Jon
Shrouds of white were hovering over the hills and valleys. It was hours before sunset, the sky of a deep navy blue colour, lightened only by few stars flickering on the distant horizon.
They took their positions long ago. Now they were waiting for the sound of horse hooves and the cry of the Dothraki horde. Jon knew the fear the Golden Horde could instil and so did the Lhazareen warriors, lined up behind the ditch that was meant to trap and stop the charge of the enemy. It took nearly three days to dig the ditch and several hours to fill it with oil. Finished with this task they went on to drench their chosen battlefield in oil. Most of it was covered in pasture and that it hadn't rained for weeks could only be to their advantage, though Jon still feared the thick fog.
Tito had assured him that he would be able to lure the horde here, but Jon couldn't help to nurse doubts. Soon, he told himself and eyed the light glinting on the distant horizon. In a few hours the sun will show itself.
Exhaling deeply, he turned around and took in the Lhazareen warriors. The front line was made up of men from Lhazosh and Kosrak. They were all garbed in leather armour and armed with spears and painted shields. They made up the first three lines and lined the half-moon-like ditch, spreading between two hills to the left and right. Behind the shieldmen stood the archers spread over the hill they had built from the dug-up earth.
A ring of fire.
It is the only way to win, he reminded himself not for the first time and smoothed his hand over the pommel of his sword. Carefully, he pulled the blade out and admired it. The torches, carried by the Lhazareen warriors, cast a golden glimmer on the polished blade.
The touch of Sonarys' hot breath on his cheek roused him out of his lethargic state. The dragon lay curled next to him, staring out in the darkness.
He is searching for his brothers, he knew and cast his eyes to the right flank. There on the hill he placed Dany and most of the Lhazareen women, who volunteered to take part in the battle. Naturally, this roused dissatisfaction among the men, but the women came anyway, probably spurred on by Tito's mother. Clad in leather armour and armed with bows they sat behind the shieldwalls, waiting for their enemy.
Jon was still worried about Dany's safety. Rhaegon and Viserion were there to protect her, but that wasn't enough to remove his fears. He knew the strength of the Dothraki horde. One stray arrow would be enough, but he couldn't bring himself to banish her to the side-lines. Besides, he needed her to control the dragons and she deserved to be part of this as much as the other women.
"Jon of Winterfell," Young Jemshid, son of the chief of Hesh, called him back to the present. "Can you hear it ?
Jon remained silent and listened. It was only subtle, but the vibration intensified with every passing moment.
"I do," Jon replied and nodded his head in confirmation. "They are coming."
"I know," Jemshid agreed and gave him a grim look.
Then they heard it. The thundering sound of a thousand hoofbeats shook the very earth as Jon tried to see through the fog.
Tito and his men are to join the men placed at the flanks once they reach the battlefield and the numerous torches flickering before him are meant to lure the Dothraki towards them. Tito was sure that the Dothraki wouldn't hesitate to attack them.
They think us weak, Tito had told him not long ago. And that will be our advantage.
Jon didn't know what to think. His hand trembled as he observed the enemy's cavalry charge. Even the thick fog was unable to suppress the rumble of the hoof beats; rather, the concealment of their approaching figures only served to heighten the sense of impending doom.
Men liked to boast about their lack of fear in the face of the enemy, but in this moment Jon recalled Lord Stark's words after Jon's first execution.
One can only be brave in the face of fear.
"Shields and spear up!" he heard Young Jemshied's voice, echoing over the ranks of the warriors below. "Shields and spears up!"
It took only the blink of a moment before the men had lifted their shields and spears to meet the onslaught of the horde. Jon remained atop the hill, the banner of Kosrak and Lhazosh fluttering above his head and his dragon at his side.
The dragon shrieked as if aware of the impending danger.
"Patience," he whispered to the dragon and patted his neck. "Patience."
Yet all of these thoughts were banished away as the cries of the Dothraki screamers started to echo over the battlefield. Jon finally saw them, dark shadows moving behind white shrouds.
