= Chapter 35 =
- We'll be there soon,' the captain of the small vessel mumbled inaudibly. Squat, short and small-headed, he was a dwarf in comparison, and it would have been easy to kill him.
If it had been his lord's will, he would no doubt have drowned the cowardly captain in the bay. The raven on his shoulder cawed approvingly, and its intelligent bird eyes stared at Captain Bor.
Even the mere sight of the small animal almost made the sibling shake with terror.
What the Lord of Winterfell had done to frighten the fish-eater was beyond Willis's comprehension. But he knew what he was doing, crossing reefs and dangerous cliffs with ease, knowing the sea like the back of his small, webbed fingers.
In the distance, through the fine whitish mist, one could see lonely mountains and steep hills, empty and lifeless. If one rode a dozen miles ahead on horseback, one could see a huge, towering ridge above all, shielding them from any outside assaults.
Moon Mountains.
A place Willis had visited not for the first or second time.
- Deadlands,' muttered one of his companions, half of his face covered by an ugly beard and a long moustache. Hark of the mountain tribe of the Harkleys, an old veteran who had survived the Hike to the South of the Grim Wolf and dozens of skirmishes with deserters and bandits in the present times of peace, - bad lands.
- Mountains like mountains,' quipped another northerner, a pot-bellied and burly squire from White Harbour who had been unable to gain the coveted title of sire for twenty years. His knight had not left the master of the city's lofts for a long time, having long since forgotten his old servant.
Perhaps Rowley hopes that the Guardian of the North will bestow a knighthood upon him for his service. He does his best for a reason.
Willis parted his lips in the semblance of a wicked smile.
- You don't know much about the mountains, Southerner,' Hark muttered grudgingly, 'they're cursed.
- Do you judge them only by your hole?
- If you'd said those words at home, your guts would have graced our family tree long ago,' Hark's eyes squinted angrily, the Highlander disliked being mocked in conversation or spoken unkindly of his homeland.
The foolish Southerner had managed to step on both traps.
- That's enough,' Willis said thickly, and the raven on his shoulder cawed. He rose, towering over the two and his large, fixed eyes stared at the shaggy-haired Highlander and the overripe squire. As a Master at Arms, he had learnt this trick only over the years - to pacify unruly, rambunctious recruits with a single glance.
Hark grinned, but calmed down, not daring to contradict the bear-skinned giant whose skill with the hammer had proved deadly to Winterfell's enemies more than once or twice.
Many a bandit had taken a single blow from the spiky beast Willis called Memory. A reminder of when he remembered. For such deadliness, the people of Winterfell nicknamed him One Punch.
Willis One Punch.
'Mum must have been proud of me,' he thought, looking up at the frowning, sunless sky. Despite the raging summer, it was freezing and cold here.
He had buried his mother at the end of winter. Old Nan, as everyone in Winterfell called her, had been the only family Willis had ever known, the last thread linking him to clear, distant childhood memories.
Now he was alone.
His mother told him everything-who he was before his 'cure,' about the world, and about what had happened in Westeros in the last thirty years. What she'd never told him, though he'd asked more than once who his father had been.
- He must have been a strong and tall warrior, Willis. They only come along once a century,' the Lord of Winterfell had told him, his sullen, dark eyes awe-inspiring and inexplicably disturbing.
He had the unbelievable thought that the Lord of the North knew of his father, but he had not the courage to ask the giant.
The ship docked at the shore, knocking Willis from his thoughts. The small, wooden wharf, built by the Sisters themselves, was immediately packed with Northerners. Hidden among bare rocky shores and perpetual fog, pirates often used it to wait out storms or hide from foes.
A squad of part-ten busied themselves pulling weapons and armour from the holds. Blades from all corners of the Riverlands, spears and axes made by the craftsmen of the Western Lands, crossbows of the Ironborn, and armour of the Northmen.
The raven left his shoulders, heading south. Bor looked at him when everything the bearded northerners had taken with them was on the shore. There was less fear in his sister's eyes when his men were outside the ship's domain of the cowardly captain of the Three Sisters.
- The Raven will find you,' was all Willis said. The captain nodded fearfully and ordered his crew to sail immediately.
Ignoring the grinning Sisters, Willis looked at his men. Each of them had been here more than once. Each knew where they were going and what was required of them. But this time it would be more complicated.
- There are three dozen pieces of equipment here,' muttered Wark of the Stone Shores, 'is the lord in any hurry to give the Highlanders steel?
