing beside them both to the left; a large door that was distinctly colored even from this distance, he saw.
"Yes, I am an apprentice still, young Master." The man bowed, "Jaqen H'ghar, born of the chains as my ancestors." He replied calmly behind that lightly gripped broom, "The Many-Faced God may answer your calls yet", he ended with a motion of his hands.
"Uh-huh," Bran frowned, chains? Remembering what little he knew of the city's origins. Some sort of slave offshoot from old Valyria, now Braavos standing as a shining symbol against slavery and wholesale exploitation, its own twisted religion replacing all others among the hearts of the locals, "Can I go in?" Bran asked simply afterward.
"You may pass, but first we must have a round of arms." the monk answered as he stepped away from Bran, his broom coming to his hand like a spear, one vein ridden hand revealing itself as the blind man gripped one end of the tool, the other bristled end coming limber behind his armpits, an axis of his range and lethality.
The Drakebane frowned, looking around then back at the man as he accepted what was to come, "Well, guess I ain't got a choice, then." Bran sighed, reaching for his knife from behind him, the naked foot-long blade of mystical origins glinting silver in the early morning rays in the blink of an eye.
Bran smiled, and the blind man came first. The blows were long and executed well, he figured. The small knife was mostly useless in this open expanse where the range of the man was his greatest asset. After a few failed attempts Bran pushed in, getting in between the wood's wavelength, grabbing the stick as he kicked the man on the chest. The broom slid out Bran's grip as the blind man pulled on it and regained his balance to step a couple of steps back. The robed man stepped opposite Bran around a decided circle as he found himself doing the same, keeping him in his fore and eyes on those fast-moving hands. And yet, the man seemed to be holding back.
"Impressive" Bran said, for a blind man no doubt but he kept those thoughts to himself.
"I am not blind, young crow," Jaqen replied politely, the man twisted his broom, a plum of dust gusted out before Bran's alert self, "This is but temporary." The blind man replied to a stumbling opponent. Bran staggered, his guard brought low by the trickery; his ears catching a steadily rushing pace towards him seconds later. The Crow forced his eyes open, one blurry eye wearily opening to find the pale whites staring directly at him, a force of nature itself that rushed at him.
There you are, Bran grinned. A flurry of lethal blows mapped over the clean stone steps in the empty courtyard. Both men meet each blow and attack with antics in the air and under feet, obscure styles and methods emerging and being played around before him, making Bran reveal motions and moves he had forgotten he even knew. The sly grin on that narrow face grew maddeningly wide as blow after blow came unchanging, the man balancing on the broom next and engaging kicks on to him. The whole ordeal made Bran exert himself more than he had planned on for the day, at least.
Okay, this is not fair, Bran complained internally as he dodged a set of kicks off the stony surface to his chest, and then just as suddenly as it had begun, their tussle stopped. Bran found the smiling man pause abruptly; the broom coming once more peaceably to his hands like a simple laborer's tool, an angry storm now passed leaving behind a serene calm in the early morning.
The monk bowed, "You may pass, crow. The Master shall have answers for you, about you son." he rose, continuing over to one side as he wholly neglected Bran after their ordeal. Bran shrugged, then sighed and started his walk towards the strange door still far away, the knife disappearing behind him before he started walking.
After about a minute the door was twice his height before him, slowly stopping about ten feet before the wooden creation; finding one side a dark black while the other a most distinct, opposite white. He walked closer, the engraved and decorated wooden doors were made of two different species, he soon found.
One was weirwood, his eyes did not doubt for a second as the smooth cutout grooves and cavities came to his touch cool and even. How had they cut this so fine? He wondered, suspecting old Valyrian tools and lost arts, the other half appeared to be hardwood ebony from a whole tree, carved equally exquisitely to his wandering eyes.
The dark side of the door creaked apart all of a sudden, opening slowly as a man approached him from within. Older this one was but left Bran wide-eyed at meeting the same man he had seen behind him moments ago. The Crow turned at once; the straight stony path from where he had come had but few obstructions; nothing to find in the empty scenery behind him, the dried yellow leaves nearly swept away first, he saw.
