A/N: Longclaw: Hey everyone! Sorry bout the long delay. I had my bar exam, and then I was doing my best to make sure this story came out just right. But don't fret. We have some really exciting stuff coming up!
Oh, I just came across a really interesting new story. It's called Gift of the Gods by Nielsen1984, an AU story just published that looks to be an intriguing take on Jon and Daenerys. Really recommend it!
BRuh4: Hey y'all, sorry about the wait. It was the result of a combination of things. We both had a lot going on in real life and writer's block got in the way. We didn't wanna rush it so we took our time until it was finished.
That being said this is an exciting one. Plenty of action and a whole lot more to come, strap in.
Hope you enjoy it.
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Chapter 12: Revolt
"You actually keep them around your neck?" Brienne asked, incredulous.
Grinning, Davos held up his left hand - missing the tops of his pinky, ring, and middle fingers. "Aye, keep 'em for luck. Been good luck too."
"I wouldn't consider being locked up for months on the order of the Lady Melisandre to be good luck, Davos," Jon replied, smirking. Each of the men - and the one woman - bobbed on their horses. Close to arriving at Moat Cailin, the vast expanse of grass left not much to do except banter among themselves.
"Well, the Lady Shireen would come down to read to me. And I had plenty of time to learn to read myself in that cell… so I consider it good luck."
Howland Reed laughed, reaching over to slap Jon on the back of his leather gambeson. "He's got you there, My Lord."
Jon rolled his eyes before laughing with the others. "Aye, that is good luck, Davos."
Brienne wasn't laughing, still slightly queasy about the whole thing. Her duty to Renly still applied, but also her duties to Catelyn and Jon. If she was going to gain revenge for Renly's death, she would have to know everything she could about Stannis Baratheon's confidants. "Still, isn't it morbid? Stannis to cut off your fingers for helping him?"
"Stannis has a keen sense of justice," Davos replied. "I lived my life as a smuggler, and so the fingers were punishment for that. However, I earned Stannis' trust, so he made me his advisor and now his Hand. The kind of man and King his Grace is. Rewarding when need be and punishing when need be."
Sounds of cursing rang out some ways behind them. "Lady Brienne." Podrick rode up, mud covering his cuirass. "Wagon stuck in the mud. They're asking for you."
"Well why can't you handle it?"
Podrick looked sheepish. "Need another hand, and no soldier would listen to a 'Boy from the Westerlands.'" It was clear he was censoring the actual words used.
A snarl left Brienne. "Seven hells, do I have to cut your meat for you too?!" Reigning in his horse, the lady knight trotted off to the rear with her squire.
"Ever miss the smuggling life, Lord Davos?" Howland asked after the three stopped laughing. "I enjoyed traveling through Westeros with Lord Stark during the Rebellion. Not the fighting mind you, but seeing the rest of our Seven Kingdoms. Only had seen Harrenhal and the northern Riverlands beforehand."
That question caused Davos to think. "No, I don't. I can provide far better for my family now… but I did enjoy sailing all over the Narrow Sea."
"At least be glad you lived such far-flung lives, my Lords." Smiling sheepishly, eyes squinting in the high noonday sun, Jon looked out over the horizon. Catching the first glimpse of the towers of Moat Cailin. "I only learned of such far-flung places in the stories. Aside from one trip to White Harbor, I've never been south of Torhen's Square. Never left the North."
Catching a grimace on Howland's face, Davos was about to enquire but thought better of it. "Why that's no way to live, Jon. I may not have been some world traveller like Oberyn Martell or that insane brother of Balon Greyjoy, but as a smuggler I traveled all over. Saw Pentos, Braavos, Dorne, the Reach, Lys...:" The older man grinned, dropping his voice into a whisper so that his son - Jon's squire - wouldn't hear.. "I love my wife desperately, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her." The three men shared a laugh. "Gotta see the world before ya' settle down, Jon."