- It's just a gift from the guests,' Willis told them all, 'our purpose in this raid is not just to bring weapons.
- What else is it? - Garlock voiced the question of everyone around him in bewilderment. He was a short, swampy man with a spear and an arrow.
- We'll help the Highlanders,' Willis said, and then gave the command to march.
The northerners loaded sacks and huge bundles of weapons to march a few miles. Their path lay toward Hill Grove.
Where guides would be waiting to show them the way and help them carry their gear.
With a puff of air, they climbed upward to come upon a plain dotted with large, ugly rocks, lifeless and desolate. A light fog and scowling clouds ruled here, promising rain with thunder.
They did not worry about running into the valleymen. For the next hundred miles, Old Gods willing, there would be a village or two, not to mention towns and forts. More than once or twice, lords had tried to establish something larger here, but the Highlanders invariably came down from the mountains and turned everything into ashes.
'As many times as we've walked, we've never once come across peasants or even travellers here.'
After a couple of hours, they found themselves near high hills clothed with thick, lush trees. A faintly visible, trodden path led upwards and they followed it without delay.
Willis saw a familiar raven flying overhead and landed on his shoulder when the whole squad was on top of him.
- They're coming! They're coming!
- Highlanders? - Willis clarified.
- Highlanders! Highlanders!
He poured some grain into his hands, which he had prepared especially for the bird, and the crow immediately began pecking from the palm of his hand. They threw off their load and waited.
The mountaineers arrived light, pulling a couple of donkeys.
Overgrown, in beastly, thick skins, armed with whatever they could find, be it a good castle sword from battle or a stone club.
Willis could smell the foul odour of goat piss from them even at a distance, but he didn't flinch.
- The Sons of the Mist greet you, Xavi.
They spoke quietly in the language of their ancient foes, the Andals, though they constantly used the old words of the First Men. 'Hawi' a word from the ancestral dialect, meaning "High". The Sons of the Mist always addressed him by that name alone, at the time calling his suzerain, the Lord of Winterfell 'Ulfs Magnar', the wolf chief.
As a sign of old Sons of the Mist traditions, they exchanged important items - Willis gave an expensive brass chain inherited from his late mother, while the chief of the Highlanders, a 'friend of the chieftain', gave a skilful dagger, which, if he was to believe his words, was inherited from his father and he from his father.
They would return these valuables to each other when Willis and the Northmen left the Moon Mountains - as they had done before. An ancient ritual meant to protect both parties from deceit and betrayal.
It was a strange, meaningless way of defence to him, but the Highlanders thought otherwise.
- 'Your master has spoken to my chieftain, Xavi,' said Kroerk, son of Kroerk, 'The Wolf Chief whispered through the winds and shouted, shaking the snow-capped Moon Mountains. He wants us to kill one of Nikar's friends, the Sower of Discord.
Krork fell silent. Willis made a silent sign to the others to bring up the rolls of swords and axes. When the cloth was cast aside, the Highlanders gazed greedily at the shiny, sharp steel that could kill Andal knights and warriors.
- We will help with more than weapons and armour. We will be with you,' Willis said, and the raven that had hitherto been sitting peacefully on his shoulder perked up and spread its wings menacingly, as if to confirm his words.
- The one to be killed will take time, Javi, long moons of waiting,' the Highlander informed him cautiously. His small, superstitious eyes showed his reluctance to go back home with the northern strangers.
- Time is not an issue,' Willis said in a lifeless tone.
The Highlanders loaded John Stark's gifts onto donkeys and led them toward the Moon Mountains. In a couple of days, the plains were replaced by narrow mountain paths known only to the original owners of the land.
His men, at first disgruntled and reluctant to go deep into the Vale of Arryn, at first shunned the Highlanders, eating lunch and dinner separately. But time passed, and the ice of alienation cracked.
Hark found in some of the Highlanders good sparring partners, constantly competing in strength and skill. On dark evenings he spoke of the Northern Mountains, a place where the descendants of the First Men could pray to the Old Gods in peace, and many of the Sons of the Mist listened with obvious interest.
Loric showed the Highlanders how to use the crossbows of the Ironborn, and Wark of the Stone Shores showed them the old game of axe-wielding that the people of these lands had learnt from the Iron Men.
Among the two dozen Highlanders there were several women - who could not be distinguished from men at a glance. Ugly, with gaps in their teeth and scars, they did not inspire any desire to get close. Unlike them, who saw Willis as a strong warrior, capable of producing even more powerful men.
