Valyria never wept.
The Dome, as the Touched called it, guarded this land from all the elements had to offer. There was no wind here, no rain- no summer nor winter. Day and night were not felt here either, a state of eternal dusk in which only a pale shimmer kept the totality of darkness at bay. A stark contrast to the rest of the world, where nature was king and mortals its keep. It was an alien sort of place, one that Jon hadn't found himself able to enjoy. Gentle breezes brought smiles to his face, as did fierce ones. He'd rather burn his skin red than not feel the sun again. This place was wrong. It should not be. Nobody should live here.
And yet, live here people did.
The Touched were survivors, through and through. A different sort when compared to the scavengers beyond the Wall, but survivors all the same. They did not allow the banality of Valyria to halt their advantage. This was the only place in the world where their minds could be kept, and they'd rather die than lose that. Many did in fact die, and yet they still found a way.
The Brand was more versatile than Jon had originally thought possible. It stretched across all spans of Valyria, from the back-alleys of Oros to the steep steppes of Tyria and past the centralized capital ruin that was oh-so-cleverly named Valyria. It covered mountain-tops and froze magma and bridged the sea greater than any piece of stone could.
It was the volcanic mountain-tops coated in the stuff that allowed the Touched to live here. The Brand was a see-through crystal, comparable to a thick, unyielding glass. The Touched made their home atop the First Flame, the volcano whose slopes Oros was built out of. At its top, where the petrified maw of a lake of lava lay, they found that even without the sun, they could farm.
With the light and heat that the stilled lava gave off, they planted crops, using the Brand as make-shift glass gardens. Over the years, they watched as their harvest withered and died, and yet they kept at it, their faith by and true. Eventually, blackened carrots and white-skinned potatoes were eatable, and Valyria was made livable once more. Because Valyria did not experience the seasons of the world any longer, these crops could grow a continuous pace, and due to the preserving nature of the Brand, they need not worry about their soil losing its bounty.
But the Touched, while thankful for their ability to survive, did not move to make Valyria theirs in truth. They were barely seven hundred strong and their Greyscale addled bodies were incapable of reproducing. They could not increase their population and thus could not spread their movements, keeping only to the northern tip of the remnants of Valyria.
This worked well for Jon.
The Valyrian steel that the Touched used was found all throughout Oros over the years, literally every bit of the stuff that could derived from the area, which ought to explain how rare the steel was since there was less than two hundred items of Valyrian steel in Valyria and Oros had once housed a population of over three hundred thousand. And they'd not explored more than fifty miles outside of their make-shift boundary lines! The rest of Valyria was his to see, his to take, and he made to do so.
There was little need to bother them further.
True, they allowed him entrance, and true, they offered to trade knowledge, but that was only based on Stinmirnahl's arrival. Had he not been here, and Jon had always intended on combing over Valyria regardless, the Touched would have fought his arrival.
Though it was a risk and would certainly have not been a pleasant time, he felt he would have been able to win. The Touched were not a militaristic people, they were quiet farmers that were warier than a back-alley cat. A Shout that destroyed in a wide berth would end them.
So, he didn't stay in Oros. Being allowed inside did not mean he was welcome. This was their territory, and he'd no intention on fighting for it. Based on the fact that they skimped out on the other five major cities of the Valyrian Freehold as well as the many towns and ports and slave hubs it once housed, there should be plenty more steel for him to make off with.
And, indeed, there was.
"Ah ha…" Jon began, staring at the vault filled with his quarry. "Ahaha… Ahahahahahahhahah- Ow!"
"Thuri," groaned Stinmirnahl, having just shoved Jon over with a concentrated breath of air. "Stop."
Jon grumbled, righting himself. They were now in Tyria, the city that was melded into the side of the Seventh Flame, situated along the southern bank of the Smoking Sea. As was the case with Oros, there was more of the Brand than there was sense, but unlike Oros there was no life here. There were remnants of it, skeletons of humans and dragons and even giants frozen in the crystal grip of the Brand, but nothing living true called this place home.
His first comb through the city proved fruitless. The lower reaches, he learned, were where slave and commonfolk lived, and Valyrian steel was a showing of nobility. Over the course of a week, he'd found a handful of daggers here and there and a single axe of the make hidden beneath of dust-covered table.