A wistful look appeared on Jon's face. "My father was fostered in the Vale, so saw much. He told me the Eyrie was beautiful, but... I always did wish to see Dragonstone, where Aemon the Dragonknight was raised." Oh, how he and Robb had spent hours in the courtyard at a time, he Aemon and his brother Duncan the Tall.
"Stannis' seat is Dragonstone. I'm sure he'd host you there." Davos pondered it. "Seven Hells, he'd probably give ya' the damn place after all you've done."
"Couldn't very well turn that down," Jon mused. "But… I'd have to ride south to maintain it every now and again, and Stark's don't fare well in the south. My father rode this very road for a Baratheon King, and…" Memories of his father were like that. Happiness and joy, followed by a deep sadness that Jon would never see Eddard Stark again. "He…" An errant tear formed in his eye. "He promised that he'd tell me about my mother…" Jon didn't know why was divulging this. Only Sam and Maester Aemon… But with the memory stabbing into his heart, he could use the fatherly advice of the two older Lords.
"I knew your mother…" Jon's head jerked to look at Howland Reed with shock. Davos blinked as well, intrigued. "Didn't know her as well as Ned did, but I did see her."
Jon could feel his body tremble. "Who… who was she?" His eyes clouded with tears, finally able to put an identity on his mother.
Howland shook his head. "I don't remember her name, but I do remember she was of the North." A pair of grey eyes widened. "Knew your father when they grew up in Winterfell together." He's not ready for the actual truth… no one is. Not while any Baratheon or Lannister King lives. "Lovely, carefree girl. Loved to ride. Was in Harrenhal when Ned saw her, then the next time was in Dorne. When we took you back north."
"Is she… is she alive?" Jon hesitated to ask, but needed to know.
"No, my Lord. She died in Dorne, from childbirth, with you." Gods help me, that is not a lie.
"Seven Hells… I'm sorry lad," Davos offered, reaching out to put a fatherly hand on Jon's shoulder.
Lips pursed, eyes shut as he dipped his head. Jon was beyond tears. "Thank you, Davos." He looked up, meeting Howland's gaze with a sad smile. Resignation in his expression. "I'm glad you told me." He chuckled, a dry one that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't expect my mother to be a northerner. I guess that explains my father's reluctance. Didn't want to damage anyone's memory, especially one known in Winterfell." Gazing out at the clouds, the waving winter demons that draped themselves over the north to herald such a desolate time… at that very moment, the clouds had split apart to reveal the sun.
"My Lords!" The three of them glanced upward as three riders approached. One a dispatcher, helmeted and carrying a fluttering flaming heart banner of House Baratheon of Dragonstone. The second, Karsi, looking quite uncomfortable atop her horse - only white walkers rode north of the Wall. The other… was Melisandre. Her lips set in triumph. This is not gonna be good. The rider bowed from the saddle. "Urgent news."
"Tell me," Davos replied gruffly. As the Hand, he technically outranked all others. "Well don't dither around like a fool. Tell your Hand."
The dispatch rider cleared his throat. "Wildl…" He paled slightly at the presence of Jon, the champion of those from north of the Wall. "Free Folk scouts have spotted the Lannister host. They're at the Twins."
Jon furrowed his brows. "Leave Riverrun to the Blackfish? That would cut off their supply lines to the Westerlands." Casterly Rock was far closer to the Twins than King's Landing was. Jaime Lannister wasn't the caliber of general as Tywin or Robb was, but the Lannister armies had veterans such as Leo Lefford, Addam Marbrand, and Roland Crakehall. "Are you sure it wasn't just reinforcement of the Twins?" Said castle was practically one of the best positions in Westeros for defense.
"My wargs don't lie, Lord Crow," Karsi replied. "The lines of 'gold armor' as they said stretch along the northern Kingsroad for leagues. The vanguard already passing through the bridge castle." Jon knew not to discount the skills of free folk wargs.
"Perhaps the Blackfish abandoned Riverrun knowing we were coming," Howland suggested. "He gets nothing if the Lannisters defeat us then turn on him. We win, he wins, simple as that."