Tito's predictions proved right. The Dothraki riders stormed forward as if they could only see victory beyond the fog. Faster and faster they charged, spurred on by their illusion.
Jon's breath hitched as the first riders disappeared in the ditch. It wasn't all too deep, but not narrow enough to be crossed with a horse. Suddenly, hundreds of riders realized that the ground beneath their feet had disappeared. With helpless shouts, some of them pulled back on their reins, but it was already too late. They hurtled down into the ditch filled with slippery oil.
Thus it continued. The first wave of riders was pressed forward by the second line. The second wave of riders was pressed forward by the third line.
Soon the screams of horses contested with the cursing of the Dothraki warriors. As expected, some of them tried to crawl out of the ditch, but the Lhazareen warriors' stood strong and held them off with their sharp spears and shields.
"It is time," he told Young Jemshid, who nodded his head in grim determination.
"Prepare the arrows!" Young Jemshid commanded and at once the bowmen nocked their burning arrows.
"Nock!" Young Jemshid shouted and counted to three. "Loose!"
It sounded like the wings of a thousand birds taking flight at once.
Like a hundreds falling stars they fell upon the battleflield.
Another volley of arrows followed, before Jon's part was mean to begin.
Sweetly, he smoothed his hand over Sonarys' wings and gave the command.
"Sonarys!" he shouted and pointed at the ditch below."Dracarys! Dracarys!"
In the blink of a moment the oil caught fire, spreading along the ditch like a current of flames. Jon felt the heat on his skin, but that was not the end of it.
"Māzigon kesīr!" he shouted and at once his dragon returned to his side, the screams of men and horse alike filling his ears. Their burning arrows they had unleashed earlier helped to spread the flames over the battlefield.
It was a terrifying sound that made Jon shiver from head to toe, but he quickly brushed those feelings aside.
Not now!
"Now," he told the beast and pointed ahead on the battlefield."Dracarys! Pōntoma Zālaza!"
That the dragon understood his command was still a miracle to him, though the result was terrifying to behold.
Sonarys' bathed the battlefield in a stream of blue fire. At once the flames, seeded by the burning arrows, doubled in size.
Higher and higher the flames rose as Sonarys unleashed stream of fire upon the battlefield.
"Jon!" Young Jemshid shouted and snapped him back to reality. "The beacon was lightened!"
Jon angled his head and looked at the right flank. There he saw it, the beacon that was meant to announce the second phase.
Now it's your turn Dany!
Jon kept his gaze fixed at the dark hill, its outlines illuminated by the growing flames below. In regular intervals he heard the sound of arrows unleashed on the enemy, but soon even this sound was drowned out by the roaring flames.
Patiently, he waited for Rhaegon's and Viserion's attack.
At first he only saw the outline of their bodies, but then he saw their colourful flames. Visieron's yellow and Rhaegon's crimson flames, waltzed over the rear and made an escape impossible.
For this brief moment the battlefield turned into a ring of fire.
…
Daenerys
The world was on fire. Flames of blue, red and yellow grew higher and higher, swallowing up the enemy like a hungry men his last supper. Dany shuddered at the sight, though she tried to put a brave face. She had never experienced war, only read about it in history books.
She tried to block out the smell of burned flesh and the arrows bouncing off their shields. Down below the hill she spotted Dothraki riders trying to hop over the sharp stakes and barricades. Their flank was better protected than the opposing one due the thick forest spreading below the hill. Yet Tito and his brother Hibal urged their men to remain vigilant.
"Shields and spears up!" she heard them shout as they continued to thrust their spears into approaching enemies.
Dany tried to forget about them, minding her own task. She had unleashed a dozen of arrows on them. Yet the increasing number of Dothraki riders trying to overcome the barricades and stakes worried her.
We are all dead if they reach us. We would be trapped. Not even the dragons would be able to help us.
"Arrows!" Tito warned and all of them ducked their heads. Some arrows snapped over their heads, but a good dozen of them stuck in the shields of the Lhazareen warriors. "Keep your shields up!"
