Redwyne Straits
314 AC - Three Weeks Later
The night watch had been about as exciting as one could expect.
For Duncan Mormont, it was just another sleepless, quiet evening to be notched under his belt. The last three weeks hadn't been eventful-save for a brief run-in with some Ironborn off the coast near Crakenhall. The visit to Lannisport was fun, but short before they quickly got underway once again.
Now, as he stood atop the main deck of the 'Sweet Maiden O' Light' he wondered what would be in store for him the moment they arrived at their destination.
They'd passed by Blackcrown only hours prior, and he knew that within the next… what were his calculations? Six hours? Yes, that was it. Within the next six hours, they'd be arriving in Oldtown.
Duncan let out yet another fresh plume of smoke from his mouth as he looked out into the calm nighttime waters. Very softly, the ship rocked back and forth, swaying gently along with the lapping waves. It was one of those serene, calm moments that one might get inside the eye of a storm.
His crewmates had paid him little attention on this little voyage of theirs. He preferred it that way and merely played his expected part. That of a standard crewman.
He didn't have any of the more complicated tasks, such as handling the food (though he did have feelings of sympathy for the ship's cook, a Reachman named Morvin). All Duncan had to do was to check the rigging, sweep the decks, clean below deck, and… check the rigging all over again.
Not exactly the stuff of legends, he thought to himself with a bitter note.
All of the tales he'd heard involving ships sounded a hell of a lot more exciting than this. Of how old Stannis Baratheon smashed the Greyjoy Fleet in the battle just off Fair Isle! Even when his father and Uncle Arthur had faced off against those pirates during their voyage to Valyria! The rush, the stress, the thrill of it all was simply compelling to him.
To embed himself into stories of glory, and honor? Why, that would be a gift all on its own. It was something he'd always wanted as a boy. But as he grew up, Duncan had wondered if he'd ever get the chance to make his own mark like his father had.
You have, but not in the way you expected.
Duncan sneered at the intruding, critical voice in his head. It was almost impossible to ignore it, though. He was quickly reminded of why he was even there in the first place, and not back on Bear Island, or even Winterfell for that matter.
What will they remember you as? The Mormont who thought he was too good for the Starks? The man who snubbed the royal family?
Mormont spat out to sea and shook his head.
He was out there for a reason, and right now he had a plan to fix everything. Make it right somehow. Take it all back to the way it was before.
Lesser men would give up in the face of such a gargantuan task… but not you. You're the son of Lord Starag Mormont. You're the Blood of the Dragon. You were born to eat problems like this. You will find a way to win. You will find a way to beat this, to conquer it!
He nodded along, convincing himself with moderate success, and decided to keep watch over the bay.
In the far distance, through the thick nighttime fog, he spotted a blaring orange blaze of light. He knew what it was immediately.
The Hightower stood atop Battle Isle, beckoning ships closer to port. Almost the same way a woman would eagerly welcome her husband upon his return from a long day out at sea.
His first stop would be the Citadel. And then? Then the adventure would truly begin.
It was nearly four hours later at some god-forsaken time in the morning. With the moon setting in the west past the hinterlands and the cliffs hanging above the borders of Oldtown, Duncan knew that he'd better get a move on before the rest of the city woke up. The earlier he arrived at the Citadel, the sooner he'd be able to secure some kind of private appointment there and find out what he needed to know.
The rest of the men had started unloading cargo from the lower decks onto the docks. Duncan had already gotten his things together and prepared for the long walk through the city, and all the dark and dank alleyways that rested between him and the Citadel.
Captain Alverston had stopped him just before he was to step off the rampart. "Shame to see you go, lad. Would be good to have more deckhands who don't grovel 'bout the weather or food."
"Likewise. But I've got to go. There are some questions I have that only the old men and their books can answer." Duncan replied with an easy smile.
The older man snickered and reached into his deep coat pocket. He quickly brought out a large sheathed knife. He handed it to Duncan.
"Take it, lad. Can't go wandering through places like this without a weapon. It's not much, but it'll take look after you."
Mormont accepted the blade. "Thank you." He said.
They shook hands one last time before Duncan departed, leaving the grizzled older captain to watch over his silent crew do their work.
