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Chapter 64: Valyria's Children
"Bravery is another kind of broken."
– Prince Suko Lóng
Volantis, for all its splendour, boasted a wet heat that sapped men's strength and left them feeling dirty without so much as a cool night to offer them relief. Suko found himself missing home, as odd as the sensation was to him, as even though they'd been gone for many years he'd never once paused to look back – the road with his friends hardly ever seemed to be anything but home – yet this city sapped all the good from memory. "I'd sell my mother for a breeze," said Derek Mormont.
Ah, how this city lacked for a breeze; coastal or not it was a vast thing and Suko could scarcely recall the smell of salt air blowing through his hair.
It was worse on these Northmen at least – their discomfort the source of some light-hearted amusement. Mormont and his cousin never ceased groaning like disgruntled bears wishing to shed their fur. Talan Flint joined in on the teasing, though he sweated with the rest of them.
Only the stoic Snow kept his peace through it all. That man was more ice than snow, truth be told…
"I miss Stark," was all Suko could think between sips of his wine. In the Silver City the air at least had the common decency to bloody move. The nights back home, and even in Dorne, had at least the courtesy to cool after dark no matter how hot the days had been. Not here. In Volantis, the nights were almost as hot as the days.
"So then," Cregan mumbled after a while, nursing his cup of fine Volantene wine.
Snow was glaring at him again. He'd not ceased that for days now…
"So then," Suko echoed, taking a sip of his wine. "Something on your mind Prince Snow?"
Other than their abject failures?
The man practically growled in reply.
"You lost our damn ships…"
"Ah yes," Suko hummed, as if he'd forgotten.
Ceased on arrival for the protection and greater good of Valyria's last truest daughter.
These Volantene fellows were terribly disagreeable.
"They're not lost…"
Cregan only blinked, staring blankly across the table.
"They're not," Suko insisted, lowering his wine. "I know exactly where they are…"
"That counts as lost," Flint butted in his peace with a tired look about his features.
"Does not," Suko scoffed. "I know where they are – can't be lost if I know where they are, can they?"
Flint looked dumbfounded by that logic.
"See?" Suko beamed. "Not lost, simply-"
"Simply what?" Cregan sighed wearily at these antics.
"Indisposed?" It was more question than answer. "Aye," Suko nodded briskly. "Indisposed!"
"Told ye we should've kept sailing to Slaver's Bay," Mormont added oh so helpfully.
"Fuck lot of good that does us now," Snow huffed and poured himself another drink.
"Gentlemen," Suko's smile endured. "Threat not, I have a plan so profound that it boggles the mind!"
Not a single one of them looked at him with any remote degree of confidence.
"You've a Plan?" Flint looked to Mormont.
"This be good," Mormont rolled his eyes at the notion.
"Fuck off," Cregan cursed with cold icy eyes and a chug of his drink.
"So little faith, friends; when have I ever led us astray!?"
They all glanced around the pleasurehouse as if it were an answer.
"A minor setback," Suko dismissed it, waving away one of the topless serving lasses as she offered more wine. "I assure you that everything is underway according to plan, friends, the plan is in motion and no man nor gods could hope to cease us in our-"
"Oh shut the fuck up," the tankard slammed onto their table and all eyes fell on them.
"Rude," Suko sulked as a child might, all puppy-eyed and wounded.
"You've lost the damn ships."
"They're not technically-"
"Lost," Cregan snarled. "Deny it again, and I swear Imperial; you'll be lost with them…"
Suko frowned with a pout. It wasn't his fault, truly, how were they to know Volantis was seizing every damn ship that entered their waters?
A great defeat in the far east had sent the city into lockdown and a spiral of paranoia. No ship entered, no ship left, the free men and women were under curfew and the slaves lined up in chains along the city walls. Daenerys Targaryen had wounded the tiger in the east. It had limped home to its den, pride in tatters and furious.
No beast was more dangerous than when it was cornered with no way to escape.
"This place has been a waste of time," Cregan shot glances to the various whores.
"You told us the Rogue would help," Mormont backed up Snow. "Told he could get us behind the Wall…"
The Rogue was a broker of information – considering the Widow had proven wholly incapable – what choice had there been?
Unfortunately the man himself had proven even less willing. No one entered past the Black Wall without direct invitation, it seemed the excuses were parroted by and by, though the Widow was kinder; the Rogue mocked and laughed at their predicament. They'd find no help here.
"We're wasting time," Cregan repeated. And he hated repeating himself…
"Look at it this way Snow," Suko offered with a nervous smirk. "Our charge comes to Us!"
Cregan only had to look his way for a chill to run up one's spine. He wasn't one for jesting.
Suko muttered how "Stark would've found it funny" and returned to his wine in relative peace.
All misfortune aside, he wasn't exactly wrong. By all accounts from the locals – who whispered gossip like fishwives – the dragon girl had crushed her foes at the apparently named 'Battle of Fire' weeks past. The Yunkai forces had made short work of Astapor before marching onto Meereen with their slave soilders, sellswords and Ghiscari legions, elephants and other allies among their great coalition seeking to undo the girls efforts and return the status quo.
Words were however wind, as the andals were fond of says; rumours couldn't be taken at face value.
Some spoke of the dragon wedding slaver named Hizdee... or Hizda? Suko couldn't recall the same exactly and thought the claim outlandish.
Why in the world would the girl marry a slaver of all people?
"If I had dragons," Suko imagined to himself. "I'd bow to nobody…"
Other rumours spoke of a knight atop a silver horse, of krakens and a great black dragon.
Whatever the truth of things, it was said that a thousand Volantene ships left Volantis under orders from their new Tiger Triarchs. The city had once been drunk with celebration at the idea of war, until great storms sunk half the fleet and barely twenty limped back home; scorched and afraid. Volantis celebrated no more.
"I don't understand how you can drink at a time like this…"
Suko raised a single brow at the young heir of House Flint.
"Enjoy the world while you can lad," he said with a shrug.
"Damn the consequences? Isn't that…"
"Reckless," Cregan answered. "Shallow."
"If shallow is all you've got, best enjoy it," he cared little for Snow's view of the word.
The Bastard of Winterhold was too cold for his tastes, too serious, too unlike his brother.
Willam would've made light of things for them all. It would've been fake, as false as a whores promise; but that man knew how to keep spirits up despite his own doubts. The bastard by all comparison lacked all the charm of the brother… at least in Suko's not-so-humble opinion.
"Besides," Suko finished with a final gulp of wine. "Deep is apt to drown you..."
"I'll drown someone if we spend much longer here," Mormont commented with a scowl.
Three Triarchs ruled over the city of Volantis. Three men, chosen from amongst two political parties.
The Tigers were of the Old Blood, who favoured conquest over trade; having led the city during the Century of Blood while the Elephants were moneylenders and merchants, advocating prosperity through trade and wealth. When the Elephants came to power, their followers had gone on a rampage and knocked the heads from many statues they blamed for all the wars and death. They had ruled with a majority for over three hundred years… until now…
Three Tigers ruled Volantis now with their pristine stripes and thirst for war, all too quickly quenched in dragonfire.
None of the mighty Tiger's had seen fit to grant them an audience.