A rush of fear washed over her as she gazed across the sea of flames stretching as far as her eyes could see. Somewhere over there was Jon. At least she thought so, for she saw Sonarys hovering over the burning ditch. The flames there were unnaturally high and bright. Dany had never seen anything like it.
Rhaegon and Viserion were still attacking the rear, though less enthusiastic than before. For her it seemed they grew bored with their task, but that was no surprise to her. They had the mind of young children.
"Arrows!" Tito warned again a moment later he found one sticking in his shield. Several others bounced off their painted shields or flew over their heads. Some of the women started to whimper, but Larsha showed no mercy.
"Crying is no use," the young woman snapped and shifted her attention to Tito, armed with his shield and spear. Whenever an enemy rider dared to get close he thrusted his spear with a precision that astounded Dany. "Keep shooting! If they get up here we are all fucked!"
Fear washed over Dany s she watched the dark shapes of the riders glimmering in the rising sun. The sky had lightened a little, though a a strange darkness had spread over the other side of the battlefield. The fire was unnaturally bright, but the dark smoke blocked out the sparse sunlight.
Nocking another arrow she turned back to look at the dragons circling above their heads.
Would they hear me from the distance, she wondered and unleashed an arrow on an approaching warrior. The arrow hit his horse right in the neck. The animal reared and at once the man ended up in the mud only to be killed by another arrow. Jon had told her once that a knight in plate armour wouldn't be easily vanquished by such arrows. Thus it relieved her that that the Dothraki were only clad in painted vests, though they were still terrifying in their own right. Another enemy would have long balked after a greater part of their arm got destroyed, but not the Dothraki.
"Arrows!" Tito warned again and Dany lowered her head. One of the girls, not far from her, was hit and whimpered in pain.
"More arrows!" one of the Lhazareen warriors shouted and another volley was unleashed upon them.
"Why are they all coming here?" Larsha asked in a frustrated voice. "This position is much harder to take than the other one…," she continued, but was interrupted by an arrow snapping past her head.
Too close, Dany thought, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. Too close.
"You are right," Tito remarked and pulled his shield over his head to cover them. "But the dragons might have lured them here. The Dothraki probably held their reserve back and watched us. They only started to attack us after your dragons burned the rear."
"I could call the dragons back and set the forest below us on fire," she offered though that was a more than dangerous suggestion. At the moment the wind was in the favour, but one change and they would all burn to death.
"No," Tito replied and shook his head. "I will light the beacon…to inform the others about our peril."
"But they might need the men on the other side…," she countered, but Tito shook his head.
"It seems we were wrong and they decided to focus their attack on this position. Besides, Jon would cut off my balls if I allow something to happen to you. He specifically told me to alarm him if anything is amiss," he replied and gave her a reassuring smile. "Keep shooting and all will be well!"
"You heard my brother!" Larsha shouted at the other women. "Keep shooting those arrows!"
…
Jon
Higher and higher the flames danced, hovering above them like a fiery fist. Jon could only watch in silence, his hand gripped around the hilt of his sword.
So much destruction, he thought, a strange feeling of sickness settling in his stomach. I never have seen such high flames. Was this due to the oil or the dragonfire?
He felt the heat on his skin, touching him, trying to devour him. For a brief moment he feared being swallowed up by the flames, but Young Jemshid ordered the men to retreat back to a safe distance.
Even the hardened warrior grimaced at the destruction, but didn't lose sight of the battle.
"The left flank is asking for our assistance," Young Jemshid remarked."I will collect our men and lend Chief Mallor our help."
"Do that, but leave the mounted men here," Jon asked of him, his gaze fixed on the right flank, a bright light burning on the hills like a candle on an inky candlestick. "The way to the right flank is much longer and the distance is easier to bridge atop a horse. It seems the Dothraki decided to attack both sides."
Young Jemshied frowned, but accepted his decision.
"I will do as you ask," Young Jemshid agreed quickly. "This is their last stand. It will soon be over."
