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Important Note: I've added an extra section at the end of the previous chapter for Will&Ashs wedding if you missed that, you may go back and read it :)
Chapter 60: On Stranger Tides
"A gentleman allows a lady her fables."
– Prince Suko Lóng
He was sick of dragons. The boy was fine enough – he'd almost taken a shine to his ambitions, naive as they were – yet Rodrik was bordering on obsession in his own not-so-humble opinion. All the plots within plots made his head hurt something fierce. Aegon, Daenerys, Connington, Robb, Winterfell, Westeros, Bla, Bla Bla Bla…
Willam groaned audibly and reached for the pitcher of dornish red. These dinners simply couldn't be stomached fully sober, no man was strong enough for it.
"If we cannot have a queen then we'll have a Princess," his brother was adamant.
And if they were refused that – well – the lords of winter would be slighted, to say the least.
There was Jon Snow of course, the boy was apparently half dragon already; as Connington was always eager to argue – he'd told them "you've already gotten your Dragonwolf" and would boldly suggest that to ask for more was grasping. Rodrik had laughed at the accusation and Young Aegon was quick to settle matters.
"House Stark suffered much under my grandfather," he'd told them, and the court as a whole. "And they aid us greatly now, despite that history."
In the end of things, the young dragon had vowed to fulfil the 'Pack of Ice and Fire' as his father wished before him.
A Stark would wed a Targaryen. What exact Stark and what Targaryen was a matter of some heated debate.
Rodrik was content, or at least appeared outwardly to be so… the man was hard to read…
Varin was the ideal match for young Daenerys, he'd declared; sharing his preference with the young dragon – the second Prince of Winter for the king's aunt – although if a woman with three dragons fled like bending over at her nephew's orders Willam could not say. He wouldn't. He knew Ashlyn wouldn't, if she were in the girl's shoes. Why should she obey a boy, claiming to be her dead kin, sitting on a throne she no doubt considered her own?
Jon Connington was, perhaps wisely, quite adamant that Aegon be the husband for his aunt.
"She has dragons," Willam argued with a frown, cutting off his brother's political ramblings.
"That's why she's important little brother…"
"Aye," he could admit that much, assuming the lizards were real.
That's why they wanted her. The worst kept truth in the whole damn castle.
"I think what Uncle means to say, is that she might not be so willing Your Grace..."
"I wager not," Rodrik agreed with young Brandon easily, glancing across the table.
"Should you tell em or should I?"
They all looked to Cregan at that, willingly the secrets from him.
Rodrik sighed. "It's a valid concern," he admitted, placing down his fork on the oaken table. "If these great lizards are real enough, no doubt they come with a degree of ambition about them; the girl may not be so content to accept Aegon as easily as the Martells."
"She may not at all," Willam added. "I wouldn't, if I were her…"
That was the truth of it. He wouldn't believe Aegon to be truly his kin, not on word or hope alone.
The boy was young, ambitious, eager to rule; not for power but out of an installed sense of duty – though it didn't seem the boy knew exactly what that duty meant in practice. He had the makings of potential about him however, with the right hands to guide, the boy could have the peace he sought… for a time at least…
"That's why we must not wait to see," Rodrik declared, somewhat hushed.
"I'll be leaving," Cregan shared. "By days end, I'm to find this girl and introduce ourselves…"
"Uncle," Brandon looked to the king with concern.
"He'll be fine lad. Snow's not so easily killed, are you?"
It was left unsaid that bastards were expendable, but that was his reasoning.
Cregan was a Prince only in honor, truth be told, the title was a mere courtesy most afforded.
"Snow melts in fire," Willam argued. The dragon girl could simply decide to burn him.
"I'll manage," Cregan said, unconcerned. "His Grace has kindly given me the Seawolf…"
Ships didn't grow on trees. "The Seawolf?" Willam frowned. "Jorg's ship? Suppose he'll not be using it anymore?"
"Lord Seastark has gifted it to us as way of apology for his son's actions," Rodrik explained. "The boy is never to captain a ship again, though I believe he's to serve as crew for one of his brothers, young Jorg will never rise to the position of captain again so long as he lives. He's also been stripped of his inheritance."
It was a severe crime, to go against kin, though Jorg had gotten off lightly in the king's eyes; to say nothing of the bastard Jorg had gotten on some silver-haired whore of his – there would soon be another Snow in the world – much to Lord Seastarks annoyance given the fact Jorg was a married man.
Rodrik gift of the vessel to Cregan was a showing his displeasure to the Seastarks.
"Congratulations," Willam managed a smile for him.
"Captain Snow," Brandon said. "Has a nice ring to it..."
"Aye," Cregan hummed, a smirk threatening its way to the surface.
"I'd come with you but-"
"-but you've a wife now," Cregan interrupted.
Not to mention a child on the way. He could not leave.
"And there's a debt I have to pay here," Willam added.
"Jaime Lannister?" Rodrik guessed easily.
A blood debt left unpaid was a heavy thing.
"It's alright," Cregan dismissed. "Your old enough to look after yourself now Stark."
"Piss off Snow," Willam scoffed, but truth be told he'd missed his bastard brother, and now he'd miss him again.
By the time the sun was highest in the sky the snows were beginning to thaw beneath their feet among battlements frosted and wet, the vast host of tents beyond Storm's End shifted like a sleeping dragon, shuffling the light snow from its wings and stretching with a yawn – the air was alive with their chatter and the scuffle of hooves – everything was noise as supply wagons were loaded, horses saddles, elephants harnessed, the uproar of a host that had grown near fifty thousand strong.
King Rodrik had brought with him nearly thirty thousand of his own men, to be bolstered by what Stormlords had flocked to the Baratheon banner and young lady Shireen; their numbers joined with those of the Golden Company's ten thousand and yet more Stormlords had arrived day after day to make up the difference. They would number somewhere over sixty thousand by all reports, once Lord Yronwood joined them; having left the Boneway days past with the bulk of his host at Prince Doran's command – leaving behind a token force – marching up past Blackhaven to join with Lord Dondarrion by way of Summerhall to join them at the capital.