They'd seized their ships and supplies at port and deemed to "call upon them" as the cities leisure. No such call had come, leaving them in the city with only their numbers and too few to take back the ships. "Too busy covering beneath their tails," Suko had wagered of their esteemed guests.
Behind their great Black Wall of fused stone two hundred feet high, one supposed they could feel safe.
They, being not of the 'Old Blood' were not permitted behind the wall.
"They hide like cockroaches," Flint had said oh so eloquently.
"No army could seize those walls," Mormont agreed at the time.
"Not against dragons," Suko wagered. "Dragon's fly…"
And there could be no doubt the beasts were real enough.
What sailors made it back home carried the stories and burns to prove it.
This night those lords of ancient blood would sleep as poorly as the nights before, listening as their kitchen slaves sharpened their long knives. Slaves grew their food, cleaned their streets, taught their young. They guarded the walls, rowed the galleys, fought their battles. And now those chained folk looked east to lay eyes and ear on a young queen shining from afar, a breaker of chains. The Old Blood could not suffer that. It was no small wonder to Suko that Volantis had sided against the girl.
Proud Volantis, queen of the Rhoyne and mistress of the Summer Sea, home to noble lords and lovely ladies of ancient blood. Never mind the packs of naked children that roamed the alleys screaming in shrill voices, or the bravos standing in the doors of wineshops fingering their sword hilts, or the slaves with their bent backs and tattooed faces who scurried everywhere like cockroaches. Mighty Volantis, grandest and most populous of the Nine Free Cities.
Ancient wars had depopulated much of the city, however, and large areas of Volantis had begun to sink back into the mud on which it stood.
Beautiful Volantis, city of fountains and flowers. Half the fountains were dry, half the pools cracked and stagnant. Flowering vines sent up creepers from every crack in the wall or pavement, and young trees had taken root in the walls of abandoned shops and roofless temples. And then there was the smell. It hung in the hot, humid air, rich, rank, pervasive. It stank of fish, and flowers, and some elephant dung as well. It was a city sweet and earthy and dead and rotten to its very core.
Leaving the house of pleasure they walked past guildhalls, markets and bathhouses. Fountains splashed and sang in the centres of wide squares, where men sat at stone tables, moving cyvasse pieces and sipping wine from glass flutes as slaves lit ornate lanterns to hold the dark at bay. Palms and cedars grew along the cobbled road, and monuments stood at every junction. Many of the Tiger statues lacked heads, yet even headless they managed to look imposing in the purple dusk.
As they headed south along the river, the shops grew smaller and the trees along the street became a row of stumps. Cobblestones gave way to devilgrass, then to soft wet mud the color of soil. The little bridges that spanned the small streams that fed the Rhoyne creaked alarmingly beneath their weight. Where a fort had once overlooked the river now stood a broken gate, gaping open like an old man's toothless mouth. Goats could be glimpsed peering over the parapets.
Old Volantis, first daughter of Valyria, the Prince of Dawn mused as they walked in the quiet of the night.
"Smells like an old whore," Flint mumbled his usual complaints as if they'd not walked this road so many times.
Farther south, signs of prosperity began to reappear. Abandoned buildings were seen less often, the naked children vanished, the bravos in the doorways seemed more sumptuously dressed. A few of the inns they passed actually looked like places where a man might sleep without fear of having his throat slit. Lanterns swung from iron stanchions along the river road, swaying when the wind blew. The streets grew broader, the buildings more imposing. Some were topped with great domes of coloured glass. In the gathering dusk, with fires lit beneath them, the domes glowed blue and red and green and purple.
West of the Rhoyne the wharves of Volantis teemed with sailors, slaves, and traders, and the wineshops, inns, and brothels all catered to them.
East of the river, strangers from across the seas were seen less seldom. They were not wanted here, that much was obvious.
The river road was thick with traffic, almost all of it flowing south.
Suko eyed the passing crowds. Nine of every ten bore slave marks on their cheeks.
The red priests lit their nightfires at sunset and the High Priest would be speaking, as he did every night. Suko had never been one for religion, honestly, the Dawn was the Dawn to him and perhaps there was something in that. He'd learnt the words and practiced the ways as a boy, even made the curses still, but held little faith.
Three blocks later the street opened up before them onto a huge torchlit plaza, and there it stood, an enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers flowing into one another as if they had all been chiselled from one colossal rock, the Temple of the Lord of Light loomed above them. A hundred hues of red, yellow, gold, and orange met and melded in the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset. Its slender towers twisted ever upward, frozen flames dancing as they reached for the sky. Fire turned to stone. Huge nightfires burned beside the temple steps, and between them the High Priest had begun to speak.
Benerro was his name. The priest stood atop a red stone pillar, joined by a slender stone bridge to a lofty terrace where the lesser priests and acolytes stood. The acolytes were clad in robes of pale yellow and bright orange, priests and priestesses in red. The great plaza before them was packed almost solid. Many and more of the worshipers were wearing some scrap of red cloth pinned to their sleeves or tied around their brows. Every eye was on the high priest, save theirs. "Make way," Snow growled in broken common as he pushed his way through the throng. The Volantenes gave way resentfully, with mutters and angry looks cast their way.
Benerro's high voice carried well. Tall and thin, he had a drawn face and skin white as milk. Flames had been tattooed across his cheeks and chin and shaven head to make a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth. A line of men in ornate armor and orange cloaks stood before the temple's doors, clasping spears with points like writhing flames. The Fiery Hand. The Lord of Light's sacred soldiers, defenders of the temple, a thousand strong.
One thousand zealous men. Never more, and never less. A new flame was kindled for each one that ever fluttered out.
Benerro jabbed a finger at the moon, made a fist, spread his hands wide. When his voice rose in a crescendo, flames leapt from his fingers with a sudden whoosh and made the crowd gasp. The priest could trace fiery letters in the air as well. Valyrian glyphs. Suko knew nothing of their meaning.
Shouts erupted from the crowd. Women were weeping and men were shaking their fists.
It wasn't long before Snow had forced their way through to the back of the plaza, ignoring the curses that were flung at them.
One man stepped in front of them, but Mormont gripped the hilt of his longsword and drew it just far enough to show a foot of naked steel. The man melted away, and all at once an alley opened up before them. They left the crowd behind as Benerro's voice grew fainter at their back and the roars his words provoked, sudden as thunder.
Volantis straddled one mouth of the Rhoyne where the river kissed the sea, its two halves joined by the Long Bridge. The oldest, richest part of the city was east of the river, but sellswords, barbarians, and other uncouth outlanders were not welcome there. The gateway to the Long Bridge was a black stone arch carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons, and creatures stranger still. Beyond the arch stretched the great span that the Valyrians had built at the height of their glory, its fused stone roadway supported by massive piers. The road was just wide enough for two carts to pass, so when a wagon headed west passed one going east, both had to slow to a crawl.