"It will soon be over," Jon agreed and turned around to whistle. Ghost, who had observed the battle with impatience, was quickly at his side as he mounted his horse. Sonarys was still circling above his head, observing the sea of flames below.
Three-hundred men, riding under the command of Tito's cousin, set out to strengthen the right flank.
Jon spurred his horse onwards, his eyes burning from the smoke. The smell of burned human flesh lingered in his nose and mouth. It was a sweet smell, with a hint of decay. When he was watching the flames from behind the ditch he hardly smelled it, but now it washed over him like a wave.
Not now, he thought and forcefully brushed those distracting thoughts away. Not now.
He spotted the enemy from afar. It was hard to say how many of them were still out there, but their sight was enough to send Jon's heart racing.
Dany I am coming.
"After me!" Tito's cousin shouted and lifted his spear. His men followed and Jon did the same, Ghost following after him like a loyal shadow.
It was good that they had scouted these lands a thousand times. It made it easier to make their way through the thick forest.
The enemy didn't see them coming.
Jon buried his sword in the first enemy he found. Blood splattered over his cloak as the men dropped from his horse. Another one followed, but this one pulled himself back to his feet only to be killed by a Lhazareen warrior. One tried to unhorse Jon, but Ghost was quicker and buried his sharp teeth in the horse's neck, tearing out flesh and bones.
Thus the killing continued.
Cut. Hack. Cut. Hack.
It was like a prayer on his lips and soon he forgot the pain he always felt when trying to lift his arm. The pain was a gift from his maiden battle in Qhohor. Yet the pain was still there, like a distant echo.
Another Dothraki rider was hurled from his horse as he buried his blade in the animal's neck. Arrows hissed through the air and Jon quickly moved his horse to the left side to evade the deadly missiles. This happened once, twice but only at the third time was his horse hit. The animal reared and he stumbled to the ground. He heard the sound of cracking bones, but was able to return to his feet.
Not wasting a moment he picked up his sword and met the curved blade of a Dothraki warrior. Steel met steel, bringing forth a ringing sound. Left and right the blades met in a wild dance, but Jon was quicker and dealt the man a cut to the left. He whimpered, his hand gone, nothing more left than a bleeding stump.
Jon wasted no time and dealt him a cut to the neck. He wheezed for air and collapsed from his horse in a puddle of blood.
Ghost unhorsed another one while Jon attacked the next one and buried his blade to the hilt. Suddenly, his heart knew no fear, only the song of steal and blood.
…
Daenerys
The sun had finally risen above the horizon, casting the scorched plain in a bloody glimmer. There was not much left, but ash and bones.
The smell of death filled her nostrils and her eyes burned from the smoke. Above the sky she spotted Rhaegon and Viserion, unperturbed by the past events. For them all of this was a game.
Dany couldn't say how many warriors perished in the flames, but she knew that they won.
A shattering defeat will make the Dothraki think twice before they attack again, Jon was convinced and she believed him. Yet she was unable to shrug off the gloomy feeling as she followed after the other women. Only twenty died, but several of them suffered arrow wounds. The rest of them remained relatively unharmed, though almost all of them were covered in ash and sooth.
Even now flames were rising from the battlefield, sending plumes of dark smoke into the air. The sky was no longer clear blue, but dark and threatening. Dark dreary clouds hung over them, ready to pour down their load of rain.
Dany hoped for it. Her throat was dry and she longed to wash off the ash and guilt.
She tried to kill before, but this was different.
Thousands of Dothraki warriors perished in the flames. The thought alone made her shiver, though they won a victory.
Yet there was no cheering. Most were just relieved that the battle was over.
Amidst this chaos she found Jon, stumbling over the dead bodies. She was only able to differentiate him from the other men, because Ghost was there, his fur covered in ash and blood.
Jon's face was pitch black as if someone touched his head in a pot of ink.
Ghost was the first one to spot her and came running towards her, licking her hand as if he was searching for something to eat.
"There you are boy," she said and patted his head, before making her way towards Jon.
By then he had turned around and brushed his hand over his face.
