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The heating sun blasted in the distance. Sun rays reflected on the surface of the dry plains. Normally green grasses changed into dark orange as the sun sets. The clashing of swords rippled in the air.
The city of Qarth burned in chaos. The street folks screamed as they moved from the scrimmages that disturbed one of the greatest porting cities in Essos. Fire and smoke burned the eyes of the street folks. People pushed and trampled on each other to escape annihilation. Buildings that were previously colorful and vibrant dulled in tone as destruction spread through Qarth.
Howls and the famous cry's of the Dothraki shattered the spirit and heart of the men protecting the city. The great horse lord, Khal Drago, assembled the greatest khalasar that's ever been recorded in history. The head of the khalasar promised blood and glory to those who fought for him and did what many horse riders feared to do: travel through the desert region of the Red Waste. And to pillage and slave rich cities that they come upon, including Qarth.
The ground quaked. Horses heaved past the fallen east gate. Dothraki screamers rushed to battle, overhyped at the chance to paint their arakh's in blood.
Qarth was informed of the upcoming attack weeks in advance, however, the lords were overconfident. They held to believe that the high thick walls were enough to hold the horde at bay while help arrived. A lone Dothraki scaled the great surface of the wall because the security was so lax, he was able to cut the throats of the guards and opened the gates. And now… the people in this city were paying for it dearly. The force of this khalasar is humongous; not everyone can fit in the city, so a dozen thousand savages solemnly stood outside the gates. They were unhappy at the notion of standing idle while the others feasted.
Soldiers slashed and parried. For every Dothraki that fell the opposite side loss four. Blood, shit, and tears flooded on the walls. Fragile towers crumbled and crushed many, sending dust and dirt flying into unprotected eyes.
The army of Qarth broke down. Some dropped their hands and flee. Mew weeps for mercy. Many lay on the ground desperately grasping fatal wounds. The dark-skinned warriors roared in triumph. Casting their superiority, they ran into buildings and tall towers and flat out forced themselves on the women and killed the innocent who couldn't arm a sword. When this appeared to continue, a rumbling could be heard, the rumbling of elephants.
The Golden Company arrived at last.
The mercenaries force clashed with the surprised Dothraki. Ranks and formations were forgotten. The elephant cavalry collided with wicked impact, throwing them off their horses to land dead on the light orange rocks and short grasses. The large muscled animals dipped their gray heads to impale several Dothrakis straight through their chest.
Jon ducked under a swipe that was aimed for his head and slit the throat of his attacker. He was in his zone, and blood lust flowed in his veins. The sword in his hands constantly slashed. He cut another person down and another and another.
Two strong looking Dothrakis approached him, waving their curved shaped weapons in his direction angrily. The bigger one strikes first. Jon shifted to his left. The Dothraki made his mistake in overextending his arm and Jon swiftly thrust towards his stomach. The man yelled in agony and fell to the ground. Jon wheeled around to meet the sword of the other in the contest of strength.
Jon purposely lost. He used the momentum against the older man; the Dothraki stumbled to the dirt and Jon stabbed him in the neck. The dark-skinned warrior gurgled on his own blood and stilled lifelessly on the grass.
A volley of arrows launched in the air and the barrages of death rained on the great horde. The company pushed onwards, and the battle slowly relocated into the city. The Dothraki's choice of weapon and equipment hurt them. Curved swords made it difficult to pierce armor. The golden plates of the hired sellswords were up to standard. On the other hand, most horse riders wore light tunics, and they were being sliced around like paper.
The battle has been going on for hours; Jon didn't consider this. His biceps maintained intensity as his long sword ached for the flesh, and his blood pumped; he was not slowing down what's so ever.
Whilst he engaged in combat, Jon noticed a rider who swung two arakhs in deadly efficiency. The man was bare chest as he took off someone's head clean off the shoulders. What gave him away was the long braid that hung to his back like a lion's mane. Dothraki only cut their hair when they were defeated in battle. Indicated by the length, it looked like he never tasted defeat. The man unmistakably is Khal Drogo.