A third of the way out, a wagon laden with melons had gotten its wheels tangled with one piled high with silken carpets and brought all wheeled traffic to a halt. Much of the foot traffic had stopped as well, to watch the drivers curse and scream at one another. Buildings rose to either side of them: shops and temples, taverns and inns, cyvasse parlors and brothels. Most were three or four stories tall, each floor overhanging the one beneath it. Their top floors almost kissed. Crossing the bridge was like passing through a torchlit tunnel. Along the span were shops and stalls of every sort; weavers and lacemakers displayed their wares cheek by jowl with glassblowers, candlemakers, and fishwives selling eels and oysters. Each goldsmith had a guard at his door, and every spicer had two, for their goods were twice as valuable. Here and there, between the shops, a traveller might catch a glimpse of the river he was crossing. To the north the Rhoyne was a broad black ribbon bright with stars.
At the bridge's centre, the severed hands of thieves and cutpurses hung like strings of onions from iron stanchions along the roadway.
Three heads were on display as well-two men and a woman, their crimes scrawled on tablets underneath them. A pair of spearmen attended them, clad in polished helms and shirts of silver mail. Across their cheeks were tiger stripes as green as jade. From time to time the guards waved their spears to chase away the gulls and crows.
To the south of the bridge the mighty Rhoyne joined the briny Summer Sea, where many nights the sky was clear, and the stars sparkled in the dark.
Tonight, they shied behind a thick blanket of clouds; moonlight creeping through to shine upon the city below its gaze.
Suko halted by the edge of the bridge as he heard Mormont roar at some pickpocket that had liberated the coin from his person, a child too small and nimble to catch as they darted into the crowds to the bellowed roars of "Thief!" as the bear tried and failed to catch the little delinquent.
"The rat outsmarts the bear," Suko watched the burly Northman roaring obscenities as two guardsmen came over to investigate.
The passers-by ignored them entirely, used to such things. The Bridge was an ideal place for an aspiring thief to sow their nimble trade, after all – even Snow seemed unsurprised by these turns of event, with that sour look on his face that spoke of some great bother always gnawing at his thoughts.
"For gods sake," he'd mumbled with a sigh.
Mormont was pointing into the crowd and demanding justice, and that the guardsmen give chase immediately!
There would be no justice here. This was Volantis.
"How long before he gives up on it?"
Suko looked to Flint and pondered his answer.
"A gold says he ends up punching one of them..."
"You're on," Flint beamed gladly at the simple wager.
"Children," Snow groaned as he moved, over towards the bear and the increasingly unamused guards.
"No fair if Snow interferes," Suko argued with a huff.
"Bets a bet," Flint's smirk grew tenfold. "Pay up!"
"Fine, fine, damn you Islander; wait just a moment!"
"Like taking coin from a baby," Flint chuckled, waiting eagerly for his coin.
The moon broke through the clouds behind him, its silvery light on his shoulders.
Suko ceased the search through pickets for just a moment. The moon was beautiful, he saw, silver upon a blanket of stars... only...
"What?" Flint looked confused, eyeing the imperial with a frown. "Pay up Lóng, it's only a gold; what's wrong-"
"A bird?" Suko mumbled absently.
Against the moonlight moved a shadow.
"Huh?" Flint turned to see it, looking up towards the sky.
No bird was that large. A mere trick of the light perhaps?
The clouds had rolled back over the moon and taken the light, as Flint scoffed and demanded his coin.
"No more excuses," he nudged the Imperial half-hearted. "For a Prince you're awfully stingy with your coin…"
Snow was a walk away, smoothing things over with two disgruntled guardsmen and the grumpy bear, but Suko's eyes stayed on the clouds in the night sky.
"Long," another nudge, heavier this time. "Come on now, pay up!"
"Quiet," Suko hushed him and focused. The sounds of the city swallowed any semblance of quiet.
"I don't hear anything," Flint looked past confusion. "If this is some farce, you needn't bother; just admit you lost and we'll-"
Volantis was alive with the sound of men and animals, carts and merchants, sellers and thieves all. It was a clutter of noise and life and for a moment... quiet...
The clouds churned a dark black-red as the clap of thunder turned heads to the sky.
It broke through in a heartbeat, on wings as black as jet with molten eyes and a burning maw.
"Dawn," Suko mumbled, screaming in his mind to move yet finding his legs frozen as time itself seemed to crawl and the shadow's wings flapped away clouds to the clap of thunder. He could not move. He was frozen, in awe and terror and shock. A women screamed. Men panicked. Too little too late. It dove with an imaginable speed; great jaws open with black fire pouring forth, the heat threatening to burn even from afar before dark flame bathed the bridge in a tide of fire and blood.
He couldn't remember falling, yet the world spun and muffled in the brief moment before a cold that snapped all the terror from his bones.
"Swim," his thoughts screamed their demands. "SNAP OUT OF IT!" and "SWIM YOU FOOL!"
On instinct, his legs were his own again; kicking frantically up to the glowing surface too bright for the night.
When he broke the water and tasted the air, it was as ash on his tongue and the world was set alight around him.
Suko looked up wide-eyed at the bridge. It was coated in a raging black inferno that twisted and melted stone, turning the wood and meat to ashes and dust. The Long Bridge of Volantis was weeping by the time he swam to the shore, turning around over after violently coughing up a lungful of the river.
He'd seen this destruction once before, the twisted frame of blackened stone... at Harrenhal so long ago...
Aegon the Dragon had unleashed dragonfire, he recalled Will telling the story. Harren the Black had thought himself safe behind high walls.
"Dragons," Suko mumbled, laid on the shore looking awestruck as the once great bridge of Volantis burnt and twisted in the heat – the shadow diving back and forth with spews of black flame that seemed to stick and cling to all things as bells began to ring all throughout the city, to drown out the screams of men and beast.
To see stone of things melt-
And then it hit him.
"Prince Snow..."
Stark was going to kill him for this…
The Bridge was creaking like a wounded animal before it crumpled at its centre and the dragon seemed to vanish back beyond the clouds, as if it had never existed... except for the ruin it left behind for all to remember; the fire so great that even from the banks of the great Rhoyne he could feel the flames as if they were hugging him.
Only the centre of the great bridge had been targeted, although the flames raged and spread, the shadows wrath had not been without direction.
"She means to divide the city," Suko said the thought aloud, fumbling to his feet and watching the inferno consume the bridge. "That's... actually clever..."
It joined the two halves of the city, spanning from east to west; now divided by the Rhoyne as black flame consumed the only proper crossing besides swimming.
In the moment Suko forgot the world. The fires danced in his eye, the screams echoed, and bells rang as he watched one of the Nine Wonders of the world melt like a candle; stone dripping down the sides like wax falling into the river with hisses and steam as it splashed into cool waters.
The burning forms of men and women had long since ceased throwing themselves into the waters…
Snow… Mormont… Flint… had they thrown themselves to safety, or been burnt to ashes?
"Shit," Suko snapped his eye away from the blaze and onto the city, stumbling inland to the city.
He could see the smoke rising above the rooftops even as he ventured down the streets with sodden boots.
There was a certain serenity to a siege, somewhere between the screaming and the panic laid practically abandoned streets that once flowed with life like blood in a man's veins now clotted with fear – the calm before a great storm of fire as men and women shut themselves behind closed doors and prayed to see another dawn.