It wasn't difficult to navigate the damp cobbled streets at night. There were lampposts dotted occasionally throughout the main roads leading towards the Thieves Market and Ragpicker's Wynd. The docks, even at this early time of the day, were still somewhat populated with sailors, deckhands, and beggars sleeping on rough cots made from moldy wood.
What a strange place this was. Duncan had only been to Oldtown once before when his father had gone to visit the Tyrells up in Highgarden. They docked in Oldtown for a day and rode the rest of the way up into the Reach. Duncan remembered seeing the city in all its glory during the day. A burring, bustling cluster of white stone and tall buildings. Noise and chatter and laughter and liveliness. It truly was distinctly different from Frostgate, or even Westhelm-both of which were far more rustic in design than the grandiose metropolis that he'd stood in now.
Perhaps he'd take Lyarra here one day? After all of this was over, of course. Once he'd redeemed his family's name.
Saving that hopeful thought for later, Duncan decided that he'd take the river road up to the Citadel rather than a ferry. A wagon would be preferable, and he disliked being too close to the water at this time of day. If he'd been given a choice to travel by land or by sea, he'd take land every single time. The story his father had once told him about their ancestor, old Priam Mormont outwitting a kraken that lived in the Bay of Ice had come to mind.
Finding a wagon just before sunrise was relatively simple. A gold dragon later (it was the only form of currency Duncan had on him), and he was enjoying a rather quiet ride up the cobbled roads towards the Citadel.
By the time they'd reached the upper strip of the Honeywine, the sun had come out overtop the high hills to the east.
The Citadel was truly a masterpiece in architecture. Towers and great domes, walled off only by high stone bulwarks. Stone bridges hung over the winding, narrowing river, and even from the western banks Duncan could see dozens of houses and market stalls set up along its length. He could imagine the folks who lived in those very homes getting out of bed and preparing for the day ahead of them. Perhaps tossing some wood over the fire to fight off the slight winter chill? Followed then by a hearty breakfast of hot porridge sprinkled lightly with brown sugar, and a batch of scrambled eggs cooked on all sides.
The thought of hot food only served to make his stomach rumble. Duncan ignored it and continued looking upon the structure that loomed impressively over him.
They came to a stop at the main gate. Duncan thanked the grouchy carriage driver before stepping off. The high iron door was nothing out of the ordinary. The two statues placed in front of it, however, were.
A pair of tall green sphinxes rested on either side of the main gate. It was strange to see this amalgamation; the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the tail of a serpent all in one creature. Moreover, the sphinx on the right had the face of a man, while the one on the left had that of a woman.
Why these old men had elected to put this out front for everyone to see, Duncan didn't know. Neither, he realized after a moment of thought, did he wish to know.
Duncan went inside past the gates and into a wide, square-shaped courtyard. To his immediate right, he saw what appeared to be a sort of market except it had a tall slanted roof over it held up by shaven logs of oak wood. There were stalls underneath it, decorated with lamps, candles, various stacks of books, and rolled-up maps. He immediately deduced that this must be the Scribe's Hearth; where the smallfolk would come to have scribes read books and write letters for them.
Several of the stalls were already manned by young men in thick brown robes. However, thanks to the lack of townsfolk at this hour of the day, a few of them had paid him expectant glances so as to come over to their stalls and do business.
Mormont had no such intention, naturally. He turned to the left, further down the path, and passed by the statue of old Daeron I Targaryen. A sign posted next to the king carved from stone showed him various directions.
Seneschal's Court was written in plain, but distinct lettering. An arrow pointing left had been placed next to it. Mormont decided to follow it.
It was just outside the stocks area where he'd arrived at yet another statue. This one seemed to have been more recent than old Daeron's. It wasn't as well-weathered but was no less glorious in its own right.
Duncan couldn't help but smile as he looked upon the stone statue depicting a stern, authoritative man standing like a sentinel with the pommel of his sword posted underneath his hands. Two direwolves circled the man who stood looking out to the east.
He glanced down at the plinth and read it.
'King Jon Stark I, He who stood against the False Dragon and united the Seven Kingdoms into One.'
His elation at seeing this monument had been brief. It was quickly overwhelmed by an oncoming sense of guilt.
I'm sorry, Uncle Jon, Mormont thought to himself as he turned away from the statue, now striding purposefully towards the Seneschal's Court. I'm going to fix everything.