Looking at Karsi, Jon gave the orders - as Warden of the North, only King Stannis outranked him in authority over his northern subjects. "Find the Tully forces. Have both wargs and foot scouts searching. We need to know if we can count on such reinforcements."
"Aye, Lord Crow." Karsi bowed - half sarcastically - before urging the horse off to the other wildlings. Jon smirking with amusement as she winced, unused to the saddle.
"The King requires your presence at the field headquarters," the dispatch rider finished, finally allowed by Jon to speak once more.
"We are witnessing legends being written, my Lords," Melisandre stated, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. She had been largely absent in Winterfell, confining herself to her quarters except for several meetings with Stannis - to, 'consult the auspices within the flames' as she explained before the march from Winterfell began. Her red eyes, a gentle burgundy rather than a piercing crimson, bored in on Jon. "The Lannisters think they are the golden ones, but it is our King and his loyal disciples that will bring the light to their darkness." With that, she turned and galloped off. Unlike Karsi, her riding was top notch.
Shrugging, Davos shared a wry grin. "Told ya' she confuses me… but I don't disagree with her sentiment."
Jon nodded, motioning to Brienne, Podrick, Devon, and his three other household guard behind him. "Well, we can't keep the King waiting." A flick of the reins sent the Lords and their retinue forward.
The woman who helped Arya took her back to her cottage. It was a nice enough place. For a minstrel of sorts at least, as Arya learned. The woman was called 'Lady Crane' or such as she was referred to. Crane patched up Arya to the best of her ability, going on about dealing with stitches many times before. The Waif had truly done quite the number on Arya, lip busted wide open, a few cuts along her arms and legs, bruises the size of a fist.
Crane made a mediocre soup, it tasted awful but anything sustenance felt good to Arya. Crane regaled her about the many 'plays' she'd been a part of. The words didn't make much sense to Arya, she'd never heard of a performance such as Crane explained. After Arya put away two bowls of soup, Crane watched the girl pass out in her bed. Not daring to do anything to stop her, just smiling and leaving her in peace.
The next morning Arya awoke with a start, her mind reminding her of the events of the last couple days. Battling off the confusion of where she was became the first thing she did, reflexes snapping in. Waking up in the dark never ceased to scare her, the loss of her eyes had taken more than her sight. The little girl from Winterfell returning to visit, sometimes for long spans.
Crane came in quickly, hearing the startle. Her presence calmed Arya, the welcoming warmth, unlike anything she'd seen since Winterfell. After some more soup, Arya explained she had to return the street corner, knowing the Waif would be there waiting. Crane pleaded with her to stay, or at the very least help her make it back. Neither options appealed to Arya, if the blindness was a test as she assumed she shouldn't take help from anyone. If it was just a punishment in essence, the Waif likely wouldn't visit her. Despite their constant never ending obvious hatred for her, attempting further training with her doesn't make sense unless it's a test.
Not hearing any arguments, Crane assisted Arya back to street level. Like a hawk she watched Arya wander down the street, fighting off notions to help.
Thankfully, Crane's place wasn't too far from the market. Arya found her way back after a while, and then the path back to her street corner not too long after that. Her body making up for the lack of her sight, senses taking advantage. She felt herself grow a bit stronger, whether from her belly full of food or a newfound fortitude to move forward.
The Waif made herself known as soon as Arya turned the corner and descended the steps.
"Where were you?" She asked. If Arya could see her face she was sure there'd be a scowl on it.
Arya slowly made her way down the steps, hugging the wall nearest her. Not immediately replying, the Waif stomped her foot, "I asked you a question."
The blind one finally reached the bottom, near the Faceless Man. The Waif approached Arya, who didn't waver. A wooden staff rolled to her feet, It was picked it up quickly. What followed was an interaction not dissimilar from their last. Though this time Arya stood her ground.
As the Waif wailed on her, she didn't falter, retaliating as best she could. Swinging back, having no idea if she'd hit anything. Resulting in her rapidly flinging the staff around, in all directions around her.