Daenerys Targaryen was a liberator, it was said, yet would her soldiers shatter the realities of war that had lasted since time began? Suko highly doubted that, and as he watched the people of Volantis scurry into their homes and bar their doors; he had no doubts that they too knew better than to believe in fairy tales.
A siege was a thing of chaos untethered. There had been no sense in searching the river for Snow or the others, no sense in braving the inferno in hopes of their survival, yet great sense in his own survival. If you had to run, Suko knew, it was best to know where you were running to exactly.
It seemed less like cowardice that way, after all; just part of the plan.
Was the dragon part of the plan as well?
"Absolutely," he thought in mocked silence.
All a part of the damn plan. Snow and the others would head for the docks, to the ships and the lodging the city had oh-so-humbly provided them. Most were shacks, truth be told, but a roof was a roof in these trying times... The Street of Silver was his path, winding and I'll-fit to its name; for time and poverty had worn away at this place.
The locals had taken to naming it the Street of Rust for how the silver had long since rusted in the rain.
He'd give Flint that gold, ask Mormont if he'd caught his thief and annoy Snow with another jest.
"I thought Snow melted in Fire?"
It felt oddly less amusing than hoped. Oh well…
He'd think of something better, given time; the moving was slow down these streets – clinging to the sideways and alleys like a scurrying rat to avoid the passing patrols of guardsmen rushing this way and that. It wasn't encouraging to hear the sound of battle up ahead, so inconveniently placed between here and there; the portside was once a busy market now hush by the clanger of steel and the shouts of a battlefield. The shipyards of Volantis were ablaze with reds and oranges so unlike the bridges inferno that Suko could with admittedly little confidence assume it hadn't been the dragon's handiwork. And surly enough, it wasn't the flying shadow that graced the horizon.
Sails as black as the beast's wings greeted his eyes. A hundred of them, black fields with golden squids where one might expect to see the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. These were Greyjoy ships... longboats, simple in design yet excelling at timely landings and retreats in equal measure.
Raiders, thieves, scoundrels and the ilk. Suko knew the banners from the Greyjoy boy and his time with the Northmen.
Men spoke of the Ironborn with the type of distaste he'd personally reserved for family.
"Stick to the shadows," common sense told him.
Snow's men wouldn't be far from the docks and they-
Laugher demanded his eye, across the street by some broken stalls.
A group of men were gathered there. "Keep moving," Suko told himself quietly.
There was a woman with them, kicking and clawing and screaming out words in bastard Valyrian that made no sense to him; though some things – whatever the language – it hardly took understanding. This was one such thing. There were five of them.
"Move," logic demanded, though the laughter continued. What could he do against five?
Reality demanded he press on, gather with the other and-
-there was a child with the women...
"Well," Suko's thoughts halted. "Fuck sake."
The Ironborn had stripped the women as one began removing his leggings, all while the child screamed.
Suko cursed beneath his breath. One man without his pants made only four foes, no?
It was flimsy logic, certainly, but oh well...
Bravery was equal parts courage and stupidity.
He stepped from the shadows with sodden boots that still squelched, quick and focused, steady breath and a shift hand.
Four targets, his mind decided. Not five. The fifth was... busy... and the first was closet, laughing the loudest – that was helpful in a morbid way, as at least they'd not hear the squelching over the sounds of violence. Suko drew his knife left to right, across the man's neck in one fluid motion, life pouring out.
Three targets, remaining...
The fourth made a thud to his knees.
"Ra-" A lunge, into the neck; not as clean...
The gurgling of blood had the misfortune of alerting his fellows.
Two targets... now three... the pantless one joined his friends no less furious looking...
Was it the interruption or was it the lack of pants to fault? Or the dead friends perhaps?
"Cold night," Suko said, yanking his knife free with a flick of red and a shift of his stance.
"Get him!" Pantless screamed his curses as if he were of importance. "GET THE ONE-DIED CUNT!"
His friend obeyed like dogs, barking as they lunged – one sword and an axe; swinging with reckless abandon.
Suko parried, dodged, danced about with grace. The key to any victory was in his experience in the art of exploiting your enemy's weakness before they had the opportunity to exploit your own. Timing was everything. In this instance, three against one with wet boots and only one eye... well...
The world had never liked his odds.
"Hold still!" The foe talked a lot. That was a mistake.
If you were talking, you weren't entirely paying attention.
Suko eyed the women flee with her daughter into the streets.
That was good. The moral victory was secured!
"I'll gut you slow for this ya one-eyed shit!"
All that remained was the Actual victory now.
Suko had never been much of a fighter, truth be told, he was born for courts and even enjoyed the game if it was his choice to play; though these last years had given him great experiences – his talents had never naturally been with the sword. And these crude andal blades were simply barbaric in his opinion.
The blades of home held a certain elegance, a finery and a swiftness than castle-forged andal steel was sadly lacking in his humble view.
As his longsword drove into the chest of one foe, he decided that perhaps elegance wasn't quite that important after all.
Then again, the damn thing was stuck. Once, twice, thrice, yank yank yank THUD as Suko dodged back, the other Ironborn swung his axe, missing by a hair and slamming iron into his friend instead; sending the fool to the ground with Suko's sword still lodged in his chest between plate.
"Well then," the swordless Imperial backed up a step nervously.
No sword, only his bloody knife. "I don't suppose you gentlemen-"
"DIE!" Pantless answered, changing with a furious roar that promised bloody murder.
Suko held his knife, white knuckled and drained. Things had not gone according to plan. He should've just kept moving and... well... no sense in what ifs now... as the Pantless one fell forward suddenly mid-charge. Suko might have laughed when he tripped, perhaps foiled by his trousers or mere stupidity.
The pantless foe planted face-first into the street like a puppet with cut strings. An arrow was the culprit, hiding happily within the man's skull.
Having removed the axe from his fallen companion, the last of the Ironborn turned too late to say much beyond "CUN" before a wolf was at his throat.
The sandy-tanned blur of fur leapt through the air and locked its jaws around axeman's neck all between the blink of an eye, cutting off whatever curse the final of Suko's foes had on his tongue before the wolf ripped it out and swallowed it with a crimson snarl of teeth and darting eyes of shining amber.
"Who asked you to interfere?" Suko tugged his steel free of the slain foe with a few struggled pulls. "I had everything under control!"
Greycloaks filled the streets in battle-worn steel and tattered cloaks, many boasting burns that they appeared to actively ignore; barking orders and splitting up into groups of four with one crossbow between each group – among their numbers were Flint and Mormont colours, and even some guards of Volantis.
Prince Cregan Snow stood at the head of them with the usual stony expression on his face, as sour as Suko remembered him...
"The city is lost," the Bastard of Winterhold declared after a moment once his men had secured their small section of the street.
"Oh?" Suko scoffed. "I hadn't noticed Snow, was it the Greyjoys or the Dragon that first tipped you off to this-"
"And the Dothraki," Cregan added helpfully, monotone, eyes darting about.
The Horselords. Suko supposed that was hardly a surprise they were with the Dragon after all…
"Half the city has fallen, the krakens have seized or burnt every ship in port and the Red Priests have turned cloak."
"The zealots?" That was news, although… fire god, dragons... made sense if you thought about it. The fools probably thought it a fiery god.