Lord Franklyn Fowler would remain in the Prince's Pass with his own host, acting as both defence for Dorne and a stalwart deterrent against the Reach.
Margery Tyrell was Queen to the bastard Tommen Waters, though her father claimed ignorance of this truth; begging for her safety. Aegon had promised him it.
Tyrell had thus meekly given command of his forces to Randyll Tarly under the condition that what men remained to them after the Kingswood would fight for Aegon to ensure the life of their liege lord. Most of the Reachmen obeyed, harbouring old loyalties to the Targaryen cause. Some lords had outright sworn allegiance to the boy.
The Young Dragon had quickly gone from leading a band sellswords to riding at the head of one of the largest hosts in all Westeros.
Willam had quickly found himself in the middle of it, shouting with the best of them, falling back into his old role as commander too easily.
His brother's men obeyed as they ought to for a Prince, though the Stormlords spared glances – they all listened, if not to him then to King Rodrik sure enough – the Golden Company and its sellswords were by far the least content; though they too held tightly to discipline. It was their mother's milk, so to speak, disciple was their code.
"Majestic beasts," Suko wandered over, eyeing the elephants as sellswords strapped golden plated steel on their fearsome mounts to accompany great saddles with small stands for archers or crossbowmen riding atop; their trunks too were plated and shun in the rising sun above them.
The Empire had known such creatures once, though they had long been overhunted for their tusks long ago.
"You're certain about this?" Willam asked of his friend, eyeing him; ignoring the elephants trumpeting.
"I am," Suko hummed. "Why, going to miss me Stark?"
The Imperial was off on his own little adventure it seemed.
"You're leaving me alone with these people…"
"These people," Suko chuckled.
"My family," Willam frowned at the notion.
"You've the girl, do you not? Not so terrible a fate Stark."
That he did. A notion that gave him courage and fear in equal measure.
He was to become a father, after all, and what in the gods name did he know about being a father?
"You'll be fine without me," Suko didn't fail to note the dark clouds under his friend's eyes.
That wasn't too new, knowing him – Suko knew he'd get no answers even if he asked.
"You Starks are hard beasts to kill, remember?"
"Aye," Willam supposed with a weary sigh.
If not for Ash. If not for the child. If not for Aedan…
"The next time I see you," Suko said. "I'll be riding a dragon!"
Willam scoffed. "If she lets you, Lóng, might be she's smarter than all that…"
"I've yet to meet any beautiful women that could resist my many charms!"
Ashlyn would've struck him over the head if she were present to do it. She was not.
He'd sent her with young Brandon and the ships, back to Dragonstone where she'd be safe – much to her annoyance and loud argument – but Rodrik had agreed for the safety of the Stark she carried, as a Stark herself since the wedding, she could be angry with him all she liked but Willam was glad to have her safe.
King's Landing stood no chance, and that concerned him more than it did the dragon. The dragon could smell victory. Willam smelt desperation.
A cornered beast was at its most dangerous, desperate to survive. Rodrik had agreed, the lions still had their claws.
"Or men," Willam huffed at his friend's misfortune, pushing politics aside. Oberyn hadn't ever ceased his teasing…
And the Imperial reddened for it. "Don't remind me," he chuckled nervously. "I'm flattered – don't get me wrong – but I-"
"Prefer his niece," Willam knew too well, though those two had ceased their dalliance for some time now.
"With a rear like that, can you really blame me Stark? I think not!"
He couldn't, really, though for his own safety he'd keep quiet about it.
Ash would gut him like a fish for such a thought…
"No idea what you're talking about Lóng."
Suko scoffed, mustering a frown.
"You're no fun anymore," he sighed.
"I used to be fun, did I? Since when?"
"Oh yes, sort of at least; in your own way…"
"Give my regards to the Dragon Queen, will you?"
"Oh I shall," Suko smirked wickedly. "I shall indeed Stark…"
The wolf Flash licked at the Imperial's palm as if to say farewell.
Willam eyed the Targaryen boy in the distance atop his black stallion, his cloak drifting in the breeze as he waved to the men he passed – knights and lords and commoners alike – looking every inch the People's Prince atop his steed, with Oberyn and Connington sticking to the boy like a drunk stuck to an alehouse.
The horse at his side kicked impatiently at the ground as Suko Lóng watched his brother-by-choice wander away from him.
"Lóng," the voice broke his gaze from Willam as he departed into the crowd of banners, with Flash at his heels.
"Snow," Suko countered, darted eyes to the man atop his white steed.
"We're to leave immediately," the Bastard of Winterhold told him so matter-of-factly.
The tides would be turning shortly enough, their ships awaited them off the shore in Shipbreaker Bay; sails down against the howling winds. "Lead the way Prince Snow," Suko told the man with a mustered smile. "I do so look forward to traveling with you across the sunset, it'll be fun, will it not?"
Cregan merely huffed, leaving with a roll of his eyes.
"Dawn," Suko muttered a curse. He missed Stark already.
Storm's End soon shrunk in the distance, its cliffs and grey stone a distance vision on the horizon as Suko Lóng peered over the Seawolf's railings. The winds were strong and spirited them away, south-east towards their first port of call, to the Free Cities and the land of Essos. It was the sort of thing he'd always dreamt of as a boy.
A quest to find a princess and her mighty dragons in a strange faraway land. He'd have felt excited, if not for the dread gnawing at his gut.
They were joined by the Whitestrake and the Longclaw, captained by Talan Flint and Derek Mormont respectively, the crewmen had started referring to their group as the 'Snow Fleet' in contract to the Winter one they'd left behind; though three vessels hardly made a fleet in truth. They were more a patrol than anything else at all…
At sea for only a few days, they caught sight of great island fortress protected by high towering walls and surrounded on all sides by vast dockyards; littered by a few hundred sails of purple, blue, yellow, it was a port of rainbows at mere glance. The Free City of Tyros, if Suko wasn't mistaken, though it was not to be their port of call – passing her by they were ghosted by a handful of small galleys with brightly coloured sails – no doubt wary of strangers, the Tyroshi were apparently on high alert.