Quickly she realized the Waif was gone. If she had still been there, surely she would've stuck by now. The presence of her sparring partner gone, the stick dropped to the ground with a clatter. Returning to her small space on the ground, trying to rest. Though the gravel-like ground didn't much compare to the feather bed in Crane's apartment.
Many days after went on similar to the last, waiting for the Waif to come to her.
Eventually, Arya became accustomed to the darkness. Having been in it so long she'd been adapted to survive in it, even thrive. All her other senses heightened, she became able to track the Waif as she moved. Honed in on her breathing, the small sounds of her feet gliding over the stone ground. No longer could the Waif dance around her in senseless bliss. Surprising the Waif back bringing the staff up to thwart a downward swing. Arya was able to parry, and block incoming blows. Soon after that she could attack, get on the offensive.
The Waif left that day in a huff, all twisted up in anger. When she was gone Arya laid back down and fell asleep as soon as her eyes closed. The next day she felt the presence of someone else, not the Waif.
"If a Girl follows she may get her eyes back."
Much to her delight, Arya's sight was returned. Once again able to see, enjoy the vigors of vision. Her gained abilities from the time she spent in the darkness didn't falter or dissipate. Yet felt reinvigorated, and empowered. She could hear the fluttering of birds in the open air, or the low tones of people murmuring. All her senses seemed heightened. Never had she felt more complete, more able.
But also much to her dismay, the God of Death claimed a person that recently grew close to her. A punishment of sorts, for her weakness, even worse that she should carry out the deed. These people she'd shacked up with, seeking the abilities that would give her vengeance for her family's destruction. She'd done it unknowing what it would cost her. She only saw what she wanted from them. Possibly a bit of bad judgement on her part, but she couldn't take it back. It's not all bad though, now she had gained the skills she needed.
The person the God of Death had claimed was Lady Crane for reasons unknown. They had given her to Arya to take care of. It's not surprising that they somehow knew Crane had helped her. Even though it was just the one time. She hadn't seen Crane since then. Arya assumed it was a test to see if she was truly loyal to the Faceless Men. Her loyalties weren't even clear to her, she knew she needed to take vengeance against those that had wronged her family. Even now, she remembered the names:
Cersei Lannister.
The Mountain.
IIyn Payne.
The Red Woman.
Beric Dondarrion.
Thoros of Myr.
Walder Frey.
The others had either been ended by her own hand or taken care of by someone else. Even in Braavos she'd heard of the deaths of Tywin and Joffrey. Taking the lives of the rest was the only thing she desired now. None of them were on this side of the sea.
They all breathed in Westeros. So that's where she'd needed to go.
It wasn't hard to find possible passage back across the sea to Westeros. After a brisk walk through the port, she discovered the seamen frequented a tavern nearby. Therefore, there would be the best spot to begin her search for a boat to take her home. The smell of the laughter brought her there, also the dank smell of alcohol filling the air. Her feet carried her through the wooden double doors. Nearly recoiling at the sound of all the voices, jeering and sneering at each other. Several tables littered with greasy men bashing there jugs of wine together.
Arya strolled through, listening in. Hearing all sorts of conversation, much about Braavos, these big fish they caught. Whispers of the ongoings of events in Westeros, she didn't really listen to them.
Near the back, two men sat together. They looked professional enough, and Westerosi. She could smell the seawater off them from a distance. One of them had dark hair, with a bushy bear, and the other was an older man with a white beard.
They saw her approach, the older one said, "Unless you're gonna bring us more wine, fuck off."
Arya ignored him, "You're from Westeros, I'd like to go home."
The dark haired one stroked his beard and said, "You can't afford it, girly."
In response Arya tossed a sack of silver on the table, and older one snatched it up, and peered inside. "Where'd you get this from?"
"What does that matter?"
They looked at each other, and then back to her, "We leave in two days, you can have a hammock."
The second sack of silver hitting the table nearly had them turning pale, "I want a cabin."
"Sure," one of them said. "Whatever you want."
Then grabbed the bags before they could stuff them in their pockets, "We'll also be leaving at dawn. See you then." With that she turned from them, leaving the two of them in tailspin.