The Seneschal's Court is a long hall with a stone floor and high-arched windows on either side of the room. The ceiling, upon first glance, goes up for about twenty feet, and the arches in the hall are lined with iron torch sconces that blaze with light. At the far end of the corridor, there is a raised dais with an accompanying horseshoe-shaped desk, and behind that, there is a large turnpike stairwell leading into the upper apartments.
Mormont walked through the quiet hall, his footsteps echoing noticeably at this time of morning, he was practically the only person there.
The gatekeeper-a kindly, soft-spoken middle-aged man with a rather large frizzled beard had greeted him and had asked Duncan what he could do for him. Mormont said that he wished to consult the Seneschal, or perhaps another Archmaester on hand about civilizations in Essos. His line of questioning had made the older man raise his eyebrows in surprise.
"Forgive me," The gatekeeper had said, after realizing he'd been rude. He quickly gave Duncan another once-over. "It is not often we receive petitioners asking about the eastern continent in general. Might I know your name?"
"Holm. Priam Holm." Duncan had already decided on a fake name before coming in here. He'd taken inspiration from his ancestor, Priam Mormont.
The other man dipped his head and scribbled a few words into his book. "And you wish to know… what specifically about Essos?"
"I'm thinking of traveling to the east. My father was a sailor and told me there were plenty of riches to be found there. But he neglected to tell me which destinations in particular."
"Ah! A treasure hunter, I see. Well, you've come at a good time. Normally these halls would be flooded later in the day. The Seneschal is waiting upstairs. This way, please."
Mormont followed the gatekeeper up the dank stone cobwebby stairwell and around a corner to a heavy wooden door. Over which hung an oak sign, written in stark black ink on it was, Archmaester Waltor - Acting Seneschal. Standing outside, almost on guard, was another robed man who merely gave Duncan a cursory glance before he stared back at the adjacent wall.
The gatekeeper knocked, opened the door, announced Mormont (by his fake name, of course), and left him inside a rather well-organized study with freshly swept floors, cobweb-free walls, and a blazing hearth.
Across from him, Duncan had immediately made out a pale, bald head with distinct brown wrinkles, and just below it along the face a wide healthy beard that reached down to its owner's chest. Mormont walked across the office and stood next to the seemingly offered chair.
The old man who sat on the other side had looked up, taking away the pair of reading glasses from his eyes. His long wrinkled face had broken into a warm, grandfatherly smile. He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Ah, Holm, was it? How might I help you, young man? You've come at a very particular hour of the morning, I must say. Please! Sit!"
Mormont shook the offered hand and was internally pleased that the old man's palm was warm and dry. A good, firm handshake followed before they split and took their seats.
"Thank you for receiving me," Duncan said immediately, dredging this piece of expertise out of some dim recollection of a conversation he'd once had with Torwyn about the Citadel. Supposedly the position of Seneschal was considered something of a literal thankless job among the Archmaesters, or so Torwyn had claimed.
As small as his comment was, it managed to put a beaming smile on the old man's face.
Duncan continued. "As I told the gatekeeper, I've come to learn more about Essos. My father was a sailor, you see. He told me stories about his expeditions across the Narrow Sea, and that there's plenty of wealth to be found there. I'd like to follow in his footsteps, though he didn't say which parts had caught his eye in particular."
Mormont was partly beginning to enjoy the little fake identity he'd crafted for himself. No doubt, the Seneschal would think that he was simply just a bright-eyed young man looking for adventure (which was partly true). And to old men who lived vicariously through the historical figures they often read about in the countless books stored here, they perhaps would feel similarly for him.
"Of course," Archmaester Waltor had clapped his hands together and sat forward, looking him up and down just as the gatekeeper had. For only a moment, there was a mysterious glint in his brown eyes. "If you don't mind my speaking, Priam… you speak rather intelligibly for the son of a sailor. Northerner, am I correct?"
"Indeed," Duncan had anticipated this particular roadblock. It would've been easy for these old men to peg him as a Northerner from his build and accent alone. "My father taught me to read and write. He bought as many books as he could from the merchants in White Harbor when he was a boy. Came down South during the Summer as there were more opportunities here."