It was in the middle of Jon's second week in Tyria when he finally came across what he needed to know. He'd found another dagger and a strange bit of cutlery, and then came across the remnants of a library. Jon could barely speak Low Valyrian and his ability to read the language was even worse, but he understood maps decently enough, and the map of Tyria carved into the side of the library proved his benefit. The nobles and dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold lived near the mouths of the Fourteen Flames, for that was where it was easiest to hatch their dragons. He had been in the wrong area the whole time.
The higher marches were hard to reach on foot, only a thin passage that once held a crank-based elevator made it possible. From there, Jon found the high homes of Valyrian nobility, and found the hidden barrack of a family Jon had the suspicion belonged to one of the Forty, though he knew not which.
Its vault was packed. Arms and armors of Valyrian steel were plentiful to see, as were trinkets of the make. Chests of gold and gems along with four fossilized dragon eggs lined the walls, and sat in the middle of the room was a single horn, great in size. It was black, obviously taken and carved from the remnant of a massive dragon, six feet long and wide as a man's torso. Bands of red-gold and Valyrian steel circled it, inlaid with glyphs of some sort.
Everything Jon wanted. Everything and more.
It was little wonder he'd broken into a mad cackle.
"Stinmirnahl, I've a task for you."
"Speak it, Thuri. Speak, and I shall listen."
Jon nodded, motioning to the obvious prize in front of them. "Go back to the lower city and find a large wagon or something to carry all this in. We'll collect them and then I'll have you take them to Brynden."
"Zu'u Dreh Ni Mindoraan. I do not understand. To gather these Zun, the weapons, I understand. To Wundun, to carry them to the Dwemer, though… Zu'u Dreh Ni Mindoraan."
"I'm not blind, friend. I know you do not like this land." Stinmirnahl had grown progressively more sullen the longer spent in Valyria, and it showed. He would never have knocked Jon over out of annoyance had he been beyond the Wall. "You will take these to Brynden, where the Children will guard them, and I will stay here and continue to look through."
"I cannot leave you, Thuri." The Dovah protested, sounding honestly offended.
Jon turned to his friend, noting with some amusement that he did not even fit partially into the vault. Only the tip of his snout was visible, the rest of his body was snaked around the crystallized volcano.
"You won't leave me. You'll find a nest, you'll carve us a home, and you'll return. Every full moon, make way back to me, to speak and gather the next haul of goods."
"And you? Fen Hi Lahney Ni Dii Aak? How will you live without my help?"
"If you're that worried, each time you return you'll bring food for me." That would make things easier, being honest. "These arms are important, they'll allow us much in the way of comfort and allow me to understand my craft better."
He sighed. "Geh. Fine. I shall find your carry."
Jon Arryn hadn't believed Lysa.
His wife was drawn to flights of fancy and loved stories and rumors more than fact and truth. Jon often did not make comment on this, for her love of these stories was easy enough to ignore for his greater peace of mind. Better she read and dream of her tall tales than ween their son; Robyn was far too old for such. And in this case, just as most other cases were regarding her stories, he did not believe.
A dragon still living? Bigger even than Balerion the Black Dread? A dragon that, according to some kitchen wench that sent her letters from the Bloody Gate, passed through the Vale on the regular?
No, Jon hadn't believed Lysa at all.
And there was fair reason for his skepticism. Ignoring his skepticism for even a moment, for one to be larger than Balerion seemed less likely than a live dragon at all. As Hand of the King, he'd spent most of his time within the confines of the Red Keep and made habit of taking leisurely strolls through its hallowed halls. He'd seen the dragon skulls a hundred times over, and well knew the monstrosity that Balerion was. Large enough to swallow an elephant whole with room to spare, that dragon was a freak of nature that no other skull even neared in stature.
Dragons were extinct and were not coming back. The last of them was a sickly thing, he'd been told; smaller than a hunting dog. It had died choking on its own bile in a sleeping fit. The Lord of the Eyrie would allow that dragons once ruled the world, but they were dead and gone and nothing would change that.
He'd no reason to have believed his wife.
He'd even less reason to believe the writ of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They were an order that, while important in keeping wildling invaders out, was relatively useless in his mind. The letter Jeor Mormont sent out seemed more than impossible, and Jon believed Lysa's tall tale originated from that script.
But Jon Arryn was Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. He needed to return to the Vale at least once in a year to confer with his bannermen anyway. To know of their sorrow and to hear their words of times since missed. He merely told Lysa that he'd mix her worries with his business and ask his lords their thoughts on the dragon. Unexpectedly, she chose to follow along for a change. His return to the Eyrie had gone as it had these last few years, a quick trip through the Crownlands that had little in the way of struggle, aside from Robyn's occasional fits, and he was near his castle when it happened.