"It is over," he said, in hallow almost gloomy voice. His eyes were red from the smoke, almost bleeding.
He looked terrible as if someone had cast a shadow over him.
"We won," she said, allowing herself to smile in relief. He didn't return his smile and only pulled her into a tight embrace, burying his head in her shoulder.
"Jon," she asked as he trembled. "What is wrong?"
Then she felt something wet on her face. She lifted her head to the sky.
Then it started to rain.
Yet it was no common rain.
The rain was as black as ink.
…
Sansa
The throne room was filled to the brim and Sansa was barely able to get a glimpse at her gallant King. Joffrey was clad in crimson and gold, a gilded crown resting on his golden locks.
He looks like a true King, she thought and was barely able to calm her quickly beating heart. My King. My love.
The only thing that dimmed her mood was that she wasn't allowed to stand at his side. She even felt a hint of jealousy washing over her when she spotted the Queen Mother standing next to Joffrey.
Her smile was as brilliant as a star and her garments were even finer. Garbed in a dream of red silk she gave the appearance of a ruby.
Lord Tywin was not far, standing at the feet of the Iron Throne, the ugly barbed chair once forged by Aegon the Conqueror. He was clad in a long flowing cloak of red velvet. His golden armour, embellished with lions, was polished like a looking glass. She half expected him to ride on his white stallion like he did on the day he met Stannis Baratheon in battle.
Sansa didn't see the battle, but heard enough from the men to understand that it was a brutal fight.
The wildfire feasted on Stannis Baratheon's fleet, she had heard from Joffrey's mouth. He had spent all evening enthralling her with his tales, describing to her in detail how he slew one enemy after another. The Hound had told her that it was a mere tale, but she didn't believe him.
Surely, her King wouldn't lie to her?
He was earnest when he promised her to spare her Lord Father's life. Arya may think what she pleased, but it was Sansa who pleaded for her Lord Father's life.
She knows nothing, she reminded herself. At the bottom of the steps, leading up to the throne the Kingsguard assembled, every single one of them clad in a cloak as white as snow. They all looked splendid, even though she noticed Ser Barristan's absence. She knew why the King had to dismiss him, but he was always kind to her and thus she couldn't help but to feel sad.
My brother Jaime will make a better Commander of the Kingsguard, the Queen had told her not long ago.
Sansa brushed those thoughts away and watched as the Tyrell family stepped before the King they betrayed.
Yet Sansa couldn't help but to be awed by the splendour of Highgarden. All their knights wore polished armour and wore cloaks of a deep green colour, each embellished with a golden rose.
Lord Mace Tyrell was a man close to her Lord Father's age, his golden-brown hair streaked with grey. In his youth he might have been a gallant man, but his girth gave him the appearance of a man who grew too satisfied with his life. His two sons, Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, outshone him in every aspect. Ser Garlan was a tall, broadly-built man and graced with golden-brown hair. His brother Ser Loras was graced with softer-featured, but Sansa knew that this was no indication for his lack of strength. Ser Loras's bravery in battle had spread throughout the whole city. Every maid in the castle sighed as he rode through the city. The Tyrells may have betrayed the King, but the smallfolk love them well.
Sansa's love for Joffrey was true, but she couldn't help but to admire Ser Loras.
May the maiden forgive me.
At last Lady Margaery Tyrell appeared, coming to stand beside her Lord Father. She wore a gown of pale silk and a green cloak, embellished with the golden rose of House Tyrell. She wore her curling brown hair open, a single white flower placed in her soft locks.
She looked like the maiden reborn and Sansa couldn't help but to feel a hint of jealousy.
I will be Joffrey's Queen, she knew and brushed these treacherous thoughts away. The Tyrells redeemed themselves, but I will be Joffrey's Queen.
The hall fell silent. All she heard was the soft breathing of the lords and ladies standing behind her.
Then her King straightened himself and began to speak.
"Lord Tyrell," Joffrey addressed the Lord of the Reach in a raised voice. "We rejoice that you have recognized your error and came to aid us in our fight against my treacherous Uncle. House Baratheon will not forget your valour in battle and the help you lent us on this bloody day, but your King still expects you to renew your oath of loyalty. Let everyone hear that you abandoned your past allegiance."