- You have the blood of giants in you, they think,' Krork told him as they approached the Sons of the Mist camp a few weeks later, 'I'm sure they're not attracted to the strong children you can produce, but to the beast that can hide between your legs.
Willis had nothing to say to that. He had tasted the flesh of a woman at too late an age. For the first few years of his conscious life after his awakening, he had been tireless and even overexcited, going to the homes of several women a night, usually widows who needed the comfort they found in the arms of a giant.
Of late his mind had waned to carnal pleasures.
Hidden among the impassable mountains and slopes, the settlement of the Sons of the Mist clan was small, tucked away in a fertile valley.
Willis could barely count five dozen clay- and stone-clad, ramshackle, hastily built houses, for the Highlanders rarely stayed in one place for more than a generation. The houses looked more like caves than dwellings, and some were actually caves in which they kept their supplies and weapons.
He saw flocks of sheep grazing, tended by children and old men.
It is believed in Westeros that the Highlanders live only by raiding Andal settlements, but this is not true. When the power and activity of the Arryn knights and lancers and their vassals in the mountains is particularly strong, the clans hide in the mountains, living off their own resources.
According to Krork, there were times when some villages preferred to secretly buy off their raids with food and tools, and if the first two were not available, gave up their women, telling their lords that they had been kidnapped by the foul savages of the Moon Mountains.
As they descended into the valley, many of the children and women looked at them with wild incomprehensible eyes, and the men even tried to grab for their weapons, but the confident look of the Krork leading them calmed the locals.
Despite the fact that they were overgrown with beards, stinking and covered in mud, they were not mistaken for their own northerners.
- 'Javi, servant of the Wolf,' the chieftain told him as Krork led him to the largest of the houses in the settlement, 'your master spoke of your coming. What is your true name, Northman?
Short, grey-haired, with the keen and shrewd eye of a seasoned warrior, the chief looked at him too closely, with a degree of interest, as if he were an exotic beast.
Hoscarl, that was the name of the chief of the Sons of the Mist, was in his fourth decade and had seen much in his life, leaving the Moon Mountains more than once or twice. He had never been to Essos, to mythical lands like Asshai or I-Ti. No, his journey had been limited to the Riverlands or the North, but for a resident of the closed mountain clans, it was already a great geographical discovery.
- Willis.
- Wil-ll-is,' Hoscarl muttered, as if tasting it, 'Wil-llis! An Andal name,' he clucked, 'a descendant of the giants, bearing the name of the star-faced ones. The Old Gods laugh at us.
- My mother gave it to me,' he said with a touch of menace in his voice, 'and neither the Gods nor you dare mock it.
The hammer was with him-he had been let in here with a weapon, for he had undergone the ritual of the Sons of the Mist. But he dared not even touch it, unwilling to break his own word and the local law of hospitality.
- Don't be angry, Javi,' the chief raised his hand conciliatorily, 'a name is one of those rare things that we do not choose, and that is why it is important to us.
- Name, name, name, name,' cawed the crow, 'memory, memory, memory!
The two Highlanders looked at the bird apprehensively.
- Ulfs Magnar spoke to me,' Hoscarl muttered, 'he told me many things. Where to strike, when to hide, and where the Andals will not be able to get help. But for that he demands the death of his enemies, the servants of Nikar.
- Only one,' Willis remarked.
- Only one,' agreed Hoscarl, 'and we will do it, with or without your help, Javi.
- One, one! - The crow flew off his shoulder and chose a thick pelt on the floor as its landing target.
Willis took out a folded map of the Vale of Arryn, laid it out before them, and the crow immediately began pointing with its beak to where they should wait for their prey.
- We'll have to wait a whole moon, if not more,' Willis warned.
- Mountains respect the patient.
Before they set off in the direction of the intended ambush, Hoscarl said that his master wanted Willis to see something.
- He said it would do you good. He said the Blind Man would show you the way.
He didn't like that. He wanted to finish up here as soon as possible and leave the Moon Mountains, returning to the North.
Willis looked at the crow, and it looked back at him with its small black eyes.
Too intelligent for a bird, too... human.
- Blind man! Blind!
If it is the lord's will, then so be it.
- Krork will escort you - he knows the way and he's trusted. But only one of you has to go there, and that's you, Javi.
- Then we must hurry.
- You leave tomorrow morning. May the Old Gods keep you safe among the paths and crevices.
