Chapter 3. The Voyage to Valyria: Beginnings and Meetings

49 AC, The Riverlands

The Wanderer

The fire crackled and spat embers.

He had gotten used to sleeping on the ground. At times, he preferred it to sleeping in a feather bed. On a soft mattress, one's guard could not help but be eroded by the comfort it dropped upon you, letting one drift away.

Ever since Essos and the God's Eye, that had terrified him, letting his guard down.

But the firm ground, with its inherent unevenness, its coarseness, and its lack of comfort? It forced you to remain at least half-way vigilant so that nothing could sneak up on you.

Add that, and a warm fire and night, and the wanderer was content.

He looked up.

The sky, there were just so many stars, like tiny diamonds, glittering in a sable cloak

He closed his eyes and laid his head upon his bedroll.

He was content.

Then, at the snap of a twig, his eyes shot open, and he burst to his feet, a hand on his sword.

As he did, a small voice then carried forth. "Now, now, young man. No need for violence."

He was not convinced. "Step into the firelight… slowly."

"Heh, heh, heh. Very well, young man."

Slow, shuffling footsteps carried the voice's owner into sight.

The woman was… she was very short. Tiny, in fact, with her head barely reaching his lower thigh. Her wrinkled skin was white as bone, it was almost translucent. Her tiny eyes were like two pale red grapes. She grasped in her tiny, claw-like hands a staff of pure black wood. Her white hair was so long, it almost dragged upon the ground. She was clad in white robes that seemed oddly pristine.

She smiled at him with a mouth full of crooked and stained teeth, as she drew near to his little camp. "As you can see, I am quite harmless. Just an old lady, seeking some warmth by an available fire. Nothing more, dearie, nothing more."

Though he drew his hand away from his sword, he still remained tense and vigilant as the woman crept closer.

She looked at him, as his still tense stance, and scoffed in derision. "… Do I honestly look like someone who can take down such a young, strapping, virile man as yourself, ser?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Though for all I know, you could be waiting until I fall asleep, and then you'll just slit my throat."

The woman shrugged in turn. "Perhaps. But I think I have already reached my throat-slitting quota for the year."

At that, he tilted his head in acknowledgment, and then sat down, as the tiny creature slowly reached out her tiny and gnarled hands towards the fire, as she too sat down, her staff resting across her legs.

Things were silent, save for the crackle of the fire.

She then cleared her throat. "Have anything one can slake their thirst on?"

Wordlessly, he handed her one of his flasks. With a grunt of thanks, she took it in both of her tiny hands and took a messy swig. She made a grimace. "Water, eh? I would have preferred a taste of the red. Have you got any of the red or even the gold?"

He looked at her. "…I don't have a taste for spirits."

She shrugged at that. "Ach… no accounting for taste, I suppose."

She then took another swig.

The fire crackled.

"So, what is your name, young man?" the dwarf asked, as she wiped at her mouth and handed him back the flask.

"…Call me Ren."

"Is that it?"

"…No."

"Will you tell me the rest, then?"

"No."

She stroked her chin and then shrugged. "Hmmm. Ren. A nice little nickname, for a young man."

The fire crackled and spat.

"And you?" he asked.

The woman cackled. "Me? I'm too old to still have a name, dearie. You could say I outlived it. I'm just an old ghost who has not yet died."

"Indeed." He wiped at the head of the flask, and then took a drink himself. "So, Ghost then?"

She chuckled again. "If you wish. I suppose that is as good a name as any."

The fire crackled.

"So, where would you be going, young man?"

"… I have no destination in mind."

She let loose a bark of laughter. "Ah-ha! A wanderer! Now there is a most rare breed. There are not many who have the fortitude to travel without end nor destination."

She then adopted a thoughtful look on her face. "Though, it does also mean that they do not feel happy enough anywhere to stay, perhaps?

He did not respond to that.

The fire crackled.

She stretched. "A most fine conversationalist you are, dearie. Anyway, though you may not be heading anywhere, I for one am heading towards Seagard. Could I trouble you to perhaps escort me there? With such a strapping young fellow like yourself by my side, none would be sure to trouble me. None, and especially when they see that sword you carry."

