Jon
The northmen could not be any more eager to get underway. Jon paid Alys due congratulations once more before taking leave of his countrymen, heading out of the cave to sit on a rock near the beach and stare west, where he knew the ships carrying the lords of Westers and their assembled levies would soon appear. Though he tried to keep his mind on practical matters, on issues of supply and troop movement, on organizing the landings at White Harbor to not be an utter shambles, Jon soon found other thoughts forcing themselves to the forefront of all that went on in his head. Ygritte and Val were reduced in prominence while Daenerys Targaryen and her mysterious relation from out of the eastern chaos occupied his mind's eye. She did not seem over-interested, he thought. If anything, she seemed uncertain how to handle an army we weren't expecting. Surely, they would be put to good use in the north, the trick would be getting them to go up with the lords assembly instead of charging on to King's Landing. Then again, they have no dragons and I doubt they want to let Dany wander off in the company of the King in the North. Dany's words expressing doubt about the newcomers echoed as well. A past lover from Essos, joined on with his lads only to reach her. That seems truer than a crass ploy for power, a crown, a throne. The man was older than he, that much was obvious, and as different as could be from Jon. A girl's dream, a woman's nightmare. Perhaps that was all it was. But then, I've seen the look he gives her before. Toward the end, Val scarcely looked at me any other way. Guilt oozed up to blend with everything else. It would have been simpler to stay, he thought. Stay, with my people and with Val. Never mind the rest, anything south of the Neck. That could not be, though. Sansa saw the truth of that. His guilt only compounded when he thought on her, adrift among prickly northern lords, not to mention the masses of wildlings that must have seemed wild savages to her eyes. She could not so much as stomach one of Old Nan's stories when we were little. I suppose she's charmed Harry the Heir, wittingly or no. The knight was something straight out of a song, with sky-blue eyes and clean blonde hair. Arryn colors. I do not envy this Robert Arryn's task of keeping his lords true when a far fitter scion of his house spreads wing.
Honed as his senses were, even with Ghost being difficult, Jon heard the man approach on almost plodding feet.
"I'm sure I can be of no help with whatever your inquiry is." Jon told him.
"Oh, I think I've found just what I'm looking for." The Common Tongue was accented but clear. When Jon looked up, he saw a man with amber skin regarding him sullenly. Jon blinked to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Amber it was, though his hair was a limp listless rat's nest and his goatee untrimmed. Not from the voyage, either. This is a defeated man. Without a word the Essosi freed himself and started pissing against the rocks, Jon only just agile enough to stand away.
"All I hear of Essos is how elegant and poised everyone is, how life itself is a dance-"
"Dance enough, until a grey plague finished what the dragon queen started." From his belt he pulled a small flask, filling even as he emptied.
"You're no advocate of hers."
"And you're no khal nor sellsword, yet she seems fond and more of you." Swaying slightly, he righted his leggings to Jon's relief.
"Who are you?" Jon asked, when he could think of nothing more to say.
"Yezzan zo Qaggaz." The man replied, snorting shortly at Jon's gape. "The House of Qaggaz held great sway in Yunkai. The uncle I was named for was the richest man behind its walls and all was well, the world wine fountains and everfeasts." Why do I suspect a great many men could tell me the same story?
"Your House dealt in slaves." Jon surmised. Yunkai. A Ghiscari mongrel, then.
"So did everyone's. What wars we waged were fought with funds and slave-flesh, out of sight and out of mind. Even the Dothraki did not see fit to bother us. Until Daenerys Targaryen came, with her seething sea of screamers and a howling twister of hungry mouths behind it, eating everything it could catch. The sacks were blight enough, the freedmen rising doom for all…but the Pale Mare bore rich men and poor, the slaves and the free, the lowborn and high." Jon's indifference to the man softened, if only a bit.
"From how you tell it, this Pale Mare finished what the wars started."
"It finished more than that. All of Slaver's Bay soon bore the bloody flux's weight, one measured in pits and piles of bodies. There was no time for prayer, no room for burials. We burned them all, until our eyes were dry of tears. No one spoke of wealth or blood then. We saw ourselves for what we were, worms wriggling in a harpy's bones. Still the flux burned through us, snipping family trees here and cutting them down there." He swallowed, as if unable to stop speaking. "We needed no torches for light at night. The fires burned hot and high and had no lack of tinder. By the end, perhaps one man in five remained alive to burn the other four."