When the sun rose the next day, the prospect of returning home excited her. Even though the unknowns that hung over her. Having no idea what she'd find when she arrived. News from the west rarely carried to Braavos, aside from the large events like a King dying. So whatever waited for her across the Narrow Sea… would be a total surprise. Surely, she'd hear some mumblings over her journey home. Hopefully some good things, but she wasn't deluded, the possibility of things being worse than she left them could be high. She left her family in disarray. They'd likely still be in the same shape, or so she guessed.
From the cobble streets of Braavos she watched the sun rise. Feeling excited this was her last day in the city. She'd be going home. Today. The little girl in her rearing its head, yet the grown woman inside gritted her teeth. Steeling her resolve to what she'd needed to do.
Revenge.
Moments later her mind wandered to Lady Crane. She hadn't considered what would become of her. The Faceless Men wanted her dead, and they wanted her to be the one to kill her. When she decided to leave, she assumed that Crane would be left alone. Her mind began to wonder if that was true or not. Would they leave her be?
It didn't take her long to decide that they definitely wouldn't leave her alone. Perhaps she could go retrieve her, and take them with her across the sea. But what if it's a trap? What if the Faceless Men know she's trying to leave and maybe they think she'll go back for Crane. Where the Waif will be waiting to kill her. There's no telling what they'll want to do to her after she neglects to kill Crane as they want. It's likely they'll want to add her face to the hall. Of course, Arya should avoid that outcome. Even if it means leaving Crane to them to take care of themselves.
In the end, the woman doesn't mean all that much to her anyway. Crane provided help when it was needed and that's it. To do what she needed to do, perhaps she needed to let certain feelings die. The more… human tendencies, allow herself to leave an innocent woman to die because her life isn't worth the risk of losing her own.
Not when she has things left to do.
She didn't let herself care about Crane as she boarded the ship. Merely emotionless as they cast off, as she watched Braavos get farther and farther away until totally out of sight.
The roars and cheers left the throats of tens of thousands of onlookers like an undulating wave. Echoing off the bowl of the great fighting pits, finally reopened after years. The last time the great city of Meereen had provided such bread and circuses for the masses had been just before the Mother of Dragons had liberated - or sacked, for those with a differing viewpoint - Yunkai, and a sense of excitement had descended on the city. Paying the modest fee to catch a glimpse of the once in a lifetime spectacle. The first games of House Targaryen, first ever with the participation restricted to free men competing for glory and gold, not for their masters' whims. Heralding a new beginning for Meereen and all of Slaver's Bay.
In one fluid sweep of their hands, the various fighters slammed their fists against their chests in salute. "We who are about to die," they each proclaimed in Valyrian - some their native tongue, some obviously foreign by their halting accents. "Fight for the glory of our names and our Queen."
I would rather you lived for me, noble fighters. Daenerys watched the scene with numbness. A simmering anger, and quite a lot of apprehension. Even free men… she did not wish any of these men to die for the amusement of the crowd. Though Westerosi tourney melees sometimes ended in death, it was never an intended prospect.
"Your Grace?" The syrupy words of her husband, Hizdar zo Loraq, brought her out of the reverie. "You must stand and clap, before it can begin. The people are likely getting impatient."
Wishing she could just end this, Daenerys nevertheless stood. Radiant in her white, form fitting dress and gossamer cape. Matching the silver of her hair and the fairness of her Valyrian features near perfectly. The representation of the ancient adage of trueborn Valyrians being the manifestation of the divine upon the earth. Slowly, gingerly, Dany raised her hands up. The clap resounding across the pit, the raucous cheer only came a split second later, fighters already charging at each other in the vicious melee.
Beside her, Dany could sense the normally soft-spoken Hizdar - for the life of her, she would never see him as her husband - was transformed into an excited spectator at the fight. "There's a brute from the Summer Isles," he commented, pointing to a rather large fellow with dark skin. He brought a large mace down upon a smaller man, lighter skinned and darting out of the way. "And he's from the Yi Ti, you can tell from the curved sword. Very rare in these parts. We're in for a treat."