He did not respond verbally to that. But he nodded.

It was like she said; he had nowhere in particular to go.

Besides, at times, it was better to travel in company than it was to travel alone, as Strider, though stalwart and dependable, did not make for good conversation, in those moments when the Wanderer felt the need to speak aloud.

The conversation halted after that, and, soon enough, both drifted off to sleep.

The next day, they got up early and were already on their way when the sun started to rise. Since he had deigned his new companion to ride upon Strider, he was walking, guiding Strider along by the reigns.

Like most days in the Riverlands, it was overcast and damp. So damp that it seemed to seep into one's bones.

But he walked, and he walked without complaint.

They stopped for brief moments intermittently feasting traveling food or relieving themselves. Then, off they would be once again, with him walking, and Ghost riding upon Strider.

"I must say, this is all very chivalrous of you, young Ren. Not many in these lands looking to be so kind to one such as me."

Ren simply grunted.

Ghost tut-tutted. "You know, it would not kill you to hold a conversation with me that's longer than a sentence or two."

Strider knickered, and Ghost stroked the stallion's neck. "See, even your fine steed agrees with me."

Ren rolled his eyes, and he kept walking.

At night, they rested, and in the day, he walked. Every day, it was damp, and at night, it was damp. Damp, damp, damp.

As the sun rose on the third day, and they kept walking through the damp, Ren suddenly came to a stop. As Strider followed suit, Ghost, who had been dozing in the saddle, jerked awake, nearly falling over. "What the bloody hell!? Why have we stopped?"

She then looked up, and her complaints died upon her lips.

The God's Eye.

More than ten years later, and he could still see the damage from that 'battle.' Bare and untouched was the great skeleton of the dragon Quicksilver, the black bones now picked dry by scavengers both winged and dirt-bound.

Mostly untouched, as he noted several pieces were missing.

Ghost looked upon the field and took a loud swig of water.

"You fought in this battle, then?" she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, and she grunted. "Your solemn silence at this goes beyond simple decorum, young Ren. You were one of the survivors of the Uncrowned's army, yes? You survived the battle with Maegor the Monstrous."

Ren shook his head. "It was no battle. In a battle, both sides have at least a chance of winning. We didn't. It was a slaughter, not a battle. We were dead from the moment it began."

Ghost hmmed at that. "Well, at least you fought for a just cause. I know that not many can boast about that."

Ren shrugged. "That is scant comfort to all those in Aegon's army who died here. Do you really think that Aegon, in his last thoughts, was pleased that he had died for a just cause?"

He spat to the side. "He was a fool, and his actions had gotten thousands killed."

He clenched his fist.

"He was a fool, and he paid the price for his foolishness."

The scars ached.

Ghost chuckled. "A man as young as you should not be so cynical. It's bad for your health."

"So is a sword to the back and dragon fire. I survived those."

He started to walk forward. "We never should have fought."

Ghost stroked her chin. "You know…I heard a phrase from an old friend once; all it takes for evil to prosper is if good men do not take a stand."

"Aegon died when he took a stand," he whispered. "They all died."

"Aye… but he and they still took a stand none-the-less."

He said nothing, and they walked past.

Then, as evening began to emanate across the sky, he felt a raindrop.

They then walked in silence, with the woman occasionally taking a loud and messy swig from the flask he had given her, or chewing noisily on the hardtack and dried beef he shared.

He felt, saw, and heard more raindrops.

Eventually, just before the rain worsened, they came across an inn.

Nothing about the inn was at all remarkable. It consisted of four walls, at least two stories of rooms, and a small stable. The stable was manned by a wiry lad who could not have seen more than thirteen years, and he was all skin, bones, large teeth, and a wild mess of hair.

Ren paid him a silver to take care of Strider, but not before taking Strider's saddle.

The interior was large, filled with a small number of chairs and tables. From the kitchen wafted smells that were not unpleasant. There were a few other occupants, men and women, and children all. Some of the men looked hardened.

All looked up as Ren and Ghost entered. More specifically, as Ghost entered.

The two ignored the stares as they chose an empty table.