And it might as well be, honestly; the beast had handed the Targaryen girl her victory here on a slightly melted silver platter and she had two more of the creatures somewhere if the stories kept holding water. There was no reason to think the tales weren't all true at this stage.
Dragons. King Rodrik had been right to be concerned...
"What now then?" Suko snapped from his daydreams.
The words 'How the fuck do we beat a Dragon' weren't needed.
"We surrender," Cregan said uncaringly. "Unless slaying dragons was a part of that plan of yours, Lóng?"
Suko hummed a 'Mhmm' and wiped his sword clean before sheathing it clumsily, his legs sore, his muscles crying out for rest.
"We'll need some weirwood arrows, godsap and a whole ocean of dumb luck on our side..."
Snow blinked and mumbled "forget I asked" before turning on his heels.
"Snow," Suko was at his side now, pacing to keep up as the bastard all but stormed on ahead.
Looking around at their group, Greycloaks, tabards and surcoats of Flint and Mormont and Stark and Greystark all and yet…
"Where are Flint and the others?"
Snow kept walking, offering no answer.
Godric Mormont halted at his side with a wayward glance.
"Flint pushed you," he claimed with a raised brow. "Saved your arse, Lóng…"
He'd only remembered the dragon, the terror and the fall…
"Ah," Suko halted as the Greycloaks fluttered by silently.
Mormont's cloak was tattered, a roaring bear on green half ruined.
And where was the man's cousin? Derek Mormont was not with their little group…
How many lives had been lost to Daenerys Targaryen's liberation? Had she flown her beast against the walls and melted them along with the slaves chained to the battlements? The Old Blood had placed them there to prevent just such a move, and yet, they assumed the Mother of Dragons would flitch.
Suko's signature smile was wholly absent as he paced through the streets alongside Snow and his band of survivors.
Their destination proved to be the Merchant's House, a four-story monstrosity that squatted amongst the warehouses, brothels, and taverns of the waterside like some enormous fat man surrounded by children. Its common room was larger than the great halls of half the castles in Westeros, a dim-lit maze of a place with a hundred private alcoves and hidden nooks whose blackened beams and cracked ceilings echoed to the din of sailors, traders, captains, money changers, shippers, and slavers, lying, cursing, and cheating each other in half a hundred different tongues. The cities biggest Inn and first choice for shippers, captains and merchantmen.
The Widow had turned it into a fortress. The cavernous common room was full of overturned tables and makeshift defences.
Crossbowmen lined the many rafters and eyed them like hawks as Cregan led them inside without a care just as he'd done when confronted by the Widow's men outside in the square; so on edge as they were – the Ironborn had tried and failed to seize this little corner of the city – giving up quickly enough – as the Widow's men fought hard and bravely to defend themselves but made no effort to press any advantage. The narrow streets and makeshift defences were their best friends.
In truth, these men and women here held no love for the Old Blood that ruled over them; yet held less lover for raiders and looters.
The Widow of the Waterfront ruled this place, a friend of convenience in this dark hour it seemed.
East of the Rhoyne they called her Vogarro's whore, though wisely never to her face; the widow of an elephant, seven times a ruling triarch – beyond rich and a great power on the docks. Whilst other men built the ships and sailed them, Vogarro had built piers and storehouses, brokered cargoes, changed money, insured shipowners against the hazards of the sea. He dealt in slaves as well. When he grew besotted with one of them, a bedslave trained at Yunkai in the way of seven sighs, it was a great scandal... and a greater scandal when he freed her and took her for his wife. After he died, she carried on his ventures. No freedman could dwell within the Black Wall however, so she was compelled to sell Vogarro's manse. She took up residence at the Merchant's House. That was thirty-two years ago, and she remained to this day.
The old woman was unofficially in charge around these parts and had proven helpful, despite her inability to get them a meeting with the Old Blood.
Suck didn't like her. There was something vulpine about the way the women sat atop her chair in the back of the common room, something reptilian about her eyes. Her white hair was so thin that the pink of her scalp showed through and under one eye she still bore the faint scars were a knife had cut away her slave tattoo.
The sight of them made the old woman smile. "Wolves," she purred, in a voice as sinister as it was soft.
She spoke the Common Tongue with only a trace of accent.
"My Lady," Cregan bowed his head in some show of respect for respects sake.
Allies were few and far between in a city aflame, Suko supposed; they could hardly be picky.
"Prince Snow," she hummed, eyes wandering over their party. "You found the wandering snake, I see?"
"It's a dragon," Suko groaned, referring to the sigil of his house – the golden five-clawed dragon on purpose that graced the Lóng Dynasty's banners; so unlike the Targaryen dragons. An Imperial dragon was made up of nine different animals: the head of a camel, horns of a deer, ears of a cow, serpentine neck, belly of a clam, scales of a carp, an eagle's claws, eyes of a rabbit and tiger's paws. The Widow found great humour in mocking the creature.
"Tell that to the winged creature you met on the bridge, Prince Sucko…"
"It's-" Suko groaned. "It's Suko, not Sucko…"
The Widow beamed. "That's what I said young man."
Dawn, he hated her so much. Cregan only sighed at the childishness.
"What news my Lady," he asked of her kindly, as if he was speaking to nobility in some grand court.
"Much is as it was," she hummed and thought for a moment. "The Old Blood's ploy with the slaves has bought them time, the girl has little bloodlust in her it seems; the dragon does not melt our fair walls so long as women and children are chained there as shields; yet the krakens have taken the Chimera…"
A great gateway to the North-West of the city carved of fused stone in the shape of a lion's head with a goat's body and serpent's tail.
"Allowing the Dothraki into the city," Cregan wagered aloud, frowning at the notion of the destruction they would bring to the city and its people.
The Widow's features shifted with disgust. "Those savages do what damage the dragon avoids, running down the innocent and the guilty alike, they are beasts made flesh; godless men – the dragon girl suffers strange allies in her court. They do not even spare the children…"
The West of the city was lost, except for the Widow's small portion besides her docks.
"I protect what few I can," the old woman sighed, rubbing her wrinkled head.
"You have our aid," Cregan affirmed. "As promised my lady, we stand with you."
She had little choice. "You will speak with the dragon girl on our behalf then, Wolf?"
"As promised aye, we'll bring your plea to the girl's ears my Lady…"
"If she'll listen," Suko butted in with a scoff at the notion. This 'Girl' had dragons.
"She cannot storm this place," the Widow argued. "She would lose the love of the people."
Tell that to the Ironborn. Tell it to the Dothraki. Tell it to her dragons. It needn't be said, but still.
Did the Mother of Dragons care about the lives of these people? She'd not brought down the walls, true enough; though the minds of men and women were complicated things and Suko couldn't help but have his doubts. At any moment, that great winged shadow could swoop down and burn them all.
Now there was a morbid thought…
"Where's Mormont," he asked suddenly.
The Widow answered. "Your bear is alive…"
Cregan frowned. "He was burnt, the dragonfire… well…"
"A lucky man your bear," the Widow claimed. "If he'd not fallen into the water the fire would've killed him."