"So, we met again," the door opened wider, a darkened interior with no ceiling insight from the outside brightness where he stood, "Come, Drakebane. The shade will be soothing within", a familiar smile from the older man reminding him of those fast-hitting blows, "We are safe inside, the dead do not whisper secrets." He smiled politely, a bow and a show of his clean hand before him as Bran nodded, taking his first steps into the House of Black and White.
"Valar Morghulis" Bran recited as he came close; speaking in the old tongue; the words coming as a soft prayer as his left foot stepped first into the unlit interior.
"Valar Dohaeris" the man smiled, now pressing lightly against Bran's back as the ebony door slowly closed behind them both in the early morning that day in Braavos.
Rhaenys
She was resting lazily on her side below the warm sheets wrapped around her, the room a haze of some sweet incense to her liking while Aegon drifted off into his nightly slumber without fail beside her. She sighed, taking a sip from the cup in her palm. Rhyae smiled at the sleeping man, a quiet expression on her pale, young face in the moonlight dark, her husband breathing in soft intervals; no doubt exhausted by the two sisters who desired him greatly as of recently. The frequently switching him between the two sisters had left him understandably tired as of late. Well, more than her than Visenya, if she were being honest.
She took another sip, rising onto her feet and walking naked towards the balcony over the Narrow Sea, here above the tallest halls of Dragonstone they were back home after what seemed like a lifetime; finally crowned victorious after all that had come to oppose her and her family. From out here Meraxes' warmth was more readily felt, a smile on her face as she saw the dark smudge move across the open night skies. The smell of rain and wet soil still hung heavy in the breeze, leaning over she saw small lights that patrolled the parapets below, the fortress palisades below, finding the activity down far below more numerous in their illumination. Their sizes appeared a mere fingernail's worth from where she stood grasping the railing high atop the keep.
"Hey." A voice called out from behind her, a familiar one that made her turn.
She smiled at him, feeling a shiver run through her as Aegon came up from behind and placed a piece of fur over her, a quick, warm peck on her pale, narrow neck as he rose and ran a hand through her silvery hair. Her husband moving over to the chairs close by to pour them both something warm once initial pleasantries were observed.
Rhyae turned to her brother, "So it is done, then?" She asked, finally having found the time and mind of day to speak like normal people, their throws of passion holding too much priority for courtly matters prior, "Will they accept us?" She probed expectantly.
Aegon was grim for a while, turning her way finally he spoke, "Don't worry, sister. I'll make them. Some of the old heads in the Citadel are having second thoughts." He looked distant beyond her, eyes back to that worried look so common on her beloved, "But, don't worry, Balerion hasn't flown that far south yet." He ended darkly, his intentions of striking fear into the southerner's heart clear from his dark musings.
Rhyae turned to him sharply, "Again, Brother?" She eyed him, exasperated. When will you learn, brother? Coming to the velvet-lined chair and sitting with legs folded. Preserving her warmth as she looked determinedly at those violet eyes beside her as she spoke, "You know we must stop using them to get our way eventually," she began, "Ours must be a new rule, brother." She chanted patiently, making his eyes roll like a child.
"I understand, sister. I truly do," he raised his hands, "it's just, these men seem set in their ways and-"
"Then make them listen, as their King, not as some foreign tyrant." Softening somewhat as she continued, "You can do that, I've seen it, my love" Rhyae came close with an inviting smile, then a soft touch on that hardening face; already seventeen summers old behind those burgeoning shoulders, already a man and a King.
He nodded, smiling as he met her gaze, "Thank you, Rhyae," Aegon replied softly, eventually reaching for her thin arm and pulling her close when words were not enough. Rhyae's eager self readily came to sit on his lap; the fur falling to the fall around her; no longer needed to keep her warm against the cool sea breeze as passion rekindled within her.
Her head came close, feeling his warmth down those shoulders as Rhyae planted soft kisses that made him shiver under her wet lips. She smiled, looking up and taking his temples in her elbows, bringing her young, petite fore to his face.
"You want to go again?" He asked, somewhat surprised, though not wholly put off by the idea. She came close, biting his ear as she blew soft murmurs and hummed a tune that reminded her of a stranger she had once met.
"Don't you?" she whispered to his ears, finally feeling his arms come around her. Grinning at her victory she met his lips fully then, coming into his embrace and forfeiting herself to his ways wholly. The young couple lost in their ways under the stars as a single-tailed red comet traversed the eastern sky.