Jon ended the short duel by removing the person's arm. He finished it with a low blow that carved off his right leg. He let the Dothraki suffer from his appendage lost. Jon pried a spear off the ground from a dead man's hands. He tightened his face in concentration as he tracked Drogo's progress amid the traffic as he angled the sharp spear with his eyes. Jon threw the spear with all his might. It was off target. Instead of hitting the heart, it nicked his shoulder instead.
This took the Khal by surprise as his body shifted at the blow. Unbalanced, the stallion toppled into the dirt. Drago rolled to his feet looking enraged as the vein in his temple busted against his skin, grass and dirt were spread on his body. He whipped his head back in forth for the person who dealt with this insult. Furious brown eyes landed on Jon, who still had his arm outstretched. Snarling, he hollered as he marched to his way.
Jon undeterred at his rage leaped with his sword raised. Lightning quick, he slashed to Drogos mid-section. It was slapped away, Drago brought his two arakhs together in Jon's face, and it connected with his face, a hairs breath away from his eye. Jon took several steps back, blood trailed down to his pupil, and making it hazy. To avoid the sting, he closed his left eye so the blood won't leak in there.
Drago laughed cruelly and twirled his swords together as he jumped at Jon. The young recruit blocked his swing and elbowed him in the face. The Khal barley flinched, and he returned the blow with a backhand that sent Jon reeling.
With only one eye to see, Jon growled and met him in the battle one more. Drago was taller and bigger, while Jon was quicker and shifty, evident by this, the deadly dance went on with neither giving ground.
Jon hit Drago in the nose with the hilt of the sword. The head of the Dothraki yelled in frustration and high kicked Jon in the chest of his armor. Jon landed on the ground with a heap. His armor was dented in the core pieces of his plate, and a dark bruise forming on his eye. Drago breathed in deeply, winded by the intense exchange of death. His nostrils bled while marks and gashes lay on his chest. One nasty wound blistered beneath his nipple.
Drago used his arakh as a cane; he leaned heavily on it for a second to bring his breathing back under control. He straightened up and walked towards the unmoving form of Jon, intent to kill off the annoyance.
He raised his weapon high over his head and stopped, a rasping sound blurted out. It was his own. Drago coughed a big ball formed with saliva and blood. Jon twisted his long sword in the Khal's chest, a dangerous look in his lilac eyes.
"You didn't see that coming did you?" he asked mockingly. The clashing of swords lowered in pitch as the Dothraki dwindled out.
Drago groaned, and Jon's lips curled in disdain. He abruptly pulled his sword making Drago gasp and brought it down with a swoosh. Haunting purple eyes was the last thing the leader of the khalasar seen before his head was beheaded. Drago's head rolled to the side, unseeing brown eyes gazing at Jon.
The battle-worn man grabbed the head by its braid before getting on a horse and holding the head up for everyone can see. The fighting stopped; shocked and horrified eyes stared at the gruesome bloody head of Drago. The Dothraki shouted in anger and anguish at the sight. Several curses reached Jon's ears as all of the savages dropped their swords and knelt in surrender.
They tried to surrender.
The Golden Company showed no mercy. Dying screams and wails joined the cheers of the folks that hidden behind crumbling structures. It was loud. The sound of screams echoed throughout the enormous city of Qarth.
Soldiers and citizens all alike patted Jon on the back, shoulder, and arms. Compliments mixed in with others, and it slightly hurt his eardrums. Jon showed no reaction to this praises.
His eyes traveled to see a horse's brutalized head stitched on Drogo's body as it was tied; the body was paraded down the roads, cheers trembling the very earth.
Jon silently looked at the countless bodies that piled up. His indigo gaze expressing something akin to sadness as he viewed the carnage.
He then frowned, and the sadness in his eyes gone like it never was there. A cold indifferent look settling in.
299 AC
Jon walked through the busy roads of Braavos, and there no falter in his steps. The screeching of the women and the scolding of the men was an everyday occurrence. It was almost a routine. The sweat familiar smell of fresh fish and oysters leaked about, though, Jon is not in the mood to eat. Not today, the demons of his past were too near. A drink will do. It always does.
Jon entered an old looking inn; he usually comes in this Inn to think. Or put it more realistically, to brood. As he stepped in, he sniffed the air. Sweat and the good old ale instantly rose. Jon smiled softly.
He found a quiet corner. He sat down contently while he waited for a maid to come to take his order. Young beauty in a simple white dress approached.
