Rhaegar
Across the still blue water came the slow steady beat of drums and the soft swish of oars from the nearby galleys. The great warship groaned louder than them, its heavy oars splashing the waters on either side. Balerion's sails billowed in the wind from the masts. There were only fewer men in the ships now than when they had first sailed from King's Landing. Yet even so, as he stood upon the forecastle watching a cloudless blue sky, Rhaegar Targaryen happy to return home to his wife, children and sister.
On the day the three ships had lifted anchor at Braavos, he had no reason to be happy about leaving for Westeros. His kingsguard was dead, half of the men he had taken to Braavos was dead. Even the Iron bank was not happy with the mess and his sudden leaving. Only when he got away from the waters of Braavos did he felt happy for the first time in the entire journey. The Iron bank can go to hell when he can return to his family alive unlike all the other unlucky men who had died in Braavos never to see their families back in Westeros again. He has other friends in Essos, great magisters and maesters with their armies of highly trained Unsullied and other sellsword companies. If he had any need of a army he could very well get the Unsullied and the sellsword companies to the shores of Westeros.
No army could stand against them. The highly trained army in the world with their spiked bronze hats. Rhaegar had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. Most of them had been household guards. But the real army and the best of the Unsullied were in Astapor. Raised only to stand and fight the Unsullied of Astapor were the pride of the city he had heard his Magister friends from Astapor say. They have even told him the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor.
It was some four hundred years ago or more, he couldn't remember it correctly. But it was when the Dothraki first rode out of the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path. The Khal who had led them was some horselord named Temmo. His khalasar was big, if not huge. He had forgotten the numbers they had told him but fifty thousand riders rode with him in his khalasar, at the least. Half of them braided warriors with bells ringing in their hair, veteran warriors who had never lost any fight.
Somehow the Qohorik knew that the khal was coming for them. They strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their own guard, and had hired two free companies besides, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. And almost as an afterthought, they had sent a man to Astapor to buy three thousand Unsullied. It was a long march back to Qohor, however, and as they approached they saw the smoke and dust and heard the distant din of battle.
By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. When the dark came, the Dothraki had retired to their own camps to drink and dance and feast, but none doubted that they would return on the morrow to smash the city gates, storm the walls, and rape, loot, and slave as they pleased.
But when dawn broke and Temmo and his bloodriders led their khalasar out of camp, they found three thousand Unsullied drawn up before the gates with the Black Goat standard flying over their heads. So small a force could easily have been flanked, but the Dothraki knew nothing of that, nothing of battle strategies and war lessons. All they knew was to charge at their enemy and cleave them with their sharp, curved arakh. The Unsullied were men on foot, and for the Dothraki men on foot were fit only to be ridden down.
The Dothraki charged. The Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears, and stood firm. Against twenty thousand screamers with bells in their hair, they stood firm.
Eighteen times the Dothraki charged, and broke themselves on those shields and spears like waves on a rocky shore. Thrice Temmo sent his archers wheeling past and arrows fell like rain upon the Three Thousand, but the Unsullied merely lifted their shields above their heads until the squall had passed. In the end only six hundred of them remained . . . but more than twelve thousand Dothraki had laid dead upon that field, including Khal Temmo, his bloodriders, his kos, and all his sons. On the morning of the fourth day, the new khal had led the survivors past the city gates in a stately procession. One by one, each man had cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Three Thousand.
Since that day, the city guard of Qohor has been made up solely of Unsullied, every one of whom carries a tall spear from which hangs a braid of human hair.
If he brings an army of Unsullied to Westeros he could very well sleep in his bed without fearing for a knife over his throat while he sleeps. They will make songs about it in the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaegar's Unsullied they'll call it. Though what good it'll ever do. They sang songs of him now, how great a warrior and a king he is. A great warrior who hid behind his army while a single man scattered them all around. A great king who stood by and watched his people getting killed by some nameless boy with grey eyes.
He remembered another pair of grey eyes and another battle he had once faced. A battle amidst the woods of the wolves... He turned away from the water shaking away his thoughts. It would do no good to dwell in the past or to think either of them.
Quiet as a shadow the red priest appeared at his elbow. "Would that this Balerion could soar as her namesake did, Your Grace," he said in bastard Valyrian heavily flavored with accents of Asshai. "Then we should not need to row, nor tow, nor pray for wind."
"Just so, my lord," Rhaegar answered with a smile. He was pleased to have Bezzaro with him. The red priest had been with him ever since his first son had born. His robes were red, his hair red with a red beard reaching his chest. There were no lines on his face to indicate his forty two years of age, his skin as smooth and clear as a child's. Bezzaro knew things, he knew about things which would help in the Great War. The war between R'hllor the Lord of Light against the Great Other as Bezzaro likes to call it. The clash of Ice and Fire, evil and good. Bezzaro was convinced that he along with his sons and sister will defeat the great other and save the world. Rhaegar believed him. He had seen things Bezzaro can do what others cannot, he had seen this Red god he talks of. Perhaps he should have kept Bezzaro with him that day in Braavos. He could have saved all of them who died, even Jaime Lannister. The red priest had left him at once they reached Braavos to visit the Temple of the Lord of Light and he had stayed there for their entire stay in Braavos.
"The Lord of the Light smiles upon our journey, Your Grace," Bezzaro said in a deep voice, deep as if it was from the depths of the seven hells. "The wind is in our favor."