Lord Tyrell's face was slightly flushed as he knelt before his King and renewed his vows.
He spoke in a low and almost soft voice. Sansa heard only whispering, but Joffrey's smile relieved her. The Tyrells chose a wrong path, but they helped to save the city. They deserve to be forgiven.
Like my Lord Father.
"We forgive House Tyrell," the King said at last. "You may rise, Lord Tyrell. You may rise."
Joffrey smile was bright, but the Queen's smile was even brighter. In that moment she looked like a proud lioness, her locks falling around her shoulders like a mane of beaten gold.
Lord Tyrell muttered something in return and kept his head fixed on the ground.
"I thank you, your Grace," she heard Lord Tyrell's whispering.
"No need, my Lord," he replied politely, the smile banished from his lips as he descended down the steps.
As he reached the bottom of the steps he swept his red cloak over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the Maid of Highgarden.
"There is no need for gratitude," the King added and stepped towards the young girl. "My Lord Grandfather and Hand of the King informed me about our betrothal and marriage. Being able to behold your beauty makes this task all the more enjoyable."
Betrothal and marriage, she repeated and froze. It can't be!
It felt as if the sun was banished from the sky, all her happiness taken from her in this fateful moment.
"I thank you for your kind words," the Maid of Highgarden replied softly and lowered her head in reverence. "I am honoured by this offer, your Grace."
Joffrey smiled at the Maid of Highgarden like had smiled at her. It was his mother's smile, bright as a star.
Sansa trembled.
This can't be right. He made a promise…he made a promise to Robb.
She wanted to say these words out loud, but she didn't dare.
Sickness washed over her as she watched Joffrey place a kiss on Lady Margaery's hand.
I can't be, she thought again and refused to believe it. He promised his love to me.
Anger seized her in that moment and it took all her composure to keep her tears at bay.
The rest of the ceremony was nothing more than a blur. When it was done, she dismissed her ladies and rushed outside to hide her shame.
I cannot allow them to see my tears, she thought but they came anyway, rolling down her cheeks in a river of salt.
They did it behind my back, she realized and balanced herself against the wall.
"Sweet child, don't cry!" a soft and familiar voice called her back to the present. Quickly, Sansa brushed her tears away and turned around, trying to give an indifferent appearance in front of the Master of Coin.
"I am not crying," she replied, though he clearly saw the redness of her cheeks.
"Yes, you are," Lord Baelish remarked and handed her an embroidered handkerchief. "And you should dry your tears. Beauty like yours shouldn't be tainted by tears."
"It seems I am not as beautiful as the Maid of Highgarden," she declared, not hiding her anger at the King. He never loved me. His promises were nothing more than empty lies.
"I doubt your beauty has anything do with it, sweet child," Lord Baelish remarked and winked his hankerchief before her head.
She smiled. His words were like balm on her broken heart.
His smile even brightened as she took the hankerchief and brushed her tears away.
"Why then?" she asked, desperate for an answer. "You serve the King. Did he speak his thoughts to you? Please tell me…"
"Because the Maid of Highgarden has something you don't have…swords and gold," he explained and brushed his hand over her cheek. A strand of hair had escaped her braided hair. "Don't fret about it, my Lady. You deserve much more…so much more."
She didn't know what to make of his words.
Was he just trying to be kind to her?
"I thank you for your kind words, my Lord," she replied at last and wanted to return his hankerchief.
"Keep it, my Lady," he replied and bowed his head. "More tears might follow, but know this: You have a friend in me as did your Lady Mother."
"I thank you again," she replied and lowered her head. He smiled almost softly and grasped her head to place a kiss on her knuckles.
Then he left her standing there, all alone.
Everything came crushing down on her in this moment.
She was alone, utterly alone. She cast away everything to have Joffrey's love.
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and her heart hardened against the King.