"Right, right," The old man nodded, seemingly convinced by Duncan's spun yarn of a story. "It's simply an irregular occurrence for us, is all. It isn't often the smallfolk teach themselves to read and write. After all, that's why I chose to come to the Citadel myself, my own father was a guardsman for House Hightower. But I digress."
The Archmaester went on. "Anyway, your query about wealth in Essos is a curious one, but it can be answered here." He grinned, almost conspiratorially with Duncan then. "I know just the man who can help you with this. He tends to keep himself up to date with our records of the East."
Waltor picked up a small bell from the right corner of his desk. Very gently, he shook it by the handle. Ding, ding, ding!
Immediately, the door to the study opened, revealing the square, emotionless face of the robed man who'd stood outside.
"Lysander, please guide this young man to Maester Therrin."
Another long walk through a series of musty old stone hallways. Duncan Mormont's heart was still in his boots, and impatience was fresh in his mind.
There came another heavy wooden door with the name above it in clear black ink. However, much to his relief, Mormont was shown into a clean, well-lit office. The walls were lined with meticulously ordered bookshelves and simple tapestries, and the stone floor was covered in a red Myrish carpet. Just as before, he was announced along with his purpose in being there, and then, not soon after, the door clicked decisively behind him.
The faint scent of pipeweed was present. And completely betraying the conventional image of the hunched-over old men of the Citadel-a young man sat on the other side of the long dark wooden desk on the opposite end of the room. He stood up and came across the room to meet Mormont. Despite the baggy robes that Maesters often wore, Mormont could tell that Maester Therrin at the very least had some muscle underneath his apparel. He was slim, and his face was fine, studious, and adorned with a wry, mirthful smile.
"Holm? Priam Holm, right?" The handshake was brief and firm. "It's not often I get brought in to handle interesting little dilemmas regarding our 'friends' in the East. Truth be told, most of the smallfolk come in to either have their wills drawn up or write letters to their loved ones. Not terribly exciting, as you might guess."
Betraying the convention, indeed, reflected Mormont. He wondered briefly what would it be like to be a young man in the citadel, having already attained a full Maester's chain, no less. No doubt, there would be a sense of admiration, even envy, from those who hadn't done so. And perhaps snub superiority from the older men who'd consider you nothing more than just another troublemaker, just a younger man with all of the knowledge and none of the wisdom.
Naturally, of course, Mormont reminded himself that these men took vows of celibacy. Duncan loved women. Too much to give them up altogether. And so, he put away those brief introspections for now.
Nonetheless, he decided that he liked this Maester Therrin. His jovial attitude was much more welcoming than that of the desperate acolytes out in the Scribe's Hearth.
"No, I imagine not," Duncan said. "As I've already told the Seneschal, I'd like to narrow down specific destinations in Essos. There's not much for me back home, and my father always told me stories about his voyages across the Narrow Sea."
"Right, of course." Therrin took his seat and gestured for Mormont to take the one across from him. "Let's get down to business then. Now, we don't typically host treasure hunters. I'm afraid that's stuff most of us only read about in adventure stories and whatnot. Things like that simply don't happen all that much in real life. Old fishwives tails and so on." He said as he plucked his smoking pipe into his mouth and pulled over a nearby book, as well as an old, rolled up map. On the cover, Duncan read out silently, Essos: A Compendium of Civilizations In The East & Beyond. "That said, I can certainly point you in several directions, and give you a few places that might interest you. But I must warn you-the East isn't exactly safe. As a matter of stern fact, there's a lot more you'll have to worry about over there. They've got a lot of odd rituals and the like-morals are a lot laxer, too, as it so happens."
The reputation of his family was on the line. And if Duncan pulled this off, then he'd be able to go home. No, the danger simply wasn't a concern for him.
"I can handle myself well enough."
Therrin gave him a brief, erudite glance, taking note of the brutal certainty and self-trust with which Duncan spoke. Very quickly, he was satisfied. "Well, if you say so." He said, then cracking open the book and quickly flipping through various pages. He took the pipe out of his mouth and let out a fresh plume of smoke. "Now, I'm sure you know quite well about the Free Cities, yes? Seems like the first thing your father ought to have told you."
Duncan nodded. "Naturally. He seemed to take a liking to Braavos the most. Said the Titan was mesmerizing in its own right."