Rhaegar could not have denied that. For the last six days and six nights the wind had failed them and they had been becalmed. And only by Bezzaro's prayers on the sixth night the red god had given them the wind to move faster and a fresh breath of air to fill their sails.
"Tell me Bezzaro, If you know everything that is going to happen why didn't you warn me about Braavos?"
"You get me wrong, your Grace," Bezzaro told him. "I can only see what the Lord of the Light allows me to see."
Rhaegar found the anger getting better of him. "They why did your Lord of the Light didn't let you see that." He turned to look at the priest. "I took my men straight to the jaws of death, same as I had once done eleven years before. Does that mean your red god wanted them dead?"
"R'hllor is our god, my king, not just mine," Bezzaro answered. "There is only him and the Great Other. R'hllor the Lord of the Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow and The Great Other, whose name must not be spoken, the Lord of Darkness, the Soul of Ice, the God of Night and Terror. They are locked in an eternal struggle over the fate of the world; a struggle that will only end when Azor Ahoi, the warrior of light returns wielding Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes."
Rhaegar frowned. He had heard him say that more than a hundred times. That was not he wanted to hear. "That does not answer my question."
"The Lord of the Light only grant me the visions he wishes me to see, my king." The red priest looked to the horizon where the sun had started to set. "If the Lord of the Light wishes for that to happen no one could stop that."
"What good comes from these visions if we can't learn from them and change them?" Rhaegar snorted.
"Come, Your Grace," Bezzaro said turning away from the sea. "Night is settling. We should go inside for the night is dark and full of terrors."
The sea had turned black as ink and the swollen sun tinted the sky a deep and bloody red. Frowning Rhaegar followed him back to the red priest's cabin. As always there was a fire burning in the brazier and the cabin was so bright that every corner and end of it was filled with the light of the fire.
"You worry over nothing, Your Grace," Bezzaro said working in the fire of the brazier. "These petty wars you fought in the north will mean nothing before your final one. You are destined for greatness. It is with your help the three heads of the dragon will defeat the Great Other and bring back dawn."
"With my help?" Rhaegar chuckled. "Those petty wars you mentioned, I lost them. How am I going to win the great war?"
Bezzaro turned to face him. "It is not just a legacy you're seeking for, your grace. You seek the higher truth." He pointed to the fires in the brazier. "Come, my king. Come see the truth."
Hesitant and wary Rhaegar moved forward to the brazier.
Bezzaro grasped his hand in his. "Let me show you the truth, Your Grace. Look into the fire."
Rhaegar opened his eyes wide and looked into the brazier to face the fire.
Visions danced before him, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. He saw a great star burning with fire red as blood. From a broken tower by a great castle, a winged beast came down falling dead to the ground. He saw towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. He saw a great winged shadow taking flight from a white tower crowned with flame. Through curtains of fire he saw dragons wheeling against a hard blue sky though there were more, not just the three his sister had brought to this world.
"Did you see the truth, my king?" Bezzaro asked when he turned away from the fires.
"I saw visions," Rhaegar replied.
"You saw what the Lord of the Light wanted you to see," the red priest said and moved over to tend to the fire.
"I saw a red star, like the one which appeared on the day I was attacked," Rhaegar told him. "Does that mean it will happen again?"
"Maybe."
Then I should keep my sword ready, Rhaegar thought. But there were other things which troubled him more than that. The winged shadow from the white tower with flames. He tried to think hard about it, to make it more clear. The Hightower sigil was a white tower with flames burning on its top. Can the Hightowers be working against him? Was Ser Gerold betraying him like Arthur Dayne had done?
Lord Leyton Hightower was Arthur and Ashara Dayne's grandfather on their mother's side. Alysanne Hightower was Leyton's favorite child and Arthur had once told him that Ashara Dayne was Lady Alysanne's favorite. Are they trying to get revenge for what happened to Ashara and her family? The last he heard of Lord Leyton is that he has locked himself atop his tower with his daughter the Mad Maid Malora, consulting books of spells. The smallfolk whispered that he is trying to raise an army from the deeps. Can the Hightowers be plotting against him from the shadows? Is that what the winged shadow meant? If they were indeed plotting against him he would happily send them to be together with the Daynes and the Starks.
And then there was the fiery dance of dragons.
"I saw dragons," Rhaegar said to the red priest. "There was more, not just the three my sister brought forth with your help."
Bezzaro gave him a surprised look.
"There were two more," Rhaegar continued of his vision. "One as bright gold as the sun and the other silver as the moon. They were fighting with the other three."
Bezzaro looked confused at that. The surprise from his face had turned to confusion.
"They were fighting?"
Rhaegar nodded.
"Do you think these three dragons are enough for us to fight the Night King?" He asked after a moment of silence.
"You can never know what the Great Other can do, Your Grace," Bezzaro said.
"Can we raise more dragons from stones?"
"Of course, we can, my king," the red priest said with a wicked smile. "But you know the price."
A/N: So, the red star, the Hightower secret and more visions. Say what you thought about them in the comments. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Thanks for reading my story. Leave a review. Thanks for all the follows and favorites and all the reviews. I really appreciate it.
I'm not a native speaker so I'm still in search for a beta. If anyone is interested please PM me. Thank you.