Suko couldn't blame them, what with all the strange sails in these waters lately. He could however only scoff at the size of their patrolling vessels.
Their destination was further south-east, hugging the shore of the Disputed Lands with its small dull-grey cliffs and stony beaches. A week at sea saw them turn sharply southward, leaving the cliffs and stones behind them; they crossed calm seas under a warm sun and clear sky.
Lys greeted them with a decidedly more impressive sight than Tyros had offered…
It was beyond massive. The city seemed to stretch across the whole island – five or six times larger than the rocky island Tyros sat upon in the west – the Free City of Lys spanned as far as the eye could see, a shining paradise of white sand beaches and palm trees against crystal clear blue-green waters filled with fish.
The city itself was protected by high whitestone walls and a vast army of sellswords that patrolled her battlements and streets.
"A diamond in the sea," Suko thought of it, leaning on the Seawolf's railings and watching the sight of the city.
Its docks were littered with a thousand sails of every colour imaginable, many of their hulls striped in bright hues.
They found anchor along an easterly stretch of docks that boasted silks of purple and blue spanning from whitestone building to building, the inhabitants eyeing them curiously as they docked – most were silver-haired with haunting eyes of violet, purple, indigo and starbright silvers. Dragonseeds, it was said; the blood of Old Valyria ran great and strong within the Lyseni and with that blessing came a certain beauty to match the shining city. They were near all of pale skin, silver-gold hair, and eyes of purple, lilac, and pale blues – filling the clean streets with of Lys with men and women akin to the dragonlords of old.
"Going ashore Lóng?"
Suko smirked in reply. The air smelt of sweet perfumes.
"Indeed Snow," he told the bastard. He'd be remiss to not explore.
"We're not to linger," Cregan eyed the docks warily. Eyes of lilac and indigo glared at their arrival, judging, assessing.
"I'll return Snow, threat not," he didn't plan to stay in this place forever.
Down the plank he found Derek Mormont stepping down onto the pier from his Longclaw, a vessel of three desk; it was second only to the Mormont flagship of the heir's father but was none the less impressive with its tall dark green sails and roaring defiant bear. "Prince Lóng," the Heir to House Mormont greeted heartily.
"Mormont," Suko nodded to the man as he was quickly surrounded by a gathering of swords in dark green cloaks.
"Call me Derek," Mormont all but slammed a meaty hand onto Suko's shoulder, as if they were long lost brothers of a sort.
"Derek," Suko smiled easily enough.
Mormont's were good company more often than not.
The pair eyed the Whitestrake's captain disembarking onto the pier.
"Come," Derek urged. "Let's explore, before Flint deems to join us, eh?"
Those two were hardly friends. House Mormont and Flint had some old rivalry of a sort, though Suko couldn't recall why exactly.
It was something stupid, he vaguely recalled Willam complaining years ago about the matter – some childish dispute regarding fishing rights off the coast of the Wrightland that served as the largest of all the Sunset Islands – the Flints claimed rights and the Mormonts disputed them and the rest of a whole childish history.
The Flints had married into House Fisher in hopes of gaining influence, but the Mormonts had wedded one of their own directly into House Stark.
"Indeed," Suko mustered a charming smile and motioned his new friends onward.
They left Flint behind them and went ahead with a handful of guards in silver plate and green cloaks.
"Godric," Derek spoke to the man beside him, a tall one, heavy with muscle and a great hawk using his shoulder as a perch; its talons scratching its masters silver pauldron. "Give us your eyes cousin," the Heir of Mormont said, and the hawk flapped its wings before leaping into the air.
This 'Godric' fellow was a warg, clear enough, Suko had grown accustomed to such magics long ago.
And a cousin to the Heir? There was a silver bear pinning his cloak.
"Onward now Lóng," Derek said with a grin. "I heard from a lord… the fuck was his name cousin?"
"Wensington," the Godric replied with a grunt.
"That's the one, terribly dull man; but loved his whores."
And he'd loved his stories as well, Derek forgot to mention – or rightfully didn't care to – for House Wensington were descendants of House Durrandon by a bastard line, their words "Sound the Charge" gave reference to an ancient battle where some Durrandon bastard had saved his trueborn brother and been knighted for the deed.
Lord Durran Wensington had boasted loudly of his heritage back at Storm's End, and the man had been all too eager to speak of his adventures in Essos.
"Whorelord," Derek recalled the title his lord father had bestowed upon Wensington.
"My first girl was an Imperial you know Lóng," the Heir was saying, smirking gladly at the memory.
"Is that so?" Suko was only vaguely paying attention, his eyes scanning the street as they walked; up some clean white steps.
There were slaves littering the sides of the streets beckoning over would-be customers to their stalls where merchants awaited with fake smiles and honeyed laughs, inviting them to try their wares; the sight of slaves turned the nose of Mormont's guards – beautiful as most were, and seemingly happy with their lot in life.
"Pretty things," Derek had only mustered a light frown as he passed, it quickly turned to a grin when one of them approached.
This slave woman had bright lilac eyes and silvery hair curled at the tips and fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. Her hips were wrapped around with a blood-red coloured shawl which reached halfway down her bare thighs.
"My Lords," she spoke perfect andal, that put their own to great shame.
"My Lady," Derek had halted them all to greet this one, her dress all too revealing.
"Such manners," the slavegirl grinned like a demon. "Please, come rest your heads at my mistress's garden…"
"Garden?" Suko asked, drawing the eye of the beauty.
"My mistress runs the greatest of Lys's pleasure gardens, my lord."
No doubt every mistress in the city claimed to run the greatest of them.
"Prince," Suko replied instead of his doubts.
He smiled genuinely when something glinted in those lilac eyes.