"That it is. It's a fortress and a lighthouse, you know. Whole bloody thing is made of granite and bronze. Terrific work-" Maester Therrin immediately realized he'd just been about to dump a load of unnecessary information on his guest and caught himself. "-but Braavos itself is wonderful, and by far the wealthiest of the lot. At least when it comes to the Free Cities, of course. They're not particularly fond of slavers. The founders were former slaves from Old Valyria, or so the stories say. In any case, the people are generally well-mannered and kind. If I were you, I'd certainly start there."
"But?" Duncan asked. There was always a but.
The young Maester had grinned upon hearing his question. "Well, the shakes are that they've got a lot of bad blood with Volantis and Pentos-a few other notable destinations to keep in mind. The Volantenes are pretty big on slavery, as you might well know, and so were the Pentoshi for that matter. Between Braavos and Pentos alone there have been about seven different wars in the last two centuries alone. The most recent one having ended about eight years ago, back in 306. Fascinating bit, since the Pentoshi had lost the war before then, and so slavery was abolished officially speaking. But you know how it is when nobody's looking. In 305 a bunch of merchants had the bright idea to get back into the slave trade, but the Braavosi weren't having any of it. That war didn't last particularly long, and now the practice has been banned again."
So… Braavos, then? It seemed like the simplest answer, surely.
And yet… He'd barely even scoped out the rest of his options at all.
"What about Volantis?" Mormont asked.
"Ah," Therrin had flipped through a few more of the dusty old pages. "Now there's the brush. The Volantenes haven't been particularly happy with us since that whole False Dragon business. Seems they're a little overly fond of their Red Priests, and the Triarchs, or more importantly, the noble families behind them, are devout worshipers in their Red God."
Duncan knew what the other man was talking about. The War of the Pretender was waged mostly in secret, but everything had come to light in its final days. When his father and King Jon confronted the False Dragon, they found out that he'd been helped along by the Red Priests, specifically from the Temple based in Volantis. That entire sect of their order had been summarily executed.
Passing over Volantis, in that case, would probably be for the best here.
"I think I'll skip over them, then." Still, there had to be more, right? "Surely there are other places in Essos that can match Braavos in wealth? Perhaps even trounce it?"
Therrin took a moment to reflect, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh, of course! Why, the Free Cities are just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg, after all."
It was then that the young Maester reached over for the map. He unrolled it expertly and flattened it out across his, posting various other books on each of the corners to hold it in place.
The map itself showed the entirety of the Known World. Though, this one seemed more up-to-date than the one Duncan had seen at the Dancing Fox.
"We're right here, in Oldtown." Therrin pointed at the large circular dot made in black ink towards the bottom left corner of Westeros. Just below Westeros itself, Duncan could make out the Summer Islands and the further expanse of the Sunset Sea. It was odd to him that, much like the other map, the entirety of Sothoryos, the great continent to the southeast, had still not been uncovered. Other than that oddity, the rest of the map extended as far as the edges of the 'Grey Waste'.
Whatever in the Seven Hells is the Grey Waste? Duncan thought to himself. He also saw a small outline depicting a body of water, which was so carefully labeled as the 'Hidden Sea'. It didn't quite look so hidden on a map, he reflected.
"...and you can see just how much landmass there is beyond even Volantis-which is right here by the way," Therrin said, rather excitedly, as he pointed at a dot just on the underbelly of the eastern continent. "As to your question, there are undoubtedly other civilizations that can step up to the plate. Qarth comes to mind. They're a particularly wealthy port city, and although they largely depend on the slave trade-they do control a narrow strait just under mainland Essos and between this island here-Great Moraq. They're able to tax ships passing from east to west and vice versa."
Shit, Duncan was genuinely impressed. He'd only heard the name of the city in passing from his Aunt Daenerys, but thought nothing of it. Yet the fact alone that this one city controlled such a pivotal position concerning trade and commerce… He wasn't particularly surprised that they were as wealthy as they were.
Still, that bit about their reliance on their slaves… That did not sit well in Duncan's mind. He'd already instinctively filtered them out.
Mormont spied over the map some more. He wasn't impressed with Slaver's Bay, neither did he believe he'd find what he wanted from any slaver or noble who even so much as dabbled in the practice. So the three great cities in that area were out.
These Qartheen merchants… they tax ships going in and out from this area, the Jade Gates… but what do they tax that is so valuable?