He took out yet another flask, emptying it as well. Jon said nothing, too fixed on the ghastly image of whole cities of corpses burning at a time.
"Slaver's Bay, we called the place once. The freedmen in their wit preferred the Bay of Dragons, even when there were none flying over it any longer. It's the Mare's Hoof now, as much a blighted hell as Valyria."
"Small wonder, then, that you joined the sellsword companies planning to sail west." Yezzan looked at him.
"The Mare could do for Westeros quite easily."
"Not so. Westeros is not fed by one river and there isn't such upheaval among its people. Even then, there's a simple reason Westeros has little need to fear your bloody flux."
"What is that?"
"It's killed so many so quickly that there's no one left to spread it. The sellswords on the beach spoke nothing of this Pale Mare, so it must not have reached the Free Cities." Jon's words made Yezzan zo Qaggaz quiet for a bit.
"Fire made Valyria what it was, and in fire Valyria ended. I suppose it's fitting flesh did the same for the last of Ghis' descendants." He sat down on the rock, looking ready to walk into the waves that lapped against Dragonstone's sand. Rather than let the man stew in his gloom, Jon found himself speaking as soon as he could form the words.
"You are the last of the House of Qaggaz, I take it."
"The very last. The wars we weathered. The flux, we didn't."
"All the same. You are most welcome in Westeros, Yezzan zo Qaggaz. You, your flux-fleeing countrymen and all others who've come west." That broke the Yunkai'i out of his black stupor.
"I could not stay. I could not stand amidst the ruin of a world I loved. I came-"
"-to die, and indeed you may. As a sellsword or just a man seeking his end. Perhaps you thought you'd die besieging some Westerosi castle or another. Or trampled by Dothraki, or in a camp brawl, or just a slow death by drink. Do you know, Yezzan zo Qaggaz, that you will not die any of these ways?" The man turned minutely to Jon. "The man leading the Golden Company and the sellswords proper, this Ser Jon Connington, would disagree with you."
"Ser Jon Connington is free to see for himself. There is no throne waiting for his prince at King's Landing, no blushing bride waiting for him at tale's end, no Eversummer. Neither is there safety waiting for anyone fleeing Essos."
"Wars still to be fought. One stands a better chance in war than in the midst of a great plague."
"Not so. Not when the enemy is such as comes against Westeros and the world at large, I should guess." Yezzan frowned questioningly. "You and yours have burned more than your share of dead men. In fact, this is most what makes you attractive. Come with me, and I will show you why."
Jon watched the man take in the murals, not altogether surprised when he saw no recognition in Yezzan's face.
"I don't suppose you have stories of the Others in Essos."
"No, whatever they are. The monsters of our stories look like your queen."
"They're-"
"It doesn't matter. If these scrawls are to be believed, there are fights left to die in. Tell me where, and I will go."
"Even someone who's lost the will to live must see that having addressed the dead before leaving is a mercy. Should the Others bother to go so far east, they'd have found a civilization's worth of corpses to mobilize. Such familiarity with death ought make seeing wights for the first time a little less of a shock for you as well." Jon stooped and carefully plucked a shard of red dragonglass from the glittering cave floor. "Careful with this. Even unworked it's sharp enough to draw blood. Useless against their chaff, but it does the trick against the Others themselves like nothing else." Yezzan took it, staring into its crimson depths.
"Frozen fire, the Valyrians called it. Growing like moss in the bellies of mountains that belch fire."
"You know it?"
"It wasn't common, but enough of it made its way out of Asshai for it to be known to Slaver's Bay. Black, though, always black. I've never heard of red. Or green, or purple."
"Lucky you."
"What can glass do that steel cannot? Or stone, or any other substance?"
"Well, you said the Valyrians called it frozen fire. Perhaps the heat is in there still."
"Were that the case, steel would keep the heat it takes to work it." Jon only shrugged.