"Prince," the slavegirl's eyes sparkled, touching his arm with practiced grace.
"Showing off are we Lóng?"
"Always," Suko let the girl wrap her arm around his.
"Come," she said seductively. "My lords, you shall not regret it…"
"Is that an invitation or a promise, my Lady?"
She clung to her beaming smile, suddenly innocent.
The way she clung to his arm, breasts pushed up, told him enough.
"It would be terribly rude of us to refuse," Suko said, looking to Mormont.
Derek huffed some laughter. "Oh aye, that it would – shall we lads? Cousin?"
"My Lord," is all Godric offered, though the rest of the guard were more enthusiastic.
She clung to his arm the whole way, laughing sweetly at his jokes and being sure to cling to his arm as if she were a drowning sailoring clinging to a piece of driftwood that might save her; the woman was as beautiful as she was experienced – Suko knew well enough hers was a game and little else…
The garden of her mistress was up the street and a set of pristine steps, under an archway and suddenly into a world of green.
Palm trees stood before them, their shade offering cool places to sit on warm grass surrounded by wildflowers of every colour, with a pristine crystal pool of water at its centre – everything Suko's eyes landed he found another woman and then another, naked as the day they were born and each more beautiful than the last.
"I see why the Whorelord couldn't shut up about this place," Mormont all but mumbled.
In a flash a flock of women had come to Mormont and his men, giggling and offering them the world.
"With me Prince," the one on Suko's arm flashed her eyelashes at him.
"My Lady," he smiled back at her, leaving Mormont and his men to their own devices.
"My Mistress will wish to see you," his guide said, walking ahead of him with swaying hips.
It was all a game. Her voice, the tone of it, the way she'd touched his arm and led them all while clinging so close – the swaying of her hips now, meant to draw his eye – these women all were distractions, lures, like sirens meant to kiss a sailor only to drag him down to the watery depths of the sea.
"In here my Prince," she smiled innocently at him. The air smelt of lilac and sweet gooseberries in this place.
The Mistress of this garden was laid out on an ornate marble chair, littered with cushions, as one man and one woman shielded her from the sun with great palm leaves. She was a beaty herself, as all seemed to be in this city, though hers was a skin of polished ebony and her eyes an indigo so dark they were almost black.
"Vaella my sweet," she spoke in a tongue that was almost liquid, musical and flowing.
"Mistress," Vaella curtsied with all the grace of a princess.
"Who is this you bring to me? A dornishman?"
"A Prince," came her answer, smiling sweetly.
"Is that so?" The Mistress looked at her guest.
She was dressed in silk, golden with brightly coloured feathers.
"Suko Lóng," he bowed gracefully and recalled his courtly nonsense. "Prince of the Dawn, son of Emperor Qing Lóng of the Imperial City."
Words and titles that meant nothing to any of them, as evident by the look on the Mistresses face.
"I have gold," Suko smirked when no reply came.
"Very well," the Mistress said in common, her accent flowing like water.
"Come," the guide Vaella touched his arm once more, leading him aside to private rooms.
Inside were several women of stunning beauty, all eyeing him with well-practiced innocence.
"Your gold," Vaella said plainly even as her smile never faded. They were not fools, these whores.
Suko took a pouch from his hip, small, but filled with Bravvosi coinage; gifted by King Rodrik before their departure.
"Enjoy," Vaella took an amount she seemed to deem acceptable.
"You," Suko quickly took her hand before she could depart.
"I-" Vaella blinked. The surprise was the first genuine thing he'd seen on her face.
"I'll pay double," Suko said boldly. "Take it all if you wish, but only for You."
The woman's eyes darted to the others, who awaited her orders.
She was special, this one; all too clear by the many looks she received.
"Very well," Vaella said after a moment, taking the whole pouch of gold this time.
Suko said simply "Ladies" as the others passed, leaving the both of them alone and closing shut the violet curtain.
The room was large, with a bed large enough for ten, he watched as Vaella walked to the bed and removed the strap from her shoulder.
"Vaella," Suko tested the name, eyeing her as she undressed.
"Suko," she tested his own, standing bare before him without any shame.
"Valyrian, isn't it?" Suko stood his ground, eyeing her with a smirk.
"My father was Valyrian," she claimed. "If all you wished to do is talk-"
"It is not," he closed the distance between them.
"Good," she stood on her toes and planted kisses.
It would've been an expensive talk, to be sure; he was not about to waste another man's coin on mere idle chatter with a whore. A slave, at that, though this one was no common slave - that much was obvious by her price and the respect the others gave so freely. It could not be beauty alone that afforded her such things, beautiful as she was, he'd spent the better part of an hour exploring every inch and to call her anything short of a beauty would've been simply insulting.
He could happily remain in this city for the rest of his days, though he feared a man would quick run short on coin and find himself fast without friends or company. This city of Lys was better experienced in small amounts but was none the less worthwhile. The girl was resting her silvery locks on his chest, tracing circles with her finger, humming some blissful melody. A man could easily fall for a woman like this, he knew, if the man were sadly ignorant about the ways of whores.
"All precautions are taken my Prince," she eventually said after their moment passed.
She looked up at him with innocently and vowed that no fruit was born of the garden; unless the fruit was paid to grow...
"Unless the fruit is paid to grow?"
What in the dawn did that even mean, exactly?
Curiosity got the better of him, or perhaps his years with Willam Stark had made him soft to pretty faces. He dismissed that notion.
"We-" Vaella said. "The mistress, that is, services many desires; some more lucrative than others..."
"Do I even want to know?"
"Perhaps not," she smiled. "Unless you desire fruit?"
Suko blinked. Fruit. Garden. Whores.
"No," he decided. "I think not, my dear..."
"As you wish," she laid her head back down.
This city had its beauty and ugliness in equal measure, though the sun always casted shadows no matter the land one found themselves in.
"Who are you to them," Suko pried, stroking the girl's hair. "The others, and this Mistress of yours."
"I-" she sighed. "It's of no importance..."