"I bet on the little one," Daario commented. "You can tell he wants it, as did I when I fought in these pits." He smirked as the Yi Ti expertly sidestepped an attack, lashing out with his sword to draw blood. "Yep, he'll win."
Hizdar looked at him incredulously. "Size matters here, Naharis."
The sellsword grinned. "Oh? How's about ten gold dragons on it?"
"Done." The words had only just been spoken when the Summer Islander brought the mace down directly on the smaller man's head, blood spurting out. Hizdar laughed, slapping Daario on the back. "I'll expect my money on the morrow."
Daenerys simply rolled her eyes at the antics. Men had their lust for combat and she didn't begrudge that, but for fighting pits… It was just so senseless.
"Pardon, your Grace." Daenerys looked down to see Tyrion waddle to the chair to her right. "Forgive me for being late, but I had some matters to attend to."
"Oh?" Suddenly, a particular competitor removed his helmet, causing her breath to hitch. Jorah… He'd appeared out of nowhere yet again for the second time. One might've thought that after being sent away not once but twice, would beget a hesitancy to ever appear again. Yet here Ser Jorah was, fighting for her 'amusement.' A part of her wished for his head to be separated from his shoulders, another part just wanting him far away from her. Though deep inside her she knew that either one of those things would disappoint her.
"Tell me, Lord Tyrion. I… I need a distraction," she said, but her eyes kept firm on Jorah, watching with bated breath as the master swordsman of Bear Island hacked and slashed his way through the other fighters.
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Tyrion reached out for the chilled wine on the serving table. "I realized, that even the noble families of Meereen are rather greedy. They live in luxury despite your Grace's taxes, so that means the Sons of the Harpy must be getting outside support..."
The words registered in her ear, but Dany was too concentrated on not showing her fear outwardly as the large Summer Islander charged at Jorah. The knight's sword only just stopped the mace from cleaving his skull.
"Therefore, I had Varys' Little Birds track several suspected Harpy spies, and it seems like we've found where the funds are coming from."
Seeing Jorah start to gain the upper hand, Daenerys allowed herself the breathing room to look at Tyrion. "Where?" She would take Rhaegal and Viserion there to burn wherever it was down.
Tyrion grimaced. "Volantis, my Queen. The rich slavers there are funnelling funds through Astapor and Yunkai in order to foment uprisings here. At least that what it looks like."
Dany's blood boiled, fists clenching. Images of the city of Volantis a pile of ash and flame coursed through her mind, of the lesson that she would teach the slaver scum of what would happen if they so dared to tangle with House Targaryen…
"MY QUEEN!" Her eyes swiveled to the pits just as Jorah tossed a spear in her direction…
Only to hit a figure running at her from behind. A clash of steel directed her attention to Ser Barristan, removing his sword from the gut of a blue silk swathed man, blood spurting as he fell to the floor. Both wore the masks of the Sons of the Harpy - and behind them, all amongst the stands, hundreds began to don the masks.
Revolt.
Barely several minutes had passed, but already it seemed like hours. The pits had descended into complete and total anarchy, blood blanketing the soil in a malevolent crimson. Already strewn on the ground was the broken body of Hizdar zo Loraq, the broken bodies of at least a dozen Unsullied. Countless innocents that had their lives taken away by the Sons of the Harpy for the cardinal sin of enjoying the games their Queen put on for them.
Said Queen was currently being dragged by Daario - refusing to let go of her handmaiden's hand. Daenerys watched as several bare-chested or blue-clad harpies rushed them, Unsullied taking a ragged formation to block their path. Ser Jorah, the faithful bear, took the van. His sword already slick with the blood of the harpies. Ser Barristan lagged near the back of the pack, taking on any stragglers that trailed them. They fought their way towards the alternate exit tunnel, the one pointed out by Hizdar before his death.