When she'd taken him to see the bear, he was a bundle of red bandages. Derek Mormont was a tall and burly man, a fighter through and through with the strength of many men; yet he laid silent as the grave with cloth covering most of his body. "He'll pull through," Cregan had vowed. "Mormont's are stubborn."
How did mere morals fight something that could with on breath decimate an army? Suko hoped to never need an answer to that question.
The slaves of Old Volantis had been waiting for their saviour, though one suspected they disliked how bloody liberation tasted.
Atop the barricade on the north-eastern street of the square Suko looked out at street full of ironborn and the man who led them, looking broad and powerful in his heavy grey chain mail over boiled black leather and plate. A Greyjoy and a commander, it seemed, doing by his black warhelm that was decorated with an iron kraken, whose tentacles coiled down blow the man's jaw. He held a fearsome steel axe and a cloak of nine layers of gold cloth sewn like a kraken.
At the squid's side stood an old man with white hair and lined features and gold-and-silver armor. The mail was gilded and finely wrought, with supple links and hard enamel plates that were splattered with blood. His longsword hung from a white leather belt with golden knuckles and a white cloak was about his shoulders.
By the white knight's side stood two younger men, one dark skinned with darker eyes, the other tanned with softer browner eyes.
"In the name of Her Grace," the old knight began aloud at the head of his little army that so vastly outnumbered the Widow's men and the Wolves all. "Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, and Mother of Dragons-"
"Fuck me," Suko cursed to the nervous chuckling of some Widow's men. "That's a lot of titles…"
"Her Grace does not wish bloodshed," the Knight continued. "Stand down, and no more lives need be lost!"
The Ironborn had already made several attempts to storm them.
As was evident by the littering of their dead, full of bolts and arrows.
Whatever small victories they'd boasted here however would be short lived should the enemy gathered ahead try once more with full force, the narrow streets gave only so much advantage and they had only so many swords. You could not fight the tide, at the end of the day.
It was clear by the grunts and curses that the Greyjoy commander would end this in bloodshed.
Thankfully, it seemed like the bull of a man was not getting his way.
"Your name Ser?" Cregan called out to the one in charge from atop the barricade.
"Ser Barristan Selmy," came the name. "Lord Command to her Grace and Hand of the Queen."
Suko and Cregan shared a look at that, the former knew that name and was oddly relieved to hear it.
"Barristan the Bold," Suko named him, leaning over the makeshift battlements of overturned tables, carts and whatever else the Widow's men could muster to protect their homes and block the streets. They'd even gone so far as to collapse sections of buildings to truly block off the streets.
"I know you Ser, from King's Landing if you'd remember me…"
The man squinted up at the stranger and grasped for his memories.
A man with a shit-eating smirk and one eyed looked at him as if thrilled.
"Prince Suck?" Barristan tested the name.
"Suko," came the snappy correction. "For fuck's sake, it's not-"
"Ser!" Cregan interrupted. "The people here wish no trouble; they only wish to live free and safe."
"Her Grace wishes the same for them," the Knight told him, one hand resting on the pommel of his silvery sword.
It was a tall claim with an army of Ironborn reavers at your back, truth be told, none of those faces seemed all that friendly.
"The Widow sends her regards," Cregan told them steadily.
"And your own?" Barristan pried. "May I have your name, Ser?"
Suko eyed the Bastard of Winterhold and waited for the words.
"I am Cregan Snow," he began aloud, proud and loud. "Son of his Grace, the King Brandon of House Stark."
The great brute of a man beside Semly grumbled louder at that.
"Starks?" he snarled at them fiercely, muttering curses to the Knight.
Cregan ignored the kraken entirely. "You met my brother in King's Landing."
Semly remembered the man. He'd always been smiling, full of tall tales and quick to laughter.
He recalled that those smiles had been false to him. Selmy had lived long enough in court to see falsehoods when they laid before his eyes, though there had been no doubting the Stark boy's skill at arms; it seemed like a lifetime ago that they'd met… however briefly…
"Prince Willam Stark," Cregan spoke as if to remind him of the name.
"I remember," Barristan replied. "What proof have you? Any man could claim as such…"
"Me and Mine," Cregan revealed eagerly. "Prince Suko here, and the word of my crew, plus our ships – if your pet kraken hasn't ruined them…"
"There were strange ships in the harbour," the Kraken grumbled under his breath.
It was loud enough for Semly to overheard at least as Greyjoy mumbled his disagreements.
"And," Cregan continued. "I have a letter for Her Grace, from my brother King Rodrik Stark."
At that Selmy frowned. King Rodrik? Had the boy not been the wayward son of a King Brandon Stark?
"All this yelling is tiring," Suko complained. "Old man! Come in, we'll not harm you…"
Cregan's scolding look shot Suko's way in a flash.
"Your word?" Barristan asked of them after a moment.
"On my honor," Cregan vowed. "We are not your enemy Ser Barristan."
To say the Widow was thrilled would be quite the understatement. The woman looked ten years younger though no less ancient for it; she had her best wine brought out for Ser Barristan and his two fellow knights. "We desire what all people desire," she'd said when asked. "To live, in peace, with the freedom to do so happily. It was my late husband who freed me, lucky as I was, yet his love did not extend beyond myself – other slaves were little but merchandise to him, but there were worse masters..."
Love she called it, as blinding as it confusing to Suko.
"Her Grace will not permit slavery to continue My Lady."
She giggled at that, like a girl a tenth her age. "The Old Blood will not like it," she said the obvious. "Valyria of Old would not have it either - the Freehold thrives on the backs of slaves as well as dragons, Ser Knight, to rid the Free Cities of their livelihood is a dream I fear to be only a dream..."
"Many believed dragons to be dead," Barristan pointed out. "Her Grace proved them wrong. Most believed she would perish forgotten in the Dothraki Sea and yet, she proved them wrong. Have faith, my lady, as I have..."
"Faith hasn't helped Volantis so far," Suko butted in.
And Selmy frowned. "War is a dreadful thing, Prince Lóng."
"Especially with allies like yours," came the counter. "Greyjoys? Really? How did that come to be anyway?!"
"Lord Greyjoy arrived at Meereen in our hour of greatest need," Barristan seemed conflicted. "It was thanks to his ships and those we salvaged from the slavers that Her Grace's armies could set sail – though more are still needed..."
"And Volantis has the ships," Cregan answered. That answered that.
"Yes," Barristan said, sipping his wine politely. "And they'd already declared themselves our enemy. Her Grave intends to return home to Westeros once Volantis is brought to heel and the required vessels secured for the journey ahead of us."
A fleet sizeable enough to give the Winter Fleet pause, not to mention the dragons...
No sense in telling Semly that, however…
"My brother wishes discuss terms with your Queen."
Ser Barristan looked at him with obvious curiosity.
"King Rodrik? I take it your father has passed then?"
"I-" Cregan hesitated but a moment. "Some time ago, yes, my brother has succeeded him."
"My condolences then," the Knight offered genuinely enough. Suko could find no malice in this one knight's eyes.
"It was some time ago," Cregan dismissed talk of the past. There was no sense in dwelling on things unchangeable.
The old knight seemed to accept that easily enough, moving away from what was an awkward topic. "Your terms," he pressed onward. "What are they?"