For the nervous-looking innkeeper who approached, Ren laid a few silvers on the table, and then lifted Ghost on to his saddlebag as a makeshift high-chair, so that her chest was at least partially level with the rim of the table. "A room, water, and two of whatever food you have, please," Ren said, as he then took a seat.

The innkeeper swallowed, doing his best not to look at Ghost, who simply leaned on her small staff. "Uh.. we have a warm rabbit stew, freshly made. Will…will that work for you and your… er, companion?"

Ren nodded, and so the innkeeper scooped up the coins hurriedly. A moment later, the man placed two cups on the table before them.

Ren took a sip of his drink and resisted the urge to grimace. The water was tepid, but drinkable.

The hearth filled the room with a nice warmth.

Ren felt entrapped.

A few young children, including the stable boy, were all staring at Ren's tiny companion. Ren ignored them. Ghost, on the other hand, leered at the children, making them scurry away in fright.

Aside from that, all was quiet.

He did not like it.

He hated inns.

Truth be told, he could not stand most buildings.

He took a deep breath and took another sip of water.

Hopefully, the rain would not last long.

As the innkeeper set their bowls of stew in front of them, the door to the inn slammed open.

Ren watched out of the corner of his eye as a group of rough-looking men entered. As they did, the room fell silent.

The leader of the group was an ugly-looking man whose bulk and features seemed equal parts pig, fat, and muscle. He was girted in chainmail and leathers and spurs. Belted at his side was a sword. He held open his arms wide, and then laughed, his ugly face contorting into a grin. "Why so silent? We are but searching for a place upon which to lay our weary heads."

He then whistled to the innkeeper, like how one would a simple hound. "Daeron? That you, me fine lad?"

The innkeeper looked pale and afraid. Still, he slowly walked forward, and the piggish man slung an arm around the innkeeper's shoulder as if they were a pair of old friends. "Now, Daeron, I feel hurt. Truly, I do. This lack of gratitude… why it's like a knife to the back."

A moment later, he sent poor Daeron down to the floor with a sudden clout to the side of the head. "now then, since we have those pleasantries out of the way… I do believe that you owe my fellows and I some taxes, and food."

The innkeeper dizzily got to his feet. "Y-yes, Ser Oryn. R-right away."

Oryn, the piggish man, then looked over at the tavern maids with an unpleasant grin. With a second whistle, two of the man's 'fellows' roughly pulled one of the poor girls onto their now-sitting leader's lap. Like a dog in the sand, he slipped his hands down her bodice, and under her skirt, and began to roughly paw at her. His men laughed, some even joining in. Everyone else did not even look up from their drinks or food.

The smart thing to do would have been to ignore it.

All it takes for evil to prosper is for good people to not take a stand.

Ren's hand clenched into a fist around his knife.

As the barmaid began to whimper, Ren stood up, palming the knife. "Stay here, Ghost," he whispered.

Ghost smirked.

With surety in his step, he strode towards the brigands. Oryn looked up. "What's this? A ragged man? Well, what do you want?"

"Let the girl go, and leave. You are distressing these people," Ren said in an even tone.

Oryn looked at him for a moment, and then he and his men burst out laughing. "Well, well, my lads. It looks like we got a real mummer here with us. That's just fine, as we could use some entertainment!"

Ren's face remained impassive. "I'm not going to ask you again."

Oryn's piggish eyes began to gleam. "So, the mummer wants to be a hero, eh? Tell me, are you deficient in the head, or just eager to die?"

He then pushed the girl to the ground and stood up to his freakish height. "Do you not know who we are, mummer-shit? We're the Dragon bone boys, sworn knights of Housse Qoherys. We keep order in these here parts, and as such, we-"

Though he was armed, his mouth was large and wide. In the next moment, Ren's pilfered knife was embedded deep into the brigand's mouth and throat.

"You talk too much," Ren said, as he jerked out the knife.

The piggish corpse gurgled and then dropped to the ground with a rattle and thump of leather and steel.

For a long moment, no one dared to say a word.

"Kill the fucker!" one of Oryn's men screamed.