"I don't know one way or another. All I know is that their blades part steel like steel parts cheese and their armor can stop a scorpion bolt from point-blank range. Unless it's tipped in dragonglass." Yezzan began slowly spinning it in his hands, turning it over repeatedly. "I must leave you now. There are other people I must coordinate, shipments of dragonglass to load onto their ships-"
"Go. There is enough here still to warrant further gathering. Sellswords bore easily, I've found, but I think the simple task of filling barrels and bags with objects that glitter like gems may tickle their fancy."
"Bags? No, no, if it breaks it's useless."
"How so?" Jon blinked at him.
"How can we tip a spear or arrow in dust?"
"You can't. But that doesn't mean you can't dump it on a surface and render it impassable for a time, or simply toss a bag at one such creature's feet." Yezzan's observation stunned Jon. Of bloody fucking course, it's the stuff that does the trick, not the shape! "Go." Yezzan said again. "You'll want to make sure as much of this goes with you as possible, I suspect. Those passing this island from further inland will be most helpful in this enterprise." Jon felt oddly bad leaving the man alone in the dark with naught but glass and torches for company, but he had more important people to put to purpose than one wayward Yunkai'i.
The first ships to appear came not from the west as Jon had hoped, but from the east. More sellswords. Their number was surely no burden and besides, more ships meant more shipments, but Jon would have preferred to confer with the lords as a whole one more time before they all appeared piecemeal all over Lord Wyman's lands. Dany's hair could not be missed even at a distance, so when Jon did not spot it right away, he figured she was still getting to the bottom of talk of a Targaryen. I wonder if she'll wait to tell him the Iron Throne is gone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. That's her business. If she wants my opinion, she'll ask. Idly he walked back over to the gathered leaders of the advance force.
"Are you still waiting on your prince to come ashore?"
"Our paying patron, say rather." Matthos' pirate acquaintance, the one with the mad-sounding name said.
"Where else have the Golden Company landed?" Jon asked the man who had once been Dany's paramour. His shaky, almost nervous demeanor had gone somewhat, but he still turned to his companions.
"Lord, lordly, lordly Serlord Jonlord Sernnington never paid us to keep our mouths shut." Malko said genially, laughing at his own wit. He got a snort of laughter from the sellsail in turn.
"Yezzan's the dourest fellow my pirate eyes have yet beheld, and even he would have laughed at that, friend." Sall-something, Jon thought. Sall-something Saan.
"Right, then besides Dragonstone, uh, the plan was to come from Volantis on to King's Landing itself to rally the people to our cause or else draw what Lannister swords it held still, Dorne somewhere for the princess and the stormlands for that king's son."
"Edric. Good enough lad, even with those bloody elephant ears." Saan opined.
"King's son?" Jon asked.
"Fat King Robert's get on a foxwoman, or so the serly lord tells us." Malko said. Talk of foxes made Jon frown. Evidently it was noticeable because Saan gave another snort of laughter. "I take it you've had the pleasure of meeting Stannis' family-by-law."
"I have. The displeasure was mutual." He remembered the Florents, southern fools all, and was content to keep thinking the world had seen the last of them. As for this Edric, he's welcome to try and woo the stormlords away from Gendry. Something tells me he'll not succeed. "You mentioned a princess as well."
"I did. Stunning thing, though a bit melancholy." "The prince seems more than fond of her." Malko added, smirking.
"So is any man with eyes." The once-paramour replied, rolling his own. "Arianne Martell. Though she's as eager to keep her family name quiet as the prince is to bellow his own from Fortune's bow."
"This house, that house, this lord, that lady…" Malko put his fingers to his temples, eyes wide.
"Maddening and no mistake, my friend. The Westerosi have been mad as long as I have known them." Saan replied.
All in all, Jon found the men positively amiable. I have known lords, princes, kings, born to every prize and privilege treat their fellow men worse on no more account than of birth. It felt to Jon that he could not find himself back among the Free Folk fast enough. Saan's smile disappeared as soon as Jon noticed it, though.
"There was another in Stannis' camp. You would not forget her if you saw her." Jon nodded grimly. "What became of her?"
"I don't know. Once we secured Winterfell, we sent her packing. Hopefully she's quit of Westeros by now." Jon did not go into details and Saan did not ask.
"Ah, here we are. Finally." Malko said, waving his hands over his head, telling whoever was watching to hurry up and land.
"By the way…" the paramour said lowly when the other two had gone further down the beach to wave the flagship in, "I am Daario Naharis."