"For your Queen's eyes only I'm afraid," Cregan pulled a letter from his pockets, sealed with silver wax and stamped by a direwolf's snarling head. "Nothing that Her Grace will find too disagreeable, I'm sure – my brother wishes future peace between our two kingdoms..."
"Peace," Barristan gave a nod. "We could all use more of such a thing in these times. You would speak with the Queen?"
Suko butted in with no real tact.
"Will she scorch us like she did Mormont?"
"Mormont?" Barristan looked confused by the notion, if not slightly taken off guard. "Jorah?"
Not a name they knew at all...
"Derek," Suko answers. "Who's Jorah?"
"He served Her Grace for a time but spied for her enemies as well. He was banished…"
Godric Mormont shook his head. "We've no one by that name."
"About the whole scorching problem..."
"Suko has a point for once," Cregan admitted reluctantly.
"Her Grace is not her father," Ser Barristan claimed with great confidence. "You have my word; you will not be harmed."
"My brother Willam once called you a man of honor Ser..."
"Prince Willam seemed a fine man," Barristan replied with the ghost of a smile.
A lesser might might've feigned friendship with the Prince to earn trust or favour, but the stories of The Bold seemed true enough. Willam had indeed praised the old knight for his talent once upon a time. "On your honor then Ser Semly," Cregan asked of the old white knight.
"On my honor," Barristan vowed easily, so much so that even Suko found it easy to trust the old knight. If his Queen would care for her fancy guard's word was another matter entirely, but then they'd come all this way to see the girl, hadn't they?
Daenerys Targaryen had better prove worth all their troubles.
The Lord of Light's temple had always looked imposing with its hundred hues of red, yellow, gold, and orange that met and melded in the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset. Its slender towers twisted ever upward, frozen flames dancing as they reached for the sky, graced now by the scaled forms of not one or two but three dragons; the beasts resting atop the temple with tails curled about the flames and eyes ever watchful of those below them.
The largest was the shadow itself atop the temples tallest tower, all black, with horns and spinal plates of blood red and eyes smouldering.
Its companions, curled around the lower rooftop towers, were smaller; though still large in their own right.
One a green and bronze, with wings of jade and eyes of amber. The other was cream-white and a splatter of gold.
Ser Barristan paid them little mind as they ascended the nightfire fit steps of the temple lined with red stone pillars joined by a slender stone bridge with a lofty terrace where so many red priests were mumbling prayers to the Lord of Light clad in robes of yellow and orange and red. The plaza itself had been packed with worshippers now tenfold the usual thousands – all praying for a glimpse of their saviour – or even merely praying to the three dragons above.
The Fiery Hand guarded the steps to the temple, dressed in their ornate armor and orange cloaks with flaming spears.
Great red banners hung from white marble pillars as they entered the temple where the Fiery Hand gave way to men dressed in plain uniforms without ornament, with quilted tunics, short swords, a spear between each of them and spiked bronze caps. Unsullied. They watched in silence and lined the great hall of the Lord of Light with diligence that reminded Suko of the Palace Guards back home; only these slave soldiers were notably less armoured.
The Unsullied had each of them begun as young male slaves chosen for their size, speed, and strength. Every day they chose new names at random by drawling from a bucket, each name consisting of a color and a type of vermin. Their training started at five years and would go from dawn to dusk.
They were eunuchs, castrated root and stem and then burnt at the altar of the Lady of Spears.
For each of them there had been one puppy strangled and one newborn child killed before its mother's eyes.
Daenerys Targaryen had freed these men of their ill fate, yet each of them had chosen to remain by their saviours side.
"Loyalty well earned," Suko thought as they walked by these free yet manless men. A fate that hardly seemed appealing at all.
Freedom was all well and good, but in Suko's view, he'd sooner be dead than live life as they did. They were said to be fine enough spearmen though, ironically enough for men without spears; discipline was their strength – but he couldn't help but wonder if it was being so utterly broken that gave them courage.
"Unsullied are brave solider," Ser Selmy had told them as they walked. "Brave, but not warriors. Not Knights."
"Bravery is another kind of broken," Suko kept the notion to himself as they passed the eunuchs.
The Dragon Girl sat ahead atop a great throne of fused black stone that was flanked by nightfires and a great black-and-red banner.
Daenerys Targaryen was ever bit as beautiful a woman as the stories told. She had the classical Valyrian look with those violet eyes, pale skin and long flowing silver-gold hair that was braided against her black riding leathers; looking more a warrior than a queen atop the fiery throne flanked by so many supporters.
Westeros was screwed. It was the first thought that went through Suko's head as Ser Selmy stepped forward ahead of them.
"Your Grace," the old Knight began with a bowed head as a great many present cheered to hear his proclamation. "The situation in the city has been handled, the Widow's people have submitted and vow their support to your cause. And I have brought guests, who desire than audience…"
The girl – women in truth – turner her smiling face unto them instead of her brave knight.
"Guests?" She raised one brow and sat cross-legged atop her throne.
"I have vouched for their safe passage Your Grace and believe their words worth hearing."
"Barristan," she smiled wider at the formalities. "My friend; if you vouch for these men, I gladly hear them."
Ser Barristan returned a fast smile to his queen before holding out his hand.
"Your Grace," Cregan handed the letter over to the old knight. "A letter for you."
"Thank you Ser," the Queen seemed friendly enough, taking the letter from her knight.
The smile died on her lips, violet eyes narrowing to her knight as if there had been some mistake.
She broke the grey direwolf seal only after Semly gave her a firm nod in support, taking from its contents a small parchment and reading over the words with a growing frown that shifted from confusion to anger then back to confusion as she read. "Lord Command…"
"Your Grace?" Barristan looked concerned, accepting the letter from his Queen and reading for himself.
"Is this a jest?" Daenerys turned to her guests. "If so, I do not find it very funny…"
"No jest Your Grace," Cregan shook his head.
He'd known the wording of that letter well enough.
"Rodrik wasn't too much of a cunt in his letter, was he?"
"Shut it Suko," Cregan snarled back at him in Imperial quickly.
"There is no King in Westeros," Daenerys declared angrily. "I am Queen."
"A fact we do not dispute, Your Grace; my brother and I are do not hail from Westeros."
"House Stark is sworn to House Targaryen…"
"As the letter explains-"
"This…this letter," she scowled furiously. "Is utter madness!"
"Your Grace," Ser Semly turned his head up away from said letter.
If the Queen of Volantis saw fit to halt her knights word, she made no attempt.
"I knew Prince Willam," Ser Barristan reminded her calmly even as a fire burnt in the young woman's eyes and her dragons stirred atop the rooftop. "I spoke to you of him, however briefly; you remember? When the Usurper's bastard had Ned Stark arrested? I do not doubt these men's claims…"
Daenerys looked at him and her fire seemed to fade.
"It-" She frowned deeply. "Aegon? It's… they're dead…"
"I cannot speak for that," Semly admitted. "I saw their bodies… they were…"
"Beyond recognition," Cregan butted in, taking one step towards the throne only be met with spears to his throat.
"My family was butchered," the Queen looked straight at him with an uncertainty.