A roar like none he'd ever heard before echoed through the Giant's Lance, deep and screeching and bracing, bouncing from wall to wall through the cavernous pass. Jon dove to the floor in a scramble, his men dropping the covered wagon that held his wife and son like a sack of potatoes in their own dash for safety. The pair of them cried themselves hoarse, Robyn in fear and Lysa in rage, but Jon hadn't the time to care.
Not when he saw… this.
Massive was not a word that described it well at all, and yet that was all Jon could think of in his state of numb disbelief. The shadow of its wings blotted out the overhead sun, casting a blanket of darkness over the Vale. The shadows made it too dark for Jon to see, but it was clear that it was a ferocious thing, and it was also clear that ferocious was a grave understatement. It swerved a sideways gant, parallel to the cliff-face along Jon's left, each beat of its wings buffeting his retinue like a sea storm, and then disappeared through the pass with one last roar, headed north.
"By the seven…" he mumbled, well and truly baffled by what he'd just seen.
"I told you!" Lysa cried out, holding Robyn to her chest. He was crying a honking mess of tears, ruining his mother's dress, and she cared not. "I said it and I meant it!"
And why would that matter? Just a week prior she told him of a city being raised on the Iron Islands that would rival King's Landing in only a few years' time.
"My lord, did you see?" His squire, Hugh, asked. A strong boy, with light blonde hair and sky-blue eyes and easy smiles.
"Of course I saw," Jon groused, standing with help. The pains of age did not come easy. "Everyone saw, I would say. A bloody dragon, in my time? The world's gone mad, truly…"
"Yes, my lord. A sight indeed, but- I spoke not of the beast, but of what it carried."
"Carried?" Jon hadn't seen anything of the sort. Couldn't see anything, really. The shadow it brought about choked off all sight for the older man.
"Aye," one of his guardsmen added. "M'lord, I saw it meself. Dunno what it was, but there was a wagon held by its back claws."
Hugh nodded to the man. "That was my take as well. Do you know what this means, my lord? Somebody controls it, perhaps even rides it through."
Damn. A dragonrider with a beast of that size would be the end of the Seven Kingdoms. No matter how much Jon loved Robert, the King of Westeros had grown fat and lazy and complacent over the years and he'd inspire soldiers little against a dragon. Joffrey would inspire even less.
"We ride hard for the Eyrie," decreed the lord. "We must make haste. I have to send a raven to Varys."
Jon might not have liked the eunuch, but he knew his loyalties. Varys was loyal to Westeros itself, and felt peace more important than lineage. One could hem and haw all one wished, but the years under Robert were peaceful, and the Spider would not wish that disrupted, certainly not by a dragon and its phantom rider.
Nine times had Stinmirnahl returned to Valyria, meaning that it had been nine months since Jon Snow had kept to the ruined land.
Much of nothing had happened. He did as he made to do and searched for the treasures of the Valyrian Freehold.
Their steel was plenty to be found once he knew where to look, high vaults dug into upper caverns of the Fourteen Flames. Over half-a-thousand arms of war and pieces of protective gear had been found, a full score of ossified dragon eggs, and five more of those decorated horns. Thousands of trinkets and knickknacks of Valyrian steel was found as well, but that was not all Jon took.
There were books too. Scrolls and tomes and letters depicting things Jon could not understand, but he presumed would be good to have. Eventually he'd learn the language, and even if nothing came from it there would be something for somebody else to glean from their words.
Every time Stinmirnahl returned, tale of what happened in the outside was told. The Dov had searched relentlessly during his first month away for a suitable nest, combing over the mountains of Westeros and Essos all, any subtlety about his existence well and truly gone, and eventually found his liking in the island located some fifty miles east of the Wall. It took Jon a moment to think on it, but he remembered. Skagos.
He knew little of Skagos, save for that it was home to a bands of cannibal savages and the occasional herd of unicorns. There were three minor houses there as well, Magnar and Stane and Crowl. He knew nothing of its geography, nor of its culture and beliefs. Stinmirnahl hadn't much to share either, just that he'd chosen the land for his nest and he'd work to do. Apparently, the nest of a dovah was a private affair, one that was not spoken of until completed.