"Jon Snow." Jon replied at once.
"Not a hard name to remember." Not unless it is your own. Jon thought on the times he might have shed his bastard's name. Stannis offered to make me Lord of Winterfell. Dany suggested she legitimize me. The name Dany had once told him echoed in his head. Ashara Dayne. Jon couldn't picture Ned Stark chasing girls here and there, even in his youth. It would not have been an empty tumble, a single night. Whoever she was, Lord Stark held my mother dear. If she were Ashara Dayne after all, I have no proof of it and never will. Even if she were, she is only a name to me. His brow furrowed. Better than none at all, he told himself. The chatter of sailors made him turn toward the surf to behold several longboats fast approaching, a huge dromond with black and red banners and ribbons flying from every sail idling further back. They could just as easily dock in the port town and save the rocky ride in. Unless Daenerys neglected to mention it? Once close enough, men in each longboat hopped out to drag them ashore so the infirm or delicate need not get wet. I wonder if this Aegon would be so hell-may-care if he knew there were fish-men in droves in that very water. Jon felt a smirk creep across his face. Or if he knew the kingdoms he seeks to rule are about to be flattened by the Others if left unchecked. The smirk went as quickly as it had come. Malko stepped forward to assist in the landing while Saan watched in appraisal. Weighing the trouble against its worth. A sellsail to the bone. A middle-aged man stood in the boat but did not step out, speaking indistinctly in a low voice. Then Jon spotted the lad behind him, seated next to Dany. That must be him. Neither the older man nor the silver-haired youth were looking at him, though, or even at their allies along the shore. Pale blue eyes and purple both were fixed on the skies above Dragonstone. Hair can be dyed, Jon thought, but show me how to turn eyes purple. Any doubts as to his identity would be hard to voice on seeing him. Jon saw also his flawless face, unmarred by line or scar. The man who lead him was no new-made knight nor a stranger to the battlefield, but the boy himself looked more merchant than king.
Once he set foot on the sands of Dragonstone, the old knight let out a long slow breath. The fire above his eyes and on his chin is going out. No doubt he thought he was running out of time. Jon looked away from the pair to Dany who alone of the boat's occupants was looking at him. She does not seem excited, even for her family's sake. Then Jon remembered that in the strictest sense, her family was whittled down to one haunted knight. I wonder if she's told him that much yet. She stepped over the side of the boat opposite them, pretending not to see their outstretched helpful hands. Following her out, though gladly into the boy's arms, was a striking beauty Jon could only surmise of Dornish birth. After her came a big man who did have all the forced courtesy of a man new to his spurs with a white cloak flowing from his back and a lad not five years Jon's junior. Stannis' ghost, Jon thought. He could be his and Selyse Florent's son in a second. He found that a bit eerie and so looked for whoever else had made common cause with Aegon, the Sixth of His Name.
"Oh, fuck." Jon said, wondering mood replaced by dull irritation. Coming ashore in the company of a somewhat jittery man in green sable with seven gold stars linked around his shoulders was Petyr Baelish, whose own smug whose own smug countenance and courtly manner vanished at the sight of Jon. His words made the younger among the newcomers look at each other uncertainly while the old knight frowned.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice confirming Jon's suspicions. Used to giving orders and having them followed. The southern pomp cannot be hidden, even after years of exile.
"Jon Snow. And you, ser?" Dany answered for him, wasting no time in rejoining Jon's company.
"A Jon as well. Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, as well as a few other Westerosi highborn."
"Indeed, the highest." Lord Connington said brusquely, turning to the lot. "Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne." he indicated the Dornish beauty. You don't say, Jon thought. A lover of titles even among kneelers. Jon's notion was given greater credence when it came time for Lord Connington to introduce his charge. "Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." He gestured to the youth in question, who looked at Jon almost perplexedly. A boy, for all those windy words, Jon thought. Had it been Stannis waiting for him, all the sellswords in the world would not have got him Dragonstone, let alone the Seven Kingdoms.
"Hello." Jon said pleasantly. "You'll want to boot Littlefinger out of your entourage sooner rather than later. Nobody will inspire more uncertainty among Westerosi than Petyr Baelish." "It warms me immeasurably to find myself in your presence once again in turn, Your Grace." Littlefinger replied, leaning heavily into the last two words. Aegon looked to him, confused.