The maid blushed shyly and said, "Can I take your order."
Jon ordered a pie and ale. The maid promised she will return with the food and left him alone in hast, and she was still blushing. Jon smirked. He knew he was handsome. He is not the 14-year-old boy that left Winterfell, utterly clueless with women. He finally understood the stares Jeyne poole and multiple girls gave him, and he finally understood Theon's obsession with females.
Jon ranked his eyes on the retreating maid, debating should he take action. He then shrugged. He will wait and see what happens in the meantime.
…
A crying man kneeled in front of Jon. He bowed his grayed head. "Please! Not my boy!" He sobbed.
Jon overlooked the man and drew his sword. His eyes were fixed on the bleeding man that rested on the carpeted floor. The young man couldn't move, so he instead looked sadly at his would be executer.
"Do it."
Jon peeked over his shoulder to his superior. The stoned face man thinned his lips. "He set the prisoner escape. He knows the consequences of his actions, and he still let the cunt go anyway."
The traitor spoke up, "It was the right thing to do! The man was not guilty!"
"That's not for you to decide!" The commander sharply replied. He looked at Jon. "Do it!" he stated again.
Jon nodded. He freed his boot from the clutch of the old man and reached the traitor.
The young man glared in spite. "Go on, do it snow!" He egged the bastard on. "I thought you were different from the rest. I guess I was wrong." He then lowered his head, anticipating the fatal blow.
Jon gazed at his cup; the plate lay on the table half eaten as he mused to himself. He picked up his hard gaze. The inn was peaceful, and everybody kept a distance between them and Jon. Wary eyes peeled on him. All the people in Essos heard of him, and what he is capable of, and what he did.
Jon tipped the mug to his mouth and gulped and gulped…and gulped. He isn't proud of what he did in the Golden Company. Some were good, like killing the barbarian Drogo, while many were bad and horrible.
Jon slammed the cup on the table, making folks yelp. More eyes peered at his direction. Jon twitched his nose and glared, and people hastily turned back to what they were doing to not piss off the broody man even more. Jon snorted in the mug as he took another sip. He picked up a fork and ate a piece of the pie.
Jon shook his head in regret. For years, he thought to join the Golden Company is an honorable service. it's just sellswords lying, and cheating for money and get the chance to murder more people. Jon thought bitterly. By the time he came to this realization, it was too late and the damaged has been done. It was the thing he craved most, to have a name and be more than a bastard and to be known. But not like that. Jon shook his head grimly.
I should have never left Winterfell. He couldn't go back now because he would just be an obstacle, and he didn't want to interfere with the Stark family any more than he already had.
"Your reputation precedes you," A voice said out of nowhere.
Jon frowned as he looked up. Nobody stood in front of the table. The nearest person was 10 feet away from him and was safely out of his range.
"I am down here."
Jon frowned even harder. He slouched his shoulder as he peered under the table. Underneath, a short man stared at him. The man was a dwarf. The four foot-five man wore a gold and red silky expensive garment. His Mismatch eyes held intelligence, and he held himself proudly despite his stunted height.
"May I sit here?" The man asked. Jon nodded his head and squared his shoulders as he sat back in his seat. The proud but short man climbed an empty chair and sat down. The dwarf took Jon's cup and sipped it with zeal. Jon stared because he was surprised. No man would have the courage to do that, and it piqued his interest.
The man set down the mug. He wiped the corner of his mouth and gazed at Jon. "Well if it isn't the great Jon snow!" he said exclaimed cheerily.
Jon watched him patiently across the table. "That's me," He replied calmly.
The man smiled. "It's incredible for a northern bastard like yourself to rise through the ranks of the Golden company. What an achievement!" he made the show of clapping his hands.
The dwarf face turned grim. "Ned stark searched the whole north for you. You have been searched for years."
Jon shrugged and stared at him suspiciously. "What do you want," He asked bluntly.
"Come on, we were just having this nice conversation. Don't be hasty," The short man scolded him jokingly.
Jon inspected the stranger. Puzzles coming in place as he connected the dots in his head. The rich clothing, the swagger, the mixture of blonde and black hair, and green and black mismatched eyes and his out of place height.