"Not all of them," Cregan pressed on. "House Lannister is no friend of ours, Your Grace."
She took back the letter and began reading it over once more, as if the letters might shift and change.
"I wouldn't believe it either," Suko blurted out suddenly.
The Queen's eyes darted up from the letter in the beat of a heart.
"Why should I?" She demanded to know. "This… this Mummer's Dragon?"
A title she spoke with such scorn. "My brother cannot say if the boy is true," Cregan said. "What can be said, Your Grace…"
With one wave of her hand, the spears removed themselves from Snow's path; yet remained ever at the ready to strike him down.
"…is that You are true. My brother wished to extend his hand in friendship, to mend what bonds were shattered in the past; so that we might see Justice done…"
"Flowery words," Suko thought quietly. In truth, Rodrik feared the wrath of a true dragon and meant to find himself on whatever the winning side happened to become.
"House Lannister must fall," Cregan continued his little speech and bowed his head.
Daenerys looked at him with narrowed eyes.
"The last part, Your Grace," Semly noted. "About your brother…"
"Rhaegar," at this she frowned the deepest. "It's just another lie…"
Ser Selmy shook his head. "I know not if this Aegon is truly your nephew, though my heart wishes it were true so that my failure might not be-"
"It is no failure Ser," she moved to his defence with sad eyes and not a drop of hesitation.
"-so great," Semly did not halt. "Your brother though, I knew him well; as you know…"
Daenerys knew that, eyeing the letter.
"Jon?" She found it strange for a Targaryen.
"Aemon," Cregan corrected. "That is his given name."
"After the Dragonknight," Suko added helpfully. "And-"
"Maester Aemon," Barristain muttered with growing realisation.
"Ser?" Daenerys looked lost atop her throne, for all the confidence the woman had embodied was washing away.
"Rhaegar always sent letters to Aemon Targaryen on the Wall… I'd forgotten in truth, he is your great-great-great uncle of a sort…"
The Queen blinked, practically slumped into her throne as the great hall laid deathly silent and the dragons shifted uncertain atop the roof.
"Rhaegar never raped that girl," Barristan said firmly. "I'd never believed it, but I'd never thought… gods… Stark played us all for fools…"
"The most honourable man in the realm," Suko chuckled under the gaze of the dragon woman.
"I-" Daenerys brought one hand to her forehead and sighed.
"Your Grace?" Barristan suddenly look concerned about his charge.
"I'm fine," she dismissed it easily. "I just… I only need…"
"We should dismiss the court," he counselled. "It has been a long night…"
A nod was all it took for the Unsullied to empty the great hall of all men, besides the Queen and her guests.
The Red Priests were even led out at spear-point along with their High Priest despite his protests; it seemed the Mother of Dragons cared little for the zealot.
"Lord Snow," Daenerys raised her head to look less like a lost girl in the moment.
Cregan shrugged off the lack of his title, uncaring for it.
"Your Grace," he said warily, sword still strapped to his hip.
"You will be my guest for the time begin, there is… much for me to think on…"
"I understand," Cregan complied. There was precious little else to be done really.
They were to be Guests of the dragon in name and Prisoners in practice, at least for now.
In truth it had gone better than expected. The girl was not outright dismissing their claims nor sending them away, although without the Knight's words one had doubts of how far they'd have gotten at all. Unsullied lead them away and Ser Barristan stayed behind with his Queen as the two talked in private. There remained much for the girl to do and learning about two supposed surviving nephews was quite the extra burden, Suko supposed. If the girl was wise, she might also consider them threats.
My Note(s): I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my grandfather, who sadly passed away last weekend :( wasn't unexpected but is nonetheless quite the saddening turn of events; especially as I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents as a child and will miss them both dearly in my own stoic stone-hearted sort of way. I fear I've dealt with too much loss and bullshit in my life that I'm not all that emotional of a person anymore. At any rate, I raise a glass to the departed – it's brightening to think how my grandmother is probably scolding him with "what took you so long" right about now in whatever afterlife there is, or isn't, who knows really.
I can't say I'm a religious man. When I die, I'll just pick a new life like I'm picking a new video game to play haha. I'll reincarnate as Aegon the Conqueror or some cringe isekai self-insert nonsense, just you wait and see… maybe play as Jon Snow and fix the HBO ending… should be interesting…
At any rate :P thanks for reading as always and do consider joining the Discord; link via SoulGamesInc on Youtube.
246vili: The Sunset Islanders remember more than their Northern cousins but have still been separated for so many years, for all they've clung to their own culture a great deal of Imperial customs have wormed their way in there as well and they've forgotten a thing or two. There are no Children on the Islands as they'd been gone/hiding for well over a thousand years by the time of the Shipwright, but there may be some ancient text/runes in Winterhold's library that describe them. Interestingly, the Islands do have Dragonglass though; it's a fairly common decretive thing in a similar vein to how the Royce's still use their Runed Bronze without really knowing its significance.
As for why Mance had to take White Harbor? In my view, he knew much of the North from his time at the Night's Watch and having snuck south of the Wall numerous times, he wasn't a fool ignorant of his enemy; he knew that going through the Neck would be basically a death sentence – they'd lose people to the swamps, lizard lions, the Reeds and all of that was assuming the Stark's wouldn't take them in the rear from Moat Cailin. Not to mention, the Riverlands wouldn't welcome them either.
If they took White Harbour however they'd remove a threat to their rear, get supplies (notably, much needed food) and ships to begin ferrying people to safety-ish.
LoveLifeForever: As I've no Beta (had a few offers, but I don't trust people haha) some errors like that split through :) it IS my intention to at some stage go through every chapter with a fine comb and fix all the errors and perhaps improve several of the early chapters, as some in my opinion are lacking somewhat. I'm ever the perfectionist.
Tomiya Shiro: I too found the Empire parts enjoyable :) but some have disliked it, some hate OC's and some even hate Willam and prefer Suko, so everyone has differing tastes naturally. I personally enjoy chapters more so when they're expanding on all new areas and lore as opposed to rehashing the 'canon' events – is why I've ultimately started writing my own book very very very slowly that may or may not end up being garbage, we'll see, so much to do and so little time these days.
DarkJon: Chapter 16 asking for a Willam & Jaime friendship is some hilarious stuff haha further chapters would tell one why that's not happening.
King Mern: A common-ish misconception but some seem to believe this is "Stark-Wank" by virtue of there being a lot of Starks. Funny thing is, I'm not that big of a Stark fan and aside from the name my OC Stark's hardly act as GRRM's Starks act with all that silly honor and whatnot. An old saying of mine is that "Honor is not a Stark trait" as it isn't, the reason Ned acts as he does in the books is because he was raised by an Arryn. Plus, it's odd some call it "Stark-Wank" when I kill so many of them lol.
As for Myrcella she's in Dorne still and isn't likely to be harmed, while Tommen is a boy-king and Aegon isn't likely to want him dead… but Rodrik might…
In the Game of Thrones we all eventually die, there is no middle ground and only fools believe there are winners.
Hulkbuster97 / Finkarhu: You're welcome :) writing is slow, but I'm committed to finishing Sunset this year.