"What?"
"He means me." Jon clarified for him, crossing his arms. "Haven't you got wounds elsewhere to poke and watch bleed?"
"Not now, with what's become of Essos. I'd not have missed this for the world, in fact." While the exiles may think he's after profit and titles, I know better. Jon thought for a moment before speaking next.
"Right. What's going through Littlefinger's head is, maybe if I pit these two together, I can wring some advantage out of the chaos duly created. It comes as natural to this man as flying to a bird or swimming to a fish. Either Daenerys becomes taken with you and that throws Arianne and thereby Dorne off-balance or your stalwart advocate finds all his lovely words bouncing off a brick wall. In that vein you might be embarrassed in front of your court such as it is and surely it would spur you to seek the North's renewed allegiance with me perhaps removed as an obstacle. Any number of things might happen where new conflicts would quickly sprout, no doubt tended carefully by their maker, only for him to profit once they've run their course. I've not got half the time needed to play that game and anyway, it's not one I care to play. Suffice it to say I'm taking the lords of Westeros for a bit because I need them and they me. Afterward you can have any and all that will have you. Go on calling yourself King of the First Men, even. Know, though, that if you want the North, you will have to take it from me. The Free Folk and the giants as well. I am the natural son of a man held beyond reproach by the northmen and by common assent named King-Beyond-the-Wall. You're welcome to come with us by all means, more swords and spears cannot hurt when the Others come, but in the north we put no stock in red castles and iron chairs. In the North, we do not kneel." There was red rising in Jon Connington's face and irritation on Littlefinger's, yet all Jon Snow could hear was Mance Rayder, roaring with laughter.
"Snow, you said." Connington said, evidently hard-pressed to keep his tongue civil.
"Aye."
"A bastard from the north."
"So far as I've had to deal with. At least, until recently."
"Who are you to make off with half of His Grace's ancestral lands?"
"Well, if he'd like to claim them for himself, among other things he'll have to contend with a flooded riverlands full to the banks with randy bull lizard-lions fond of horses as well as of men." He looked to Aegon. "None of the logs are logs." It wasn't surprising to Jon that the king was lost for words, obviously unsure what to say even if he had the tact not to gape uncomprehendingly. Ah, a piece then. Moved by others with no drive of your own, it would seem.
"Torrhen Stark knelt when the dragons came calling."
"So he did. As you yourself have said, though, my lord, I am a Snow. As much wildling as northman, as much bastard as king. I see no dragons in your entourage and even if I did, I have before and happily told him off to get what I wanted or where I wanted to be." From out of the corner of his eye he saw Dany go pink. Evidently Lord Connington had noticed and Aegon as well, yet Jon found himself caring nothing for their opinions. Jon looked past her to the western horizon, whistling under his breath. "Arriving just in time not to make a difference. Truly, a tree does not change its bark." Jon pointed to the ships coming into view, no doubt due to make the port town by that evening at the latest. "I'm going to get the northmen in travelling shape."
"I'll meet the other lords in town. In fact, I'll just have each ship loaded with dragonglass and sent on its way, no need to linger here when it's north for us."
"Your Grace?" Connington asked, ashen-faced and confounded at the lack of support for his king from the Mother of Dragons.
"Yes, my lord?" Her question was prompt and polite.
"What about…I don't understand."
"Jon Snow and I, in the company of the assembled lords of Westeros so far as we could manage, are sailing to White Harbor and from there, marching on to Winterfell to try and check the movements of the Others." There was no comprehension on Aegon's face, as Jon suspected there mightn't be. Raised in Essos, I doubt he's ever heard of them before.
"Your Grace, the Others are a cradle story." Connington said, looking at her as though fearing for her senses.
"Some cradle story." The gloomy voice of Yezzan zo Qaggaz called from behind Jon. "You ought to have a look in the cavern hidden down that way." He pointed the hidden gap in the rocks out to Jon Connington. "These Others were no child's lark to whoever painted on those walls or shoved that diamond high in the ceiling."