"I've asked, is that not of importance?"
She was too wilful for a simple common slave.
"She is my mother," Vaella said quietly, as if to say so was a curse deserving of great punishment.
"The Mistress? And your father? Who is he?"
"He-" Vaella sighed. "Why are you interested?"
"Curiosity," Suko admitted easily.
She frowned in thought for a moment.
"I never met him, but he was a Rogare – an old family – he spent a small fortune to lay with the Mistress and... well..."
"And he paid for-"
"Fruit," Vaella hummed quietly.
"Why?" Suko scowled. "I don't understand it."
Bastards were commonly a thing most avoided from their whores, or at least ignored.
"The Mistress has dragon's blood in her veins, or so it's said," Vaella explained, sighing as if the question was a dull thing she had little or no interest in discussing. "My father – whatever his name was – wished a son with the old blood to raise his fortunes, but he was given a daughter..."
"And if you were born a son instead? What then?"
She would not be lingering in this place, no doubt...
"I'd have become a Rogare, instead of this," she smiled, though it was a hollow thing. "Can we not speak of it? We cannot change our pasts..."
He wanted to ask what kind of mother would allow her daughter to be sold as a whore, but quickly thought better of asking at all. No doubt such a thing was common enough in this place, and she was right; there was no sense dwelling on things you couldn't possibly change.
Slavery was a way of life in this city, that was simply the way of things.
"What would you like to talk about instead?" She giggled at that, innocent and genuine.
"Most men would be gone by now," she said with a smirk. "Or they'd be paying for another tumble, yet you wish to talk?"
"The next time shall be free," Suko declared.
Only for her to laugh, genuine, pure; unlike before.
"Such confidence borders on arrogance my Prince, you should be careful, no?"
"I've never been one for the careful things in life..."
"Where do you sail?" Vaella asked, looking up with starry eyes. "I have never left Lys - tell me, where do you go?"
"East," Suko shared. "I'm hunting dragons..."
"Dragons?" Vaella smirked wickedly. "You have found one, Prince."
"Not the type in this bed, my dear, though you are worth the hunt. I'm after a Princess..."
"Am I not one of those too Ser?"
"Oh yes," Suko chuckled. "My Princess."
"Mother's dragon blood," Vaella thought aloud. "They say it came from a Targaryen Prince, long ago, exiled from the andal kingdoms..."
"There's a Targaryen in the East," Suko knew nothing of any other exiled Targaryens,
"Daenerys," Vaella knew the name. "Mother of Dragons, they call her, she has three of them."
"What else do they say Princess?"
She liked that title. She liked it a whole lot.
"They say she is Queen of Slaver's Bay and means to free all the slaves, though I couldn't dream of such a world..."
There were those in the city that feared her coming.
They said a great deal of things lately in fact.
"They say she is beautiful," Vaella added.
"As beautiful as you Princess?"
"Stop it," she smiled. "I cannot decide if it is confidence or arrogance that drives you, my Prince..."
"I got you into my bed though Princess, didn't I?"
"You paid me," she countered. "And tis not your bed Ser..."
"A gentleman allows a lady her fables," Suko grinned. "What news of this Queen? We mean to leave for Volantis as-"
"Volantis?" Vaella frowned.
"Afraid for me dear Princess?"
"It is said among us that Volantis will fall," she revealed. "Your queen has won a great victory – some whisper – though she has become a figure of myth and legend among the slaves; even some masters and nobles have spoken in their moments with the girls."
Too many men had a weakness for pretty faces, and loose lips.
"Your queen brings death to all slavers..."
Her voice became hushed, quiet as a whisper...
"...to all the Free Cities..."
"Is that so bad Princess?"
Vaella blinked. "I- I'm not so sure..."
"Come with me," Suko said. "You say you have Targaryen blood, yes? Come see your cousin with me."
Her eyes shot wide. "You don't know what you say, they'd have you whipped to death for such a crime."
"I'm a Prince," Suko huffed. "It means I get to make stupid decisions whenever I please..."
He'd hardly be the first imperial prince to take a pretty paramour on his arm.
And if she truly did have dragon's blood, even his father wouldn't disapprove.
"I'm quite sure that is bold nonsense, Prince Lóng..."
"Is it?" Suko asked. "Why not find out with me?"
Vaella paused, as if considering. "You are sweet, but I cannot..."
He left her with a kiss and more questions than answers by the time Mormont stumbled out with two girls on each of his arms, laughing like a giant; he seemed half drunk with lust and whatever drinks the ladies had poured down his throat. His men were along shortly as well, swords at their hips, and fresh smirks on their lips.
"Enjoy yourself eh Lóng?"
"Very much," Suko mustered a grin for the bear.
He made a point to bring about chatter with the merchants as they walked.
"Volantis?" One of them looked at them like they were mad.
"Wars bad for business," another argued.
No man seemed eager to sail east, besides them.
"The horselords will pillage to their hearts content," one merchant cursed in his strange tongue, his hair a mess of blue with a purple streak. "If Volantis falls, they'll be chaos the likes of which we've not seen since the Century of Blood!"
"You still going on about that," the merchant in the stall across frowned.
"Close your eyes all you like Myrman, won't do you no good! It's happening!"
"Pay the fool no heed," the Myrish merchant scoffed, waving his competitor away.
"These horselords," Suko asked, tossing the man a silver coin.
"Dothraki," the Myrish said, biting the silver to test its purity.
"It'll be the Bleeding Years again!"
"Ignore him," the Myrish. "Those horsefuckers will take a tribute and run along, no worr-"
"The dragon girl leads them," one of the Myrish slaves said, earning him a smack across the head.
"That's enough of you boy or I'll-"
Suck tossed the merchant a gold piece.
"You'll let the boy speak, or the next thing I throw your way won't be coin."
The merchant eyed him, then Mormont and his lingered guards in their silver breastplate.