As they charged, Ren ducked under a clumsy blow and then slashed the knife across the man's eyes. As the man stumbled back, Ren then dove to the side, rolled to his feet, and drew out his dark-grey sword, to swiftly parry a mace blow and then hamstrung another fighter with the knife, leaving the cutting tool embedded in the man's leg.

A third man bull-rushed him, an ax swinging towards his head. Ren swiftly raised his smokey sword and cut upwards, letting the edge embed deep into the thick wooden handle, while he swiftly drew the skinning knife at his side and stabbed it through the ax wielder's head as well. In a small shower of blood, he pulled out the knife. He then swung his blade, axe-handle still attached, into the face of another brigand, nearly shearing off the top of his head, and covering the floor with grey matter.

The pieces of the now-severed ax-handle fell to the ground.

His sword reflected no light.

Then, he heard thunderous footsteps rushing towards him from behind.

Almost on instinct, he reversed his grip, and his dark sword stabbed backward. It hit flesh, and he heard a low gasp of pain.

Quickly, he yanked out his blade and heard the small deluge of blood and guts as they hit the floor.

Slowly, he rose and watched as the man he had just stabbed crumpled to the ground on his knees, his hands trying uselessly to keep in his innards. It was not a clean-cut, and he would die messily and in pain.

In the next moment, Ren's knife opened up the man's pock-marked throat, and he gurgled and died, just like Oryn.

He looked about at the men he had just killed as he sheathed his knife and grey sword. He then turned towards the tavern girl. She was almost drenched in blood. She looked up at him in… fear.

He held out a gentle hand towards her.

A moment later, she vomited and then scurried away.

The innkeeper, Daeron, looked at Ren with… anger? "What have you done?" he whispered hoarsely.

Ren ignored him, and then went to each of the bodies, relieving them of their coin purses. He then proceeded to toss each of the coin pouches onto the nearby table. "That should cover the damages," he said.

Everyone else looked at him in fear. "Butcher," one whispered.

Then, Daeron's face grew angry. "What the fuck have you done?"

Ren shrugged. "These men were abusing you, that girl, and your hospitality. I saved you. I helped you."

Daeron shook his head. "These were knights and men of House Qoherys. When they find out what happened here, they'll kill all of us."

"Then bury the bodies. No one will find out."

"Fuck you!" Daeron screamed. "You've just as much killed us all!"

A moment later, everyone else began to scream insults at Ren. He ignored them all as he examined the weapons of the dead men. Most of them were of middling quality, though, he did note a knife with a dragonbone handle.

At least, he ignored everyone else until one threw a bowl at his head, which he managed to dodge. More bowls then followed, as well as half-eaten food.

"If we kill him, then maybe House Qoherys won't come after us!"

"Fuck that, we take 'im in alive! Lord Qoherys might even reward us."

As they spoke, everyone else in the inn got to their feet.

Ren's word was quickly out of his sheathe once more. Even still, he did not favor his odds. Despite his weapon, he was still out numbed, and he no longer had the element of surprise.

The air grew tense, and then… Daeron sighed, the anger leaving the innkeeper's face. "Take your tiny companion and go, ser. Just go."

Ren looked at him for a long moment.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

He looked at the floor, covered in blood, and at the other residents of the inn, all with faces full of anger and fear.

Ren sighed, and he and Ghost quietly departed.

After the skirmish at the inn, Ren and Ghost traveled for long distances in pure silence, save for the sound of Strider's hooves.

Days and nights passed, and neither said a single word.

As the fire crackled, Ghost craned her tiny neck towards where Ren lay with his head on his travel sack. "Why did you not go back to the Reach after the battle?"

He sighed. "How did you know I was from the Reach?"

She smirked. "I have my ways."

He sighed. "When I awoke after the battle ended, I was almost buried under a mound of corpses. Men, and women, that I had marched into battle alongside. After the slaughter… I did not feel as if I deserved to return home. So, the next six years… I wandered. I wandered and avoided bounty hunters. But I could just not go home. So, for the past six years… I have felt lost."

The tiny women nodded, though it looked as if she did not fully believe him. "That was a good thing you did, back at the inn. Helping that woman."