He posed his internal question to Therrin, who had answered him eagerly.
"Spices, as it so happens." The young Maester had said. "Saffron in particular is one of the more popular exports. That comes from Yi Ti. So do variable quantities of silk and wine. Most other exports either come from the island of Leng, or from Asshai-here." He pointed again at another circular dot just on the edges of the Shadow Lands, now in the bottom right corner of the map. "Asshai export amber and dragonglass typically, but these materials can be found here in Westeros, however. I'd say the Qartheen make most of their export revenue off the YiTish, for certain."
"Why's that?" Duncan asked.
Therrin shrugged noncommittally. "Well, I believe it was written somewhere that the Golden Empire-that's what Yi Ti is called as it so happens-was legendarily wealthy. Something along those lines, I should think. Truth be told, there's not a whole lot recorded about the place, despite it supposedly being one of the oldest surviving civilizations, or at least according to various reports about them. It's terribly far, as well. But, in my mind at least, they've got to have plenty of gold to throw around if they're constantly trading with other cities such as Braavos, Pentos, and Volantis as well. Especially if they're being taxed heavily by the Qartheen."
"What do you mean by legendarily wealthy?" This smelt like a lead. Something solid.
"Just a few fanciful tales, if I recall right. Their princes are said to live in houses made out of solid gold, and to eat their sweetmeats and meals with powdered jade and pearls sprinkled over it." Therrin laughed. "Sounds like a whole lot of make-believe, if you ask me. At the same time, there's no doubt that they're wealthy. If they've been around this long, they'd have to be."
Duncan was stumped.
Despite wanting to expand his options, he only narrowed it back down to Braavos, and now the sudden addition of some strange Empire out in the Far East.
He knew what his limits were, and how far he was willing to go to obtain his prize for Robb Stark. Most of the destinations he'd been shown so far relied on the practice of slavery. And that was a line that Duncan would not cross, not even if his own life depended on it.
Slavers were among the scum that Duncan truly despised above all. The last thing he wanted for himself and his family name was to be associated with them in any way shape or form. Neither would he disrespect the laws of the North as well, even if he were in some far-flung nation across the Narrow Sea.
Braavos was looking like the clear option. It was certainly easier to get there. And it would be easier to navigate it with his current level of knowledge regarding the Free Cities…
But that would just be the easy choice, wouldn't it? There was apprehension there, the kind that was a signal of low effort, in his mind at least. He hated that feeling.
"These, err… YiTish… do they practice slavery?" He asked, dreading the expected answer.
This time, Therrin took a few extra moments to think. He puffed away with his smoking pipe before looking back at Duncan. "Not that I'm aware of. However, I strongly suspect that they don't. There were some great events in their history if I remember right. One of their rulers went mad or something and enslaved his people. Even before then, from what little was written about them, they were generally a free society. More so based on a meritocracy, I believe. They keep pretty close worship of their gods, too."
That… was not what Duncan was expecting. It seemed that these people were a cut above all of the other places he'd heard about so far, yet so much of that assumption was based on mystery. There was so much he didn't know about Yi Ti.
Yet, it also instilled a sense of hope in him.
Yi Ti… the long-dormant sense of adventure that all men carried tingled in his heart, threatening to ignite into a roaring, blazing fire.
Was there anyone else he knew who'd gone to Yi Ti before? There wasn't a single Manderly that came to mind. Not even his Uncle Oberyn. Not even his own father.
And now the wheel turns on me… The Blood of the Dragon.
This was it, wasn't it? His chance, not just to attain a prize, but also for glory! Duncan could see it already… him returning home. He'd go back to Winterfell, or perhaps even King's Landing! He'd deliver this kingly gift, likely some YiTish bauble or something of the like, at the feet of Robb Stark. Then he'd be welcomed back by his father and his own family. He'd marry Lyarra, and make her happy. Give her a good life. Make his father proud, too.
Stories would be told about this adventure! Songs would be sung! A tale of how one man looking for redemption sailed across the world to find it! The smallfolk always loved those types of stories, didn't they? They'd eat it up in a heartbeat.
With no small amount of vanity in mind, Duncan Mormont had come to a decision. He looked down at the map with renewed vigor and grinned.
"Tell me what you know about Yi Ti."