Jon hadn't known much regarding these nests. Paarthurnax had once allowed him entrance into his own home atop High Hrothgar. Hollowed from the peak of the Throat of the World, it was barely large enough to house the first greybeard and hadn't been decorated at all. Paarthurnax built his nest in such a way that allowed him no comforts, which suited his meditative lifestyle well. Stinmirnahl would not copy this, for he missed his creature comforts greatly during his years guarding the Soul Cairne, and so Jon was excited to see what his make would be like.
And then there was the Children of the Forest! More than half of their females were pregnant apparently, and the rest were making to follow suit. Jon was glad for them. They'd been good to him over his stay beyond the Wall and he felt this spark of life well needed. Hopefully it would keep their sullenness at bay.
With each month that passed, each return of Stinmirnahl, another wagonload of treasure was brought to Skagos. And when Jon felt he'd spent his time enough, he moved on to a different city.
Tyria was looted slow compared to the rest of the Valyrian Freehold. After Jon's second month in that city, he moved on, traveling a road of blackened stone coated in purple-tinted crystal. To the capital he went first, where four of the Fourteen Flames intertwined, where there were more high-marched homes for dragonlord nobility than there were lower level hovels. Three months he spent there, and once he felt he'd done enough, he moved further south towards the Scrylar, the city built into the Twelfth Flame that scraped against the edge of the Dome just as Oros did in the north.
Jon's process grew repetitive at times, to be certain. But this was a repetition worth more than anything in the known world, and he made to have a comfortable life free of worry and filled with adventure. What was a few months of monotony when compared to that?
From Scrylar to Garamis to Aenreel and all the ruined towns and ports in between, Jon gained his bounty. And he had no intention to stop. Wouldn't have either, had Stinmirnahl not arrived earlier than expected.
Jon had been combing through the lower cities of Aenreel, having already gone through the mountainous vaults up high, when his friend roared his arrival.
His friend landed nearby, and Jon greeted him warmly. "Fahdon, I did not expect you for another week at least!"
"Thuri," rumbled his Fahdon, his friend. "Lost Kul Paaz Kos Het. I have good reason to be here."
"Oh?"
"Fin Dwemer, the Dwemer… They have Kiin Kiir, they have birthed their young."
Jon smiled. "That's good. Are they well?"
"It is, they are," nodded Stinmirnahl. "And yet… Motmahus. It is complicated. Nineteen new Laas, new lives, were born to the Dwemer. One of the Kiir was born with our blood, Thuri. A Dwemer with the Dovahsos. I know this. I could taste it."
Jon's smile turned a still thing, as if it were carved from the Brand surrounding them.
To carry the Dovahsos meant either a dragon or a dragonborn, and it was impossible for another of the dovah to come here. He was the only dragonborn in this world. Should have been, unless-
"Acorn," Jon breathed. His heart thrummed heavily, beating against his ribs in a cadence of realized bewilderment. "She carried my child."
"Geh."
"But- That shouldn't be possible!" Brynden had told him quite explicitly that no man had ever reproduced with one of the Children when Jon had had a fit of curiosity. That the story of Brandon the Builder taking a Child to wife was just that, a story. The makeup between the two species was just too different. Hells, Jon hadn't even been able to hilt himself halfway into Acorn during their rutting, that should have been proof enough of their incompatibility!
"Nii Los Lah. It is magic, Thuri. The Dwemer are born of it. When I stayed at their tree, my Lah, my magic… it brought these new Laas into the world. And you, Dovahkiin, you've more Lah than I."
Jon fell to the floor with widened eyes, his hands tugging at his long black locks. "Shit."
Stinmirnahl looked on in confusion. "Daar Ni Sahlo. This is not bad. The more blood you spread across this world, the greater our Bormah is made."
"That's- that's not what I meant." Jon hadn't given children much thought. He'd already had three in his first life, and while he loved those three dearly would have wished for more, the thought of having children with anybody that was not Camilla Hearthome… Astrid and Emer and Bolvar were enough.
It should have been easy to avoid. As a bastard, his marriageability was stilted in Westeros. That suited Jon well. Camilla had been the only woman he'd ever loved, the only one meant to carry his seed, and he meant to keep it that way. He hadn't intended to have any trueborn children due to this. But he'd not thought on bastards at all.
He sighed. Plans change quicker than an ocean tide. A proverb he'd learned from Theon Greyjoy of all people when a visit to the Winter Town brothel brought him the pox. Their situations were vastly different, and yet the saying held true.
"I've half-filled the wagon already," Jon said, motioning his hand to the east. "It's about three miles out that way. Bring it here. I'll fill it with what I've scrounged from these homes and we'll leave Valyria."