Daenerys felt nothing for him, but now the carnage was reaching those she did care about. Now a harpy hefted his body up, only to saw through his neck with a thin blade. Moments later the harpy lifted Hizdar's head up, gore dripping to the floor, before throwing it as far as he could in Daenerys' direction. A sign of what's to come, in their minds anyway.
"Go!" Barrstan yelled, deflecting a giant scimitar as if it were a twig - the harpies had bloodlust, but little skill. Daario soon joined him, fluid movements leaving two bare-chested attackers with disemboweled stomachs. "We'll hold them off!" Unsullied lifting their shields to ward off arrows, Dany and her companions ducked into the exit tunnel.
Bright sunlight ahead of them, Jorah reached out his uninfected hand to literally haul Daenerys along the tunnel. "Almost there, Khaleesi…" They would be far safer in the open streets among the people. "Almost there…" Out of thin air appeared two harpies. Bare chests tanned as the inhuman masks stared at them. Pushing closed the heavy wooden door that now blocked their path. Jorah slammed on the door, kicking it - but it wouldn't budge. "Damn."
The idea was to return the fighting pits to their former glory. Daenerys had allowed animals to be trapped and taken to the pits to be used during the fighting. As soon as the Harpies began their attack, they set loose two lions. Jumping out into the ring, roaring out loud enough that everyone could hear. Then creeping towards the group, teeth bared and eyes menacingly narrowed. Sword twirling in his wrist - a trick he picked up from Arthur Dayne while the Sword of the Morning had lived - this moment wasn't the first that Barristan wished for the steel plate of his Stormlands style armor. Functional in the humid heat of Slaver's Bay his leather cuirass was, but able to protect against the claws and fangs of a great beast it was not. Beside him, Daario bounced on his feet, curved arkh at the ready. They spread their arms wide, hoping to intimidate the lions.
It did not work. With a roar, one of the beasts leapt at Barristan, claws bared. Even dulled by age, Barristan's reflexes were still sharp. He raised the shield quickly to absorb the weight of the leaping lion. But it still sent him sprawling to the ground, fangs ripping the shield away as the wind was knocked out of him.
Slashing at him with its paws, the beast missed Daario by a wide berth - dearth of armor and small blade leaving him quick on his feet, able to maneuver around the lunges of the lion. Dashing forward with his arkh. Drawing blood and darting back before the lion could claw at him.
Coughing, sucking in air, Barristan instinctively rolled onto his stomach as the lion leaped. Teeth bared to rip out the knight's neck but only tearing through the air. Cloud of dust kicked up causing the lion to howl as it hit its eyes, Barristan rolled back onto his back and allowed the castle-forged steel to sing in a downwards cut. Tasting bright red blood as it bit into flesh and bone.
The lion howled in pain - much as did Daario as a swipe of the paws slashed against his torso, arkh sallying forth to rip open the creature's neck - lunging at Barristan once more with fury in its eyes. But the cagey old knight was ready for it. Angling his sword, the beast ran itself through the heart. Blood spurting everywhere as the life ebbed from it.
Daario spat on the dusty ground, quickly parrying the charging blow of a squat, fat harpy before slicing open the expansive stomach. His chest hurt like hells, but kept fighting. Especially as the royal party emerged from the exit tunnel. "It's blocked!" Jorah exclaimed, his sword joining the fray as the Unsullied formed a tight perimeter around Missandei, Tyrion, and the Queen.
"Fuck!" He could hear the rushing feet of far more coming for them. "Form a circle! Tight in the middle!" There wasn't much else to do. Keep the Queen in the open and hope reinforcements arrived soon. Wiping the blood and sweat off his brow as they raced for the center of the arena, Daario glanced at Daenerys. Seeing her face serene and pleading. Gaze angled to the heavens.
Rhaegal… Viserion… come. Please come.
But all that answered her were the piercing shrieks from the harpies, flooding into the pits with knives and short swords. Masks of glittering gold molded into that of pure malevolence. Some brash ones charged immediately - the Unsullied cut them down, one apparently leading the pack skewered by Ser Barristan. The old knight having pushed off the lion carcass and scrambled to his feet. But even with the dozen taken down with ease, there were still hundreds.