"Fair," the Myrish decided. "Boy, speak your fables for these fools…"
"M- Master," the slave kept his head low. "I heard – good masters, it's just-"
"Out with it, useless boy!"
"Yes master!" The boy yelped.
Suko watched them with growing impatience.
Getting information out of Vaella had proven far less taxing.
"The other slaves said, well we've heard rumours is all – the dragon queen means to take Volantis…"
She had taken the Dothraki with Fire and Blood, the slave claimed, bending them to her cause; she returned to Meereen and won a great victory against the Yunkish coalition of slavers and set her people free. Her eyes would turn west now, the slave claimed hesitantly, hopefully, quietly….
"Oh, you'd like that boy," the Merchant mumbled, eyeing Mormont's blades.
"I-" The slave dared raise his head. "It's said, she'll not stop until every slave is freed…"
The merchant scoffed at the story. "Ain't getting your gold back andals, you pay for shit – don't complain about the smell!"
Suko tossed the slave a silver and walked away, the grumbling of Mormonts at his back. "What's all that about then," Derek asked, giving a wayward glance to the merchant behind them as he slapped his slave across the head and took his silver away. "Volantis is a way from this Slaver's Bay, isn't it?"
"It is," Suko answered with a hum of thought.
Not so far away for a dragon though, he figured…
How fast did a dragon fly? Faster than a raven, surely?
Daenerys was, last they heard, fighting slavers in this Bay of hers; and might be Volantis would see her as a threat to their way of life – because surely, she was just that – though they'd heard nothing more, and news travelled slow from so far away as Meereen. It was in large part their reasoning for making port in Lys, trade hub that it was; if any news was to be had then it would be as sure as the dawn to travel through these markets and dockyards.
Merchants, Traders, Innkeeps, Whores. They all knew the value of information, and they all sang the same melody.
The Free City of Volantis would, Suko feared, not be the peaceful respite they'd hoped to find on route to Slaver's Bay.
Half a world away Lord Brandel Seastark sailed on colder tides, sent by his king weeks past with a task of import; he'd left Dragonstone behind and all but dragged his youngest son with him. The boy had quickly become the shame of his house, abandoning Prince Willam in his hour of need as he'd done, and for what? Some andal girl from a place called the Arbor? A house with bloody grapes for their sigil, for god's sake – what kind of man wished to fight under the banner of some damn grapes?
Jorg, with his unending disappointments, had gone one step further and put a bastard in the belly of some half-breed lowborn girl that they'd left on Dragonstone. The shame of it was too much to stomach; for no son of his would go unpunished for such outrageous failures.
The boy had been stripped of his position, his ship and his inheritance. Now he served, as crewmen and little else.
He'd need to earn his place in the world from now on, there would be no more handouts or noble privileges and that bastard-to-be of his would become his sole responsibility. "Let that teach him," the Lord scowled at the thought. "Let it teach him the meaning of duty..."
The winds were cold now, outside his cabin they crashed against his sails and his hull, shuddering the fleet this way and that. They'd weathered worse.
This far north, past the ancient island of Skagos not a day's past, the wind had long begun to bite at them with sharpens teeth – the splash of the chilling waves would freeze on their decks if they slacked in their duty, no doubting that, the winds of Winter were upon them true and well now.
"We could land here," his son Cailan was saying, tapping his gloved finger at a point on the map marked as 'Karlon's Bay' just north of The Karwood oh so cleverly named for House Karstarks ruling from their seat further south of the shoreline. Too far south for their task, even if anything of importance remained there.
The North was in a sorry state. The bulk of their forces here were either at Winterfell or White Harbor, but King Rodrik had sent him and his lot with fifty ships to land mounted men at what remained of The Wall; as the ancient order of the Night's Watch had failed in their duties.
It fell to them now, to do what others could not. And do it they would, against whatever tide, House Seastark would not falter.
"No," Lord Brandel dismissed. "We shall land here," he tapped on the map further north along the shore.
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. There was a port that should act as anchor for their ships and room enough to disembark safely.
The Wall was a thing they'd long been able to witness from many miles away, a great line on the horizon that grew and grew with no end in sight; it would tower above them all by the time they made landfall to be sure. A great wonder of engineering said to have been aided by giants and old magic.
"The wildlings are here," Cailan pointed to the Dreadfort, the last any warg had sighted; but such was too far now for any warg to see even in the best of conditions. Last Hearth and Karhold had fallen, by all reports, their wargs had at the least confirmed on passing that the latter was little but a hollow snow-covered ruin by now.
"Prince Darion will gather with the White Harbor forces here," he pointed at the tip of the White Knife. "And the young Prince Varin will deal with the Ironborn in the Wolfswood and gather House Glovers forces before contacting the Mountain Clans in the north here..."
"And we'll be here," Cailan tapped at the Wall. "Waiting for the Prince, yes?"
"Surrounding the bastards on all sides," his father hummed his agreement. "A fine plan, I say..."
Jorg hadn't said a word the whole time.
"Boy," Lord Seastark huffed.
"Lord Father?"
"You've a brain in there somewhere, so use it…"
Jorg sighed. "The plan is fine, simple even. They've numbers but what, wooden spears and bronze swords? No mounted men?"
"Aye," Cailan agreed with his little brother. "They're no threat, not truly father. How many of those hundred thousand are women and children?"
A hundred thousand wildlings, it was said – almost three times their number; but untrained, unskilled and undisciplined. By the reports of Prince Darion's wargs, they counted women and children and old grey men among their numbers. They would shatter like thin ice the moment a few thousand riders ran them down.
Lord Seastark didn't see much glory in it, truth be told, but he was eager to regain what honor he could by defending his ancestral home and obeying his king.
And if a Seastark just happened to be the one to kill this Mance Rayder fellow? All the better for it. Prince Darion would be pleased as well, no doubt, he'd see that his own mothers house was still as reliable as ever. They'd secure the castles on the Wall, recapture or relieve Last Hearth if it still stood, then close in on the foe...