"It will be done, Thuri." Sounded the dovah, who took to the air once more.
Unlike the last time they flew together, they did break so Jon could rest properly. He'd been working a long day prior to Stinmirnahl's arrival, and while he wanted to see Acorn and his child, he knew they would do well without him for an extra day.
Stinmirnahl had found an enclave within one of the Hills of Norvos, a mountainous region that suited the dov well. Their stay was a short thing. The sun fell, Jon slept atop the wing membranes of his friend, and when the sun rose again, they were off.
From the cavern of his rest, it took only seven hours to reach the Haunted Forest. It took less than ten minutes to reach the Children after their arrival beyond the Wall, and it was the dead of night.
Nothing had changed of this place. The clearing was still empty of animals with only the great heart tree at its center atop a high hill. Jon snuck through its roots, and found that though the outside hadn't changed, the inside was an entirely different matter.
Though Brynden was deep in the Dream, the Children were awake. They were speaking freely, cooing over crying bundles that were atop their knees and on the floor and suckling their breasts. They looked tired, but happy for it.
They all greeted Jon especially warmly, happily showing their young to him. Infant Children were curious to take in, more alien even than their adults. Eyes too large for their heads and skin wrinkled like an elderly man, they looked decidedly off. But they still held to the features of their parents, nut-brown skin dappled with white spots and furred ears and four-fingered claws and pointed teeth. To see a babe with teeth was strange, but these babes were strange all round, so Jon made no comment of it.
Eighteen younglings were shown to Jon, thirteen boys and seven girls. The only one he'd not seen yet was Acorn and his creation, and he grew nervous for it. What was he to do? How would he feel? Would it be one of the Children? A human? A distorted combination of the two? Would his get be a monster not meant for the world? Jon knew not, and with each thought, his nervousness grew.
One of the males directed Jon to the area he once lived in, where a wall of root and stone blocked way. He sang a hearty tune, and the wall receded.
Acorn was lain asleep on his old cot, looking as she always did, if a bit harried. Held by her side was a bundle of wrapped leaves making soft snores. Slowly, quietly, Jon moved to lift the babe and unwrap its covering.
It looked not like a Child but did not look wholly human either, and Jon could not discern its gender. Its skin was pale like his own but heavily freckled with nut-brown flecks half the size of a silver stag all round. There were five fingers on its hand, though the nails were thick and black and curved like Acorn's claws. A small tuft of dark hair sat on its head like a wispy crown. It was not wrinkled like the other infants were. Perhaps it was not what one would call a cute babe, but it was a fierce one.
And Stinmirnahl was right. He could feel it, taste it, the thrum of the Dovahsos within this babe. There could be no question that he was the sire.
"Her name is Ash," Acorn said, jolting Jon from his musings. A girl then. His surprise startled his daughter awake, and bright green eyes a shade lighter than freshly rained grass opened in a sleepy state of confusion.
"After the tree?" Jon asked. Ash had surmised that she did not know who he was and was now reaching out for his face. Jon brought her closer and leaned down, shoulders lightening as she made contact with his cheeks.
"And for what remains of the tree when burned. If you are to be the fire against the ice, it felt fitting for your child to be of your nature."
Ash giggled as she fumbled her stubby fingers through his curly beard, and Jon felt his spirits lift, his earlier nervousness gone. This was no monster. It could not be a monster. This was his daughter. Sixteen years he'd been without the love of a child. Sixteen years he'd unknowingly missed with a fervor.
He made a decision then and there. Though Acorn and he would not be loving towards one another like he'd been with Camilla or Ned Stark was with his own wife, he would do anything for this girl. He would give her the world, damn the consequences.
"Hi Los Dii."
You are mine.
Fun chapter to write. I figured that the Touched could be more useful later on, as opposed to now. We'll see how they go later on.
So, yes. Jon now has a shit-ton of Valyrian steel, and he's got a kid. And further, Jon Arryn now has seen Stinmirnahl. There's gonna be a major bounty on his head. He's not gonna care in the slightest, but still. Worries for the future.
Ash is, of course, going to be important to the story dynamic. If there's one thing to motivate a person, it's the life and well-being of their own child. This'll help ground our boy Jon and give him reason to stick around Westeros, though he'll still have the itch for adventure and'll scratch it when it suits him.
Oh, and to the one guest that told me "this turned to shit and you should feel bad." Thank you. I needed a laugh.
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