The Northerners who followed him were not pleased, but Willis could do nothing. Jon Stark rarely gave such strange orders, but those who disobeyed them were punished severely.
Willis didn't want to experience being pecked by a hundred ravens hungry for human flesh. Or the executioners of Dreadfort, who had taken a fancy to the dungeons of Winterfell.
They set out in the morning. Krork led him along narrow paths, where it seemed no man had ever set foot, not even an animal. He had not seen a single mountain goat, or a ravenous cat, or even a bird the whole way.
- You need not worry Javi,' Krork said to him, smiling like a wise man seeing a superstitious fool, 'where I am taking you is the most private place and keeps us safe from all outside threats in the worst of years.
- I'm not afraid, but I don't like the fact that there are no animals here.
- You won't see any, Javi. Where do you think these strange trails come from?
He didn't know, but they were really strange. It's like...
- I can see it in your eyes, and you're right. These trails were entirely created by humans - they pounded the rock for centuries, through the rock, until they reached their goal.
It sounded too crazy, but Willis wouldn't dismiss it. He'd seen the Wall, and every time he remembered it, he couldn't believe the First Men had built it.
In confirmation of the mountaineer's crazy words, they often came across underground passageways, artificial and the width of a man. He passed through them with reluctance, fearing that the mountain above him might collapse at any moment. He was cramped and uncomfortable.
In the evenings they made themselves comfortable in small side openings and tiny caves, of which there were many on the secret path. Kroerk made a small fire to keep warm and took out his small belongings to drink goat's milk.
- Tell me about yourself, Javi,' said Kroark, 'you are a mighty warrior, I can see that, but there is something about you that makes me think you are sick.
- There is no disease in me,' he reassured the Highlander, to which Krorc smiled, wiping the milk from his lips.
- You are sick in the mind, Javi. Your look gives it away. Something is eating at you.
He looked at the overly curious wildling of the Moon Mountains with Mad-Eye eyes, but Krork was not afraid.
The crow following them frightened him more.
- If you don't want to talk, I won't burden you.
They were silent for a while.
- 'My mother was an Andal,' Kroark said suddenly, pulling out the chain Willis had lent him, 'she was a servant to one of the lords, and she was driven away with a womb full inside her. She had no kin, and the place she came from rejected her, so she left by the mountain ways. Where she met the Sons of the Mists, who took her in.
- Do the clans accept Andals into their ranks?
- Not all of them,' Kroark admitted, 'if she had been caught by a Black-Eared or a Burnt One, the gods would have envied her fate. But the Sons of the Mist accept those who are willing to believe in the Old Gods and become one of us. She became my father's wife, and he raised a stranger's offspring as his own, for which I am still grateful to him with all my soul.
Willis looked closely at Krork.
He had too many traits that were alien to the First Men. Messy, uncut hair, brushed back to recognise a noble blond hue. Blue-eyed, round-faced, even a little smarmy for Moon Mountain dwellers.
Only now did Willis realise and see in Krork the Andal appearance hidden behind the dirt, the beard and the sullen expression.
- You're a bastard,' Willis said.
- Andals call their scum that,' he grinned, 'but here in the Moon Mountains, I am a Son of Mist, free to choose and unburdened by hateful burdens. Tell me, do your homeland treat bastards as well as the Andals?
- My lord is the bastard of the old Lord Stark.
- The will of the Old Gods, no doubt. They brought Ulfs Magnar to power to change many things. So say all the Elders in my clan and where I'm taking you now.
- You don't believe it yourself,' Willis said.
- I believe your lord is using us to kill Nikar. He hates him with all his soul, so the Blind Man says.
Nikar was what the Highlanders called the current lord of the Vale-not Lord Arryn, foolish and weak, but his guardian and foster-father, Littlefinger.
Sower of Discord.
What little he'd heard of Littlefinger from Lord Stark said the Highlander had guessed the name.
- Who's the Blind Man?
- He's blind and old. That's all you need to know, Javi. You'll see for yourself.
They continued on their way. All day long, with short brea ks, they walked along what seemed like an endless path that sometimes broke off, but continued in unexpected places.
The cold, thin mountain air, the warm sun and the amazing peaks of the Moon Mountains covered with snow.
Finally they arrived, after five days to their goal. Their supplies were already running low, and Willis began to lose patience, with a growing desire to turn back, but when he saw the place where Krork had brought him, he was stunned.