The gods had other plans, however. Jorg was sleeping in his bunk when it happened, dreaming of his sweet wife and his whore and of the sun shining above them all in a bed of soft silks, only to wake to the cold and a ruinous CRACK that sent him stumbling from his dream, hitting his head against the wood.
"M'lord," one of the crewmen halted to give him a hand, lifting him up in a daze.
Jorg knew impact when he felt it.
"The fuck did we hit?!"
Or, what had hit them? They'd come to an immediate halt...
"All hands!" The ship's ranking crew were shouting. "All hands to your stations! Move!"
Jorg grabbed his sword and jolted with the crew, up the stairs and past a hundred panicked souls before he reached the top deck of his father's flagship. "The fuck did we hit," he demanded of one officer, who looked as confused as Jorg felt.
"Dunno m'lord," he answer. "There's nothin-"
"Fuck sake," Jorg pushed him away and made for the railings, shoving another man aside as he went.
There was nothing. Not a single damn thing out of the ordinary at first glance. All he could see over the western railing was a snowy shore and ahead The Wall loomed like a great sentinel of ice; watching over them. All else was sea and drifting snows, falling down heavily from the sky above.
"The water," one crewman leant over the side to see down.
"What?" Jorg eyed his brother Cailan for answers. "What about it sailor!?"
"It's, um- well m'lord-"
"The fuck," Jorg cursed.
It was Ice. All around the ship was Ice...
"Impossible," he heard Cailan say aloud.
Jorg darted for the rear of the ship, up the steps and past the wheel to peer at the fleet. They were stuck, frozen in place, near half the fleet.
"What is this madness?!"
None shouted so well as Jorg's father.
"You dogs afraid of a little winter?!" Lord Brandel earned a chuckle from half the crew. "Drop the anchor, break the Ice! This is nothing! NOTHING!"
"Nothing he says," Jorg eyed it, the sea, frozen for miles ahead; the Wall looming over them – it was as if by magic. Thankfully, the rear of the fleet was-
Jorg squinted. The ice was so clear that its surface gleamed in what few rays of sun broke through the clouds overhead, he could see the blues and the blacks shifting underneath the layer of ice; but it was fading… it was freezing thicker… unnaturally, and it was spreading from the nearby shore...
It was impossible. Not this fast, at least; as if the old gods themselves had snapped their fingers and cast a great net to halt them in place.
"Moving," Jorg said aloud, though it sounded no less mad than he'd thought. The ice was creeping, growing, stretching like a cold outstretched hand.
Lord Brandel was shouting orders, dismissing the cold as merely what it appeared – a surprising nuisance.
"We have to turn back!" Jorg had darted to the wheel, looking down at the deck. "It's fucking moving!"
"What?!" Lord Seastark scoffed. "Have you gone mad boy, it's only-"
"F- Father?"
"What is it lad?"
Cailan Seastark looked like he'd seen a ghost, the heat from his breath showing tenfold.
"By the gods," their father watched as a frost crept up the railing behind Cailan, slowly, unnaturally. "Drop the anchor! Break us free!"
The crew needed no prodding, the layer of frost creeping up over the railings and onto the deck.
A loud CRACK followed, the great anchor slamming against a wall of ice. Too thick.
Silence, as frost spread up the masts and the sails turned brittle.
"Again!" Lord Seastark ordered. "AGAIN! AGAIN, DAMN IT!"
Half the crew were at the sides of the ship, watching as the anchor slammed in vain against a bed of ice.
The ship began to creak and groan in the grasp of winter.
Jorg turned his gaze back to the rest of the fleet as his father yelled "AGAIN" and the crew raised the anchor only to release the chain once more. Jorg eyed the rest of the fleet, as those stuck seemed to take note from the flagship and those free managed to turn about.
Another CRACK was heard and only chips were formed in the ice.
"Abandon ship," Jorg frantically walked up to his father.
"It's just ice boy," his father argued. "You'd have us flee from some fucking Ice?"
"Ice doesn't freeze half a fucking ocean in a heartbeat and creep up ships like ivy!"
It wasn't half the ocean, in truth, the waves were free further out; but nonetheless...
"He has a point father," Cailan agreed warily. The crew around them were long past uneasy.
"Raise the flag," Lord Seastark declared. "Signal the rest of the fleet to fall back, we'll regroup-"
A shattering silenced them all, the splintering of wood; in an instant.
"The hull!" and "We've a breach!"
"What in the gods name is going on!?"
There were screams coming from below deck.
"I'll handle it," Cailan bolted for the lower decks, sword in hand followed by a handful of men.
The frost had consumed all things, as if laying the carpet for winters arrival it had gripped the wood and the metals and men as well.
"I-" One crewman struggled against a railing. "I'm stuck! I'm STUCK!"
"Rick?" His friend tried yanking him away, hands stuck fast to the railings.
One. Two. "It won't… budge!"
Three. Four, and- "Arhhhhhh! FUCK!"
His hands were raw and bloody, ripped from the frosted railing.
"Fuck!" The crewman was screaming, knelt on the deck in a wailing panic as the sound of clashing swords and screaming suddenly halted.
"It hurts!" The crewman was still wailing, tears freezing on his cheeks. "Fuck it hurts!"
"Shut him up!" Lord Seastark commanded aloud. "SILENCE DAMN IT!"
"Cailan," Jorg's eyes locked on the door to the lower deck. The screams had stopped.
The crew hushed their friend, until only the faint sounds of his sobbing could be heard.
"My boy," Lord Seastark breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Cailan appear in the doorway, haggard, with a bloody sword.
"Brother?" Jorg eyed him warily. There was something off about him… about this whole damn thing…
"What happened down there," their father grasped his boy by the shoulders. "Whose blood is that? Stowaway's lad? Who was it?"
"Father," Jorg took a step forward, finding it took some effort; his boots brittle from the frost.
"Cailan," Lord Seastark shook his boy.
Cailan Seastark did not answer. He could not.
His eyes were different. House Seastark had always boasted some ocean blue within their line, aside from the usual Stark grey-silvers; but this?