Bran
The older, fraying Jaqen H'ghar moved slowly with a torch picked up somewhere before him, moving steadily through darkened throws of the interior hallways they walked quietly; Bran finding the stone below to be smooth and swept clean, or maybe this isn't that popular a joint, he figured, soon exiting out into an enlarged room where tall pillars stood equidistant to each other. Tall, angled cylinders that rose high into the darkness, a sight that made him stop and stare in wonder and amazement.
For now, his eyes were only allowed a few of them dimly lit up against the source of light before the man. Jaqen then went over to both aisles as he lit the room visible. Soon, the fire reached the farthest corners racing along the walls on either side, the man turning back to him as he found Bran still back in the hallway looking up, "Please" Jaqen said, his hand inviting him to the hall of dead faces.
They were walking through the massive hall now, Bran didn't take long to examine the faces disturbingly pinned up on the pillars on the side; six a row where the stone was broadest whilst some layers housing only two at the minimum; lined one atop the other reaching up to who knew where. He saw young faces among old ones, men among women, finding randomness in the order of the faces all plainly poked out of the stone, all seeming kin in the darkened halls of the many-faced God who accepted all of the dead.
"There is only one man here of your blood, crow." The Jaqen before him called out, Bran still following him quietly while he mulled over his words, waiting for the grave-keeper to say more.
When nothing more came, Bran went on, "Who'd you mean?" He asked, trying to keep up with the steady man's unnatural gait that always kept him a few feet ahead of him.
Jaqen stopped, turning as he looked wistful, "You know him, crow. Come, see for yourself." The man replied simply, turning around as the grey-robed man refused to say more; the rest of their path a silent crossing through long unending pillars leading them finally to an atrium enclosure akin to the crypts back in Winterfell, if a bit better maintained.
He saw the man light up more torches around a far eastern room, soon brightening up the surrounding enough for Bran to see the table that was to his further right. He walked towards it, a man on the smooth surface of the stone from the average dimensions, a simple piece of cloth over his laid form.
Jaqen came close, reaching for the cloth and revealing the face of the man under. Theon, Bran recognized, seeing the old Lord of Winterfell lying peacefully after having led a life even Bran would not have envied. He tried to find some form of remorse or grief inside him for the old man, probed for the humanity that was still missing at large inside him. Oh well, shaking his head and turning from his dead father to the man who was waiting for a reaction out of him.
"I see, so my father was a believer after all." He remarked lightly, turning to the expressionless man with a raised eyebrow.
"He believed as we all do, crow. Same as you" Jaqen said slowly, dark eyes meeting him with a knowing look.
"I don't believe in the Gods, grave-keeper," Bran announced resignedly.
"And yet, you can hear their voices, their messengers," he paused, bringing the cloth over the dead man's body again, "their commands.", trying to find something on the younger crow's face that was still as stone, not budging at the words he was hearing.
Bran smiled after a moment, "How much do you really know?" He asked, wondering again where he had ended up this morning, the local morgue here in Braavos stranger than he had expected it to be.
A smile on that older face returned, "Enough to advise you thus, young crow" The man started walking once having replied. Bran following behind as they exited the sparsely adorned room and back into the dark halls of pillars. "Your son is not here, not in Braavos at least.", the man named Jaqen replied, becoming quiet and contemplative in the silence engulfing them whole.
Jaqen stopped and turned around, they were somewhere before the two colored doors again, already having crossed a fair distance that temporally did not make sense to Bran's inner clock, "Go to the seas of sand, crow. You will find your answers there. That I can promise you." the face was grim, dark-colored eyes that could see, seemingly saddened somehow. A small smile came, later on, a hand on Bran's shoulder as he uttered his final words to the man, "Watch the shadows, young crow."
The man exited behind him as darkness flowed out into him, Bran's feet suddenly outside the giant doors; feeling the warmth of the rising sun on his back, somehow already outside the House of Black of White. The confused crow reached for his head, a new branch of pain starting somewhere deep, something wholly unfamiliar to him.
Gods, I need a drink, he decided, going over to the side and walking slowly through the alleyway west into the main streets of Braavos. The streets were dusking, sparsely peopled under the low rising moon; already a day went by somehow in those darkened halls where time was a mystery. Bran walked steadily close by to the wall, his touch bringing him to stability as tried to look around; heavy dizziness that was slowly passing him over him but nowhere past still. An empty roadway north came up, the docks were further ahead through the solitary pathway from here. Bran stepped through, now walking in between old wooden stalls currently unattended to down an abandoned-looking road.