…
Ser Barristan
Hills and valleys of pasture spread before them. He and Lord Wylis had travelled for weeks. The lands of Lhazar were wide and dry. It hardly rained, though the nights could get rather chilly.
Ser Barristan was used to the pleasant weather of King's Landing, but his armour kept him warm enough. Ser Wylis was different.
The constant heat was a pain for him. Even now he was sweating like a pig and never failed to complain about his task.
"How did a Princess of House Targaryen end up in a brothel?" he asked not for the first time.
Ser Barristan didn't answer immediately. The very thought of seeing Queen Rhaella's daughter being subjected to such humiliation made his blood boil.
"I heard that the Princess and her brother fell victim to an assassination," he answered vaguely. He and Ser Wylis may share a common goal, but he was still a Northman and he intended to be careful. "I thought them dead, but then I heard of the dragons. Now I know the truth. The Princess is alive and I owe her my sword."
Ser Wylis frowned and brushed the sweat from his brow.
"And a year ago you still served King Robert," the man countered, but Ser Barristan knew what he was really trying to say. Why would you want to serve a runaway whore wed to a bastard?
"King Robert is dead…a bastard occupies the throne," he replied more sharply than he intended. "Or do you believe that Lord Eddard Stark committed treason?"
"No," Lord Wylis replied with utter conviction. "Lord Stark confessed treason to protect his daughters. There is no doubt that the King is a bastard."
"Something we can agree on," Ser Barristan replied and kicked his boots in the sides of his horse.
They were riding along a swirling rode when he spotted the city they were searching for. Lhazosh.
The girl in Braavos didn't know where Jon Snow and the Princess travelled, but almost everyone in Lhazar heard of the two foreigners and their dragons.
Ser Barristan didn't believe his ears when they shared their fantastical tales.
The dragons burned a whole horde of Dothraki, they had told him, but Barristan was unable to believe it. The dragons couldn't be older than a year. How could they be this powerful?
"Lhazosh," Ser Wylis remarked and pointed at the city walls. "It looks like they described it: A city with high pale walls."
"It does," Ser Barristan agreed, but stilled when he spotted the creatures blocking out the sun.
"Gods be good!" Ser Wylis Manderly shouted and pointed at the sky. For a brief moment Barristan thought he might collapse from his horse. His guards were not different, their faces pale like snow.
"Dragons!" Ser Barristan gasped, his eyes fixed at the creatures flying above their heads. They were as big as horses, their brightly-coloured skin glittering like diamonds. One dragon had blue skin like the summer sea, one dragon had wings as dark as the night sky and another dragon had scales of silver and gold.
Ser Barristan was elated.
I found them. Finally.
He ignored the Northmen and led his horse towards the city gates.
The people of Lhazosh eyed them curiously, but none of them were rude or unfriendly.
Yet it was hard to find someone who was able to speak their language.
It took a while, before they found a merchant, clearly a Lhazareen, who was able to speak Bastard Valyrian.
"I am seeking an audience with the owner of these gracious dragons," he explained his purpose.
The man gave him a strange look, but answered nonetheless.
"You have to go to the Chief's home…Chief Mallor is his name," he explained and pointed down a large street lined with trees and carts. "Go down the street and cross the large courtyard…the guards will stop you, but they will understand you. Chief Mallor is a learned man."
"My thanks," Ser Barristan relied and wanted to hand him a coin, but the man refused.
They did as they were told and found the Chief's house without much effort. As expected, the guards stopped them.
"I am here to seek an audience with the owner of the dragons," he explained his purpose again.
"What is your name?" one of them inquired mistrustfully.
"I am Ser Barristan Selmy, I was a knight in the service of Princess Daenerys'," he explained and turned around to point at Lord Wylis Manderly.
"I am Lord Wylis Manderly…I came to find Jon," he explained plainly and without much fanfare.
"Jon," the man said, recognition washing over him. "I know Jon of Winterfell. I will call for him if you state your business."
Lord Manderly frowned.
"His brother… Lord Robb of Winterfell sent me to speak with him," he explained.