Cailan's eyes were a pale blue. A ghostly blue, haunting and lifeless…
His throat was a ruin of frozen red. He was already dead. "Son?" It would be his final word.
"Argghhhh!" Lord Brandel roared when his son lunged, biting into his neck with teeth.
"Father!" Jorg pulled him away, only for Cailan to grab his steel with one hand and toss Jorg several feet across the frozen deck.
With a groan he found the world fuzzy, his vision blurred as one man yelled "M'lord" and "Jorg" over and over, echoing off his ears deafened by the high-pitched ringing. The screaming was back, less and less muffled as he focused. One of the crew had yanked him to his feet and hauled him to the side of the ship.
"Father," Jorg managed to mumble, scowling.
He reached up to his hair and felt something wet.
"My father," Jorg demanded of whoever might hear. "Brother…"
"Fight you dogs!" One man was yelling. "FIGHT!"
"Run!" Another screamed out. "Save yourselves!"
Jorg's vision focused, thought he quickly wished it hadn't.
He saw his father, or at least what remained of him – his crewmen ripping and tearing at his flesh – Jorg's eyes lingered on his brother with eyes of pale blue and a bloody face, inhuman as it opened and screamed a sound like cracking ice. Cailan looked straight at him and sprinted forward with inhuman speed.
"M'lord!" Crewmen darted to defend him. They yelled "Defend the Lord!" even as others fled in panic.
The thing that was once his brother batting them aside, even as they drove steel into his belly, and one hacked off an arm.
"Abandon the ship…"
Jorg watched as men cut away his brother's legs.
Cailan didn't stop. It crawled, legless, with one good arm, screaming like a banshee.
"ABANDON THE FUCKING SHIP!"
Many had already, leaping over the side without orders.
Jorg landed with a THUD and found all the wind stolen from his lungs.
The ice was so thick now that he couldn't see a bottom. He'd have questioned if the whole ocean had frozen solid, if not for the fear that drove him to run. None of that mattered. He pushed himself up and stumbled forward, nearly slipping, glancing back to see what remained of his father's once proud flagship.
It had been all but lifted from the water, hull frozen solid, wood splintered by lances of ice unnaturally formed.
The things followed them over the sides with reckless abandon, snapping their necks and limbs without any care.
He willed his own legs to run, and run he did; not looking back as men screamed behind him – the sight of what remained of his father's fleet laid ahead – those who had been lucky enough to be at the rear had escaped the frost… but they were far away now…
Jorg ran and ran across the frozen sea and ran some more, until the ice became sea again.
"M- M- M'lord-"
"They're leaving us!"
The fleet was sailing away.
If his lungs weren't ice, he'd have laughed.
"Swim," Jorg said desperately. What choice was there?
He looked behind him, only for a second to see the horror of it all.
Half the fleet was lost, pulled up from the sea and cut to ribbons by icy blades.
And there were hundreds of the blue-eyes. Thousands? He didn't know. He didn't care. It didn't matter…
The two men that remained to him at the edge of the ice were busy praying to the gods, but that would not save them.
And why would the old gods protect him? He'd forsaken them for the seven and his andal wife… no doubt… this was his punishment…
"Swim or die," he said, unclasping his frozen brittle cloak and diving headfirst into the water. The shock of it took what breath remained from his lungs, but the fear willed him to swim regardless. He didn't hear any splashes behind him, if the others joined him or not, he couldn't say. Likely they were already dead.
He'd always been a strong swimmer. It was in his blood, after all, his own father had thrown him into Wrightport's bay and made him swim.
Jorg kept swimming now until his arms and legs grew numb to the world, until his soul was frozen, until the gods could forgive him.
They would never forgive. They'd sent demons to punish him.
"Seastark," it was the gods, surely, for who else could it be?
"He's alive," they said, but he felt nothing.
"Cover him," another voice uttered. "Quickly!"
Jorg didn't feel the warmth of the fur cloak thrown over him.
"-he turns," one of the voices said.
They were hazed, muffled, soft as snow.
"-throat," he heard, and "eyes" and "dead."
"Father," he tried to say, but the words were impossible.
And then he heard nothing. There was only the dark, and the cold.
My Note(s): I've added an extra section to the previous chapter for Will&Ashs wedding if you missed that, you may go back and read it :) I'm late updating this chapter mainly because last weekend was my birthday and that added a lot onto my already very full plate of things I'm doing. Very busy lately, but I still try to write as quickly/best as I'm able :P this chapter sets up a lot of branching paths with characters heading separate ways. I'd have had Willam go with Suko (early drafts of the story did have this happen) but with the story how it is now, there's no way Willam can just turn his back on Westeros and the vengeance he seeks against Jaime Lannister.
Rodrik sending his brother to meet Daenerys was always planned, done largely because Rodrik isn't comfortable with waiting around to see what the hell the girl with dragons decides to do once/if she arrives. He's getting ahead of what could be a threat if left unchecked and Cregan being a bastard is the most expendable of the family, even if the Islands have a higher acceptance of bastards, they're still lesser than the trueborn sons. Suko deciding to accompany Cregan basically helps Rodrik say "look at our powerful friends" to the dragonlady and gives Cregan more legitimacy, plus Suko has a wish to venture towards Yi Ti later on to see the land of his ancestors.
Vaella is the descendant of a certain mad exiled Targaryen. Allegedly. She looks the part at least, and there was such a prince, but who knows if it's true?
Oh, and last but not least, Winter is Coming and Jorg is not having a great time; minus a father and a brother and a large number of ships from the fleet. The next chapter will be in Winterfell and focus on Prince Varin initially since we've not heard from there directly since like Chapter 13 so it has been awhile. Lots to see :D
246vili: You're the only review for last chapter :D for the second time now though I suspect most people just didn't have much to say besides "nice chapter" but I appreciate the comments all the same :) there's a LOT in this chapter though so, hopefully it gets some comments for good or bad haha