"Stay behind me, Khaleesi," Jorah remarked, hands tight on the hilt of his sword. Despite his past. Despite his betrayal, Dany complied, finding a sense of safety behind her oldest protector. She and Missandei clutched at each other, flinching as the line of blue or gold-swaddled harpies darted forward, rippling menacingly.
Eyes shut, Daenerys did something she never had before. Prayed. Prayed to whatever was out there for a savior. Images flashed in her mind… of a white wolf. One that she beseeched the very heavens were here - Dany knew not what the wolf even was, but craved it by her side even so. Please…
What echoed through the pit was not the howl of the wolf, but it was salvation all the same. The bloodlust that gripped the harpies morphed, confusion and worrying evident even with the expressionless masks. All looked to the skies, blue and unblemished but clearly from where the roars had come from...
And there they were. Not only the cream and green bat-shaped creatures, but also that of pure black and red. A demon from the fires of Old Valyria, roars and shrieks shaking the very core of the harpies as that of the demons ridden into battle by the Targaryen Conquerors of Westeros. Fear ripping through those that stood against her, for Daenerys it was a slow arriving joy. "Drogon…" All of her children had come.
It was like a blur. All passing by her vision in both slow motion and fast forward, how Drogon leapt into her defense, point blank immolating the harpies in red-hot dragonfire. Of Rhaegal and Viserion, still aloft as they spread their flames upon the forces in the stands. Giving cover to their brother before scorching the tunnels so that none could be used against their mother ever again. No force could hope to stand against them.
Rhaegal and Viserion screeching madly, tongues of flame angling towards fleeing harpies, Daenerys approached Drogon. Her child hooting in pain, jet-black skin marred with several gaping wounds. A pair of spears still sticking out. The air was pungent with smoke and charred flesh, but Dany paid it no need - surreally, she wrapped her hands around one of the spears, pulling it out. Drogon screamed in pain and fury.
"Shhhh, shhhh." Softly stroking his snout, Dany quickly pulled out the other spear. "It's alright, sweetling." The dragon growled, allowing his mother to gently climb atop him.
Pulling his sword out of the now still corpse of a harpy, Barristan turned to watch his Queen. Eyes widening as she mounted the great dragon. In awe as a dragonrider emerged onto the earth for the first time since the Dance of Dragons. If only Rhaegar could have seen this… His heart ached for his dead friend, but soared to see his legacy live on.
"My children." Despite nothing but a murmur, all three turned their heads to her. Leaning to hug Drogon's neck, the last whisper changed everything. "Sovegon." And with a mighty flap of his wings, Drogon leapt into the air with his mother. Brothers following close behind. Screeches and hoots echoing all across the great city.
And Daenerys, watching all of it with observant eyes, could have sworn hearing the mournful howl of the white wolf from her dreams. Begging her, calling her to her homeland. Taking in a breath of the crisp air as Drogon climbed ever higher, Dany lost herself into the moment. The blood of Old Valyria. Returned to the skies.
A/N: BRuh4: I love Arya but she's kinda hard to write. Honestly her section was what really took so long. What we did with her Braavos stuff is a bit different from canon. We didn't want to have it be exactly the same, though still many of it had to happen anyway. The blindness and her training, being paramount. We were quit to omit that stuff with mummers, yet we included Crane for a bit. Basically it all culminated in a quicker exodus from Braavos. We've got some cool stuff in store for Arya, keep your eye on her.
Longclaw: The fighting pits scene is necessary for Dany's character development, so we couldn't skip it. Tyrion actually acts smartly this time, so a continuation of early show Tyrion.
Couldn't deny Jon a little bit about his mother. Howland isn't lying, if you think about it.
Next chapter is the log anticipated clash between Stannis and Jaime! If we get at least 30 reviews, we'll update on Wed :D
Be sure to check out Gift of the Gods, very interesting new story by a new writer for the fandom.
Tell your friends.