"His brother," he muttered and nodded his head in understanding. Then he opened the gates and called for one of the younger guards.
Ser Barristan didn't understand what he told the young boy, but a moment later disappeared.
Then he led them into an airy courtyard. A horde of children played there, throwing balls at each other. They eyed him and one cheeky girl even pointed a finger at him.
They stopped before a staircase and the children giggled. Ser Barristan tried to ignore them, but it was harder than expected. Their bright laughter made his head squirm and he felt strangely anxious.
"There they are!" the young guardsman from earlier said and pointed at Ser Barristan and Lord Wylis Manderly.
Behind him Ser Barristan spotted two young people.
One was a girl, clad in pale robes and sandals. One could have thought her a sheep herder, but her pale silver hair and her bright purple eyes told him that his long travel was not without merit.
Next to her stood a young man, but Ser Barristan was unable to make out his face from the distance. He was neither tall nor small, his tanned skin framed by black hair.
"Who do you bring, Hibal?" the girl asked, her voice soft and filled with curiosity.
"Ser Barristan," the man answered and pointed first at Ser Barristan and then at Lord Wylis Manderly. "And this one seeks Jon…he says his brother sent him here."
"Robb sent you," the boy said, astonishment evident in his voice. Finally, he stepped from the shadows, his grey eyes searching Lord Manderly's gaze. "Why?"
"To take you home," the Lord explained plainly. "Why else?"
The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he stopped. Abruptly, his gaze flickered to Ser Barristan.
"Barristan Selmy?" he asked in disbelief. "The Barristan Selmy?"
He sounded almost like a little child and Ser Barristan felt a hint of sympathy washing over him.
The boy didn't waste another moment and explained Ser Barristan's relationship with the Princess' family.
"This man…he is very famous…he used to serve your family," he told the Princess.
Ser Barristan, thankful for the help, made his way up the steps and dropped to his knees.
The girl paled, her eyes wide in shock.
A trembling smile curled on her lips.
"Did you know my Lady Mother…and my Lord Brother?"
He couldn't help but to smile and took her hand. She was clearly surprised by this gesture, but didn't appear frightened.
"Of course I did," he replied and winced at his trembling voice. "You are her very image…and your Lord Brother Prince Rhaegar was a good friend of mine. I still weep for his loss."
Ser Barristan felt relief washing over him as he noticed the Princess' tears.
"You are welcome, Ser Barristan," she began, but the boy frowned. His hand was resting on the pommel of his blade, though Ser Barristan was sure that the boy knew what kind of an enemy he would have to face.
"You served King Robert," the boy said in an almost icy voice. "Why are you suddenly prepared to change your loyalty?"
"King Robert is dead," he explained bluntly. "And his son dismissed me…but the boy is no true King. He is a bastard. There is much you need to hear."
"Maybe," the boy replied and his hand fell to his side. "But I will kill you if you try to fool us."
"No harm will come to you or the Princess," Ser Barristan assured him and dropped the Princess' hands.
"I am a traitor…you may kill me if you wish," he told her and dropped his head.
A moment of silence followed before she started to laugh.
"Why would I want to kill you?" she asked, her voice brimming with emotions. "I want to hear about my family. I doubt a headless would be able to do that."
Ser Barristan didn't believe his ears and met her gaze.
"Nothing would please me more."
"Good," she said and jerked her head at Jon, a smile lightening up her face. "But it is not I you should kneel to…Jon is my brother's son…Prince Rhaegar's son."
Barristan thought he misheard, but he found no hint of dishonesty displayed on her face.
Silence stretched between them as she stared at the boy.
He still carried the same unreadable look, his features a grimace of mistrust.
Suddenly, his eyes were no longer grey, but dark as the night. These eyes were familiar, but maybe his mind was trying to play a trick on him. He was an old man and his eyes were growing weak.
"I don't understand…," he muttered helplessly, but the finally provided him the answer he was searching for.
"Aye" he admitted in an almost sour tone. "Lady Lyanna Stark is my mother and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is my father."
…