"You are Tyrion Lannister," Jon spoke with tightness in his voice.
"Correct," Tyrion replied.
"What's a Lannister doing in Essos?"
"I could ask you the same thing Snow," Tyrion returned evasively. He tapped his fingers on the wooden table as he whistled a catchy tune.
Jon scowled. "This is the last time I'm going to ask you, what do you want?" he demanded.
Tyrion chuckled at his impatience, and then met Jon's eyes. "I need help."
Jon shook his head. "If help is what you seek, you came to the wrong guy."
Tyrion dismissed this, and he leaned forward on the table. "No, I believe that the right guy is seating right in front of me."
"How?" Jon asked skeptically.
"Because Snow, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain." The imp said wisely, switching the words to his own image.
Jon grew silent. Tyrion went on. "I overheard the talks about you, Snow. You're a great warrior and a creative strategist. At the age of 16, you became a commander of a group of sellswords. Do you know how magnificent that is?"
"And you set the example of a man with a guilty conscience, you reek of it," Tyrion continued. "I know exactly a way for you to forget, a journey," The half man finished grandly.
"A journey?" Jon repeated confusedly.
Tyrion ordered a maid to for a cup of ale before looking back at Jon. "Essos houses many experienced men who know the waters well. They know how to sail, and I want you to join." He explained.
Jon nodded in understanding. He came across many sailors that knew the seas like the back of their hands. They practically lived with their ships and boats.
"Where are you heading?" Jon asked curiously, wondering what destination the dwarf was aiming for.
An odd look flashed on Tyrion's face. "Do you want to travel with me to the old city of Valyria?" He asked like it didn't hold much merit.
The very name of the ruined city stunned Jon into a stupor silence. Nobody chatted about the city where the doom took place. whenever it is mentioned, it was in whispers. The civilization of Valyria at the time was the greatest empire that existed. Dragon riders once flew high above in the skies, wings beating rapidly as they roared in the air. The city prospered for thousands of years until it was gone. The Citadel never knew what the doom happen or what it was. All they knew was that the once great society blew out; all it left was crumbling buildings with carvings of fire. Not one person traveled to the sight and came back. They never heard from again. And this Lannister suggested bringing a crew while kings brought thousands.
"You are mad!" Jon hissed in a low whisper. They already gathered attention. Folks gazed at the dwarf, amazed that he was talking to Jon snow for this long when everybody else failed.
Tyrion smirked at him "Sometimes, mad people are the ones who were brave enough to seek adventure while others acted like pussies."
Jon glared at him. A gentle tingle warmed his neck, a soothing presence was felt. Suddenly they were gasps and screams in the inn. A white colored wolf, big as a small horse, padded in the room. People parted for it, scared of the bloody red eyes. Ghost reached Jon, and he was large enough to lick his owners face. Chuckling, Jon patted the still growing direwolf. The predator howled in joy and rested by Jon's feet.
Instead of fear, Tyrion gazed at the wolf in fascination. "The rumors are true, you have a direwolf," He said amazed.
Jon smiled warmly at his buddy. "I had him since he was a pup. His mother birthed five others back at Winterfell." He rubbed Ghost fur as he thought on the day the Starks found the pregnant wolf while on a hunting trip.
Jon tore his eyes off Ghost and looked at the shocked Tyrion. "What are you trying to achieve by going to that fucking place?" He asked seriously.
Tyrion sighed as he rocked his chair in a pattern. "Why did you leave Winterfell? Why did you leave Westeros?"
Jon knit his eyebrows at the sudden change of subject but answered, "To earn glory." He proceeded to examine the short man. "Is that what you want, glory?"
Tyrion just shook his head. "I want many things, desire many things, but the most important thing I want is to find my uncle, Gerion Lannister," He said softly. Jon's eyes softened. It reminded of him trying to find his mother identify, and the similarities panged his heart. The decision became crystal clear to the bastard.
"I will help you." Jon watched Tyrion smile gratefully at him. "After this is finished, my pockets should be overflowing with gold, do you hear me?"
Tyrion stood up and pushed his chair to the table. He briefly caught Jon's purple gaze. "A Lannister always pays his debts." He said as he left the inn, leaving Jon to muse on what he just agreed to do.