"Indeed. I could plainly see her gratitude, along with what seemed to be the remnants of her breakfast. The gratitude of the others was just as plain to see. It was practically singing off their lips as they threw their bowls at me, and threatened to kill me. Indeed, such gratitude."

"Would you have done any differently?"

Ren fell silent for a moment and then shook his head. "No. It was the right thing to do, consequences be damned."

"Indeed, it was, young man."

The fire crackled.

"Beren," he then said.

"Hmm?"

He craned his neck towards her. "My name is Beren."

Ghost looked at him, and then smiled, a thing that, for once, held no mocking, merely a gentleness that seemed at slight odds with her craggy face. "Beren… a most strong name indeed."

Several long days later, days filled with snippets of idle conversation (and strangely ribald jokes on Ghost's part) the two decided to part ways. It was at the stretch of land between Oldstones and the Green Fork where they spent one last campfire as companions.

As morning came, they doused the campfire, and so said their goodbyes.

"I will admit, it was nice, traveling with kind company after so long," Beren said, as he held out his hand. "You kept things… a bit interesting, to say the least. Fare thee well, Ghost."

She took his hand. "A pleasure to have been your traveling companion as well. May your wanderings be ever fruitful. Also, remember this…"

As she said this, she crooked a finger for him to bend down. He did so, and she whispered in his ear. "Not all who wander are lost. Remember what Lights the Way."

Before he could react, she then swiftly pecked him full on the lips. With a final laugh and cackle, she then started off.

He watched, bemusedly, hand on his lips, as she ambled off, eventually fading into the mist.

Shaking his head, he turned, mounted Strider, and headed upwards, following the curve of the Green Fork.

In the distance, he saw the ugly and squat towers of the Twins.

Overhead, a single eagle flew across the sky.

It was quiet.

As dusk began to fall, he made his campsite with the last of his firewood.

It was an unusually clear night, for the Riverlands, allowing him a clear view of the stars. They were too numerous to count.

He closed his eyes and laid his head upon the damp, bare ground.

In so doing, however, he failed to notice the strange mist settling in around him.

Birdsong was the first thing he heard.

The first thing he felt was the gentle caress of warm sunshine upon his face.

When he awoke, he was lying on soft grass.

He shot up. How? How had he gotten here?

More to the point, where was here?

He looked about. He was within a verdant forest, filled with green and birdsong and sunshine and comforting shade. For a moment, he saw perched on a branch an eagle. The raptor looked upon him with amber eyes. It blinked, and then, it flew off.

Then, he heard it.

A song.

But it seemed more than just that. It was….

He had no thoughts that could begin to describe it, save that it called to his very soul. Just hearing it soothed his burdens, and lifted up his weary thoughts. IF he had to do naught but listen to that song until the end of his days, until the end of time, then he would be content.

Entranced he followed the song. He followed it over the grass and through the trees. Not once did he stumble, not once did he falter. He just kept following.

He kept following until he came to a clearing.

Then….

He saw her.

She was in the center of the clearing, and she was garbed in a dress of pure and kind blue. Her skin was pale, and she seemed to glow with an inner radiance. But mostly, his eyes were drawn to her hair, for it was as black as the finest of sable cloaks, and seemed to glisten in the sunlight.

She was…

Beautiful.

He watched as she danced and spun and twirled and sang, it was as if her feet never once touched the ground as if she were floating upon the very air itself.

He was entranced.

How long he stood there, watching, he did not know.

He just kept watching as she danced and spun and twirled and sang.

He took a single step forward, his boot lightly crushing the grass he stood upon.

Somehow, that soft crunch echoed through the glade.

Then, suddenly, she stopped dancing, her back facing him.

Slowly, she turned, her long black hair, which went down to her ankles, swished with her movement.

He should have fled, but he could not move. Brown eyes met the eyes of the purest grey, set in a face that could only be described as beautiful.

Their eyes met, and it felt as if the world, that time itself, stood still.

A/N: Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I am sure you can all see where this is going. I decided to stick with the original first names because well… some things are just too sacred to overtly change, even in fanfiction.

As for what house this version of Beren comes from, I already left a pretty big clue.

Read, review, enjoy, and Happy Holidays!