A simple step to his back was his only warning.
Bran turned, a darkened figure was already on him, in the air and flung itself at him, a narrow, pointed sword coming up to his turning heart. He ducked, the figure colliding clumsily with him as he tossed the mass of the body over him, using its own momentum against it. The figure stumbled, a plume of dust and sand rising as it quickly got up at once, a narrow form with dark, billowing drapes that covered hands and face entirely. The sword came before it again, a low step as apprehensive took over the assailant's form.
They met again, the narrow blade sparking against Valyrian steel, a clang, and a show of sparks into the quiet dusk around them. The figure turned, the sword coming to both hands as it deflected one attack to its midrib and slid under him, going down both his feet as the pointed tip grazed down the base of his head, the pinprick letting loose a small trail of red down his sweat covered back.
Bran sighed, "You got me." He replied calmly, arms coming around and over as he squirted through into the horizon with a smile, sensing something high up above them both. His headache almost unbearable now as he panted, continuing with eyes closed shut opposite the dying sun on his compromised back, "You're quick, kid." Arms now high above his shoulders, the cool bladed end still unshaken on his neck, his assailant silent through his words and compliments.
And then the bird came.
The figure gave out a yelp, Bran twisted at once and grabbed the wrists tight, a forcible twist of the arm and a satisfying elbow to the wrapped face. The stuffily clothed assassin fell over onto stoned steps, stumbling back to a wall as it quietly eyed the sword held captive below Bran's boot, light eyes slowly moving up to find him standing over the predator who became now the prey.
He smiled through folded arms and spoke "So, let's see who the young dragon sent my way this time." Bran crouched down, eager to meet Aegon's latest present lovingly sent across the Narrow Sea. The last five hadn't fared much better, still, this young one had caught up to him at a bad time. The dark wrapping around its frightened face and eyes, attire completely alien to the five that had come before. Had Aegon hired someone actually competent? Well, only one way to find out. The bird had pricked one side of its bloodied face, a small tear in the black bindings to his right. He felt the lone eagle far up again, the moment of control gone and the simple beast returned to its usual motions. Bran reached for a strap off the recently inflicted wound; the wrappings coming undone off its face at his simple pull.
Dark, smooth hair fell at once over slowly heaving shoulders, a fierce face eyed him through a bloody cheek. A sharp gaze through those gray eyes roofed under prominent brows that were pulled back in fear but also some amount of shock. Bran met her shock halfway, his eyes widening as recognition soon took over his mind, remembering the young girl from Winterfell, the young mud-covered misfit ever rebellious and so unlike her princely sisters who had always disapproved of her. Lyanna.
"Lilly?" Bran was shocked still as he asked, seeing Tor's third-born bruised and bloodied sitting before him halfway across the world. He saw her chest heave and fall slowly still, a calmness that was still eluded her. Bran growing somber as he realized, she doesn't remember, you fool. He shook his head, now clearly sensing the fear she had for him, "Lyanna Stark?" Bran questioned, bringing his hand before her. Reaching into his worn crimson coat slowly, her eyes trailing his motions as Bran's probing hand soon revealed it before the girl six summers younger than him. The ring came to Bran's outreached hand deftly, holding it up close to her face so that she could clearly see and understand.
The forgotten Stark was left wide-eyed, the three dragon insignia on the silver tungsten alloy now lost most of its original shine; the token sucked her in, her hands rising slowly from below her, Bran saw. Her prominent off-hand came abruptly as Bran reached away, "Uh-uh-uh. You want this?" Bran questioned her with a smile, yes, still those stubborn eyes like from all those years ago. How had she forgotten his dogged mug he could not make out, still.
She turned from the ring to the man, incredulous eyes that were wordless, mouth mumbling something first before finally just deciding to nod in disgusted approval.
"Good. Then follow me, I'm hungry, Lil." Bran rose as he dusted his coat a few times and started walking, not looking behind as the girl got up and reached for her blade, quickly falling in step behind her target as the needle-like blade disappeared into those darkened folds of her flowing gown.