"Come north with us, cousin." Dany told Aegon, and for the first time Jon heard something like earnest in her voice regarding the arrival. Nephew in truth, Jon thought, though he agreed with her less patronizing term. She looked both sad and rather resolved. Here it comes. "The Iron Throne served its purpose for both of us, it seems. A shiny ideal to strive for and damn the consequences. I've seen the thing in person, Aegon. It's not worth such reverence, not nearly so much as whatever woman you'll take to wife is due. Drogon sent it after the people who sat it and I'd be of no help proving your legitimacy anyhow. I'm not Aerys Targaryen's daughter, I'm the natural daughter of a man worth being the daughter of and much relieved by that fact. You've no need for swords to help you win the throne, but we'd much appreciate your assistance in this endeavor. I have coin enough to keep your sellsword army from crumbling after what little fund you've got dissipates, and anyway if I'm told right there are plenty more women than men in the north, partnered with all the wine Cersei Lannister was kind enough to leave us for the taking." At once the assembled sellswords, sellsails and other Essosi with no stock in who ruled Westeros looked to her in rapt attention. Gold, wine, women. Lure enough for any man. More so than any restoration or royal family. Said aloud it was plain their middling interest in seeing a king enthroned who was in their debt paled in comparison to that in a queen eager to shower them in wine and treasure for no other purpose than to follow along for a bit. They'll need to be brought up to speed I suppose, Jon thought. It can be managed in the voyage to White Harbor. He was less optimistic regarding the prickly Lord Connington, whatever his connection to the Targaryens of the past might have been. The others in his circle who believe in him as well. For one, I'll let this Edric take Gendry's measure and see if he has the sense not to expect the storm lords' homage after such a meeting. Jon gave Dany a quick kiss on the cheek, making her go pink all over again before leaving her in the good hands of her Unsullied. I doubt the northmen will care one way or another, he thought. Though the Free Folk will likely be all for bringing more fighters into the mix.
"Another dragonrider, then?" Tormund asked hopefully after Jon had brought him current. "I wouldn't know one way or another. There's no dragon on hand in the first place, so it looks like we'll have to cross paths with one to figure that out for certain." At that the big wildling frowned. "We've gone from one side of the south to the other and nowhere did I see anyplace a dragon would want to kip for the night, let alone call home." "I guess that means we're just going to have to check the north." Jon smiled at the wide grin on Tormund's face. "You mean it?" The prospect of tracking down a crafty, irritable fire-breathing predator seemed only too grand a prospect to Tormund Giantsbane.
"We need only to get the dragonglass on the lords' ships before heading off ourselves. As they'll be here in mere hours, I'd put our own departure inside a day." Tormund whooped aloud, earning a thrown rock from the other side of the cave. Alys Karstark glowered at the pair of them, a babe in each arm while Sigorn cradled the third. She at least looked pleased to remain where she was. Warm and comfortable, instead of on a swaying ship with three babes to tend to. Jeyne Poole was with her as well, as was Ned Umber, each taking turns whenever one of the parents needed to rest. Jon didn't need their gazes to tell him that Dany had arrived; her scent of smoke and horses and grass was a dead giveaway. "How'd it go?" he asked her softly.
"I told her I would not do him wrong. I've seen enough falsehood in the word without adding to the mix." She sat in his lap.
"And?"
"I suppose he's more than fond of his Dornish princess."
"Shouldn't they be? They're cousins and he needs to maintain his Dornish affinity before any other."
"She's pregnant, Jon." Her voice was very quiet, her words only for him.
"Well, I'll offer them congratulations when I see them next." Jon said, trying to play it off. Instead she bit her lip.
"I only wish I could stop my people from scattering to the wind on my death, whenever it comes." she said finally.
"They don't need you to lead them by the ear, Dany. Any more than the Free Folk or the northmen need me." He slipped his arms around her. "Once the Dothraki get a taste of the North, of living in the north, of northern ale, of spearwife skirt, they will never leave it. There is more food than can be eaten, more fields than can be ridden. The freedmen and the Unsullied can no doubt fill the gaps left by the wars in the more settled northern castles, as well. If your lads haven't returned by the time the Others are sorted, I'll be glad to take you through the North moor by stream by field looking for them." He got a little hiccup of laughter. Who needs crowns when you have treetops? Who needs thrones when you have mountains? Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, is welcome to his Dornish cousin. A tame creature she is, whereas you are all wild. All dragon. All mine.