A fortress. He saw a fortress, hidden among the rocks and peaks, whose walls were grey and weathered, but that didn't make it any less majestic.
- Welcome to the Fort, Javi. The Sages are waiting for you to meet the servant of the Seer. The Blind Man awaits you.
- Where did the fortress come from?
- We don't know, Javi. The elders say it was built by the First Men to hide from the dead and the monsters. I think our ancestors built it when they captured the Andal builders.
- And the Andals never found it?
- Never, Javi. The secret of the path is too well guarded - not even all the clans know it, only the ones the masters here trust. Of the Sons of the Mist, only I, the Chieftain's Friend, and the Chieftain himself know it.
Willis looked more closely at the Fort. It was evening, and the sun had already set to give way to the shadows.
Four low, round turrets at the corners, one of which had already collapsed and the others were in need of repair.
The entrance to the castle was through a thin path with only rocks around it, so even if the Andals found the place, they would not be able to take it. Even a siege of this place looked impossible to any commander - not even a hundred men could fit in front of the castle, let alone an army.
He did not see a single banner, but he could see heads peering over the gates and among the battlements.
- I am Krork, of the Sons of the Mist! And I have come at the will of my chief and the wish of Ulfs Magnar!
The wooden gate, fresh and sturdy, slowly began to open under the pressure of a dozen hands. Bronze armour, inscribed with the Runes of the First Men, was the first thing that caught Willis' eye as he looked at the warriors of the Fort. They looked unsightly, forged by an inexperienced blacksmith - even one as inexperienced in blacksmithing as he could see that.
For Krork, it was not so. To a Highlander, they were first and foremost sacred luxuries, which were rare in the Moon Mountains.
They were let through as soon as they heard of Javi. They had been warned of his arrival.
He saw his raven companion landing on one of the towers, shouting loudly: 'Destiny! Destiny!'.
The local hosts welcomed them into the local loophole, which was both a feasting place, a warehouse, and much more - buildings were scarce in the fortress, as well as space. Behind the loophole, Willis could see the thick and fluffy crowns of hardwood trees that had long ago risen above the walls and occupied a third of the fortress territory.
The people who took them in were all old men in skins, many with staffs to guide them.
- The Sons of the Mist are rare guests in the Fort,' one of the old men said quietly, too quietly, squinting in their direction.
- But we have been expecting you to come to our abode,' another old man said even more quietly, in time with the previous one.
- And we see the guest the Three-Eyed Raven promised.
Willis stepped forward. His hammer was taken from him, the locals didn't trust the Wolf Chief's servant after all.
- I'm looking for Blind Man.
- He is here,' one of the old men mumbled, smiling toothlessly, 'he is among us.
He glanced round, looking for someone who looked like Blind Man. But everyone's eyes were as clear as the sky.
- I don't see a blind man among you.
- He doesn't see,' all seven of the Fort's masters laughed at once, 'he doesn't see... He doesn't see... He who sees doesn't see the Blind Man!
Willis took a step forward... and stopped. All seven of the old men, at the snap of a finger, stared at him instantly, in one moment, in one second...
- 'Leave,' one of them said, and all the Highlanders left the room, even Krork.
- We owe a lot to your mage, Xavi,' the two old men spoke at the same time, 'he opened our Eyes.
- He asked for you, to show you the Truth.
- He asked to let you Remember.
- Recognise.
- And Realise.
Shadows played from the lights of the wall torches. An eerie silence, punctuated only by the voices of the elders, deafened the room, and Willis felt an eerie, subconscious fear.
- Я...
- No need for words, Javi. We are the Blind Man. We See other people's dreams, yours, our brothers, descendants and fellow humans. Our enemies... We were blind in life, and we recognised our infirmity unlike the others.
He didn't particularly know what they were talking about. Willis remained silent, waiting for the outcome of all this and mentally cursing that his master had thought to bring his Weapons Master here.
- Drink water and eat, get some sleep and be ready for the Beholding tomorrow morning,' said the elders, 'your soul must be at peace before the Truth.
With this instruction the Blind Man let him go. Or did they let him go? Willis did not know whether he was talking to one man or to seven at once.
He never felt peace of mind during the evening and night - only more anxiety. Not even when he woke up in the morning when he was awakened and asked to come to Bogoroszczu.
It was not until he was at the Heart-Tree that he felt an inexplicable silence in his thoughts and mind. In some ways it reminded him of the heart-tree at Winterfell - the same face, but not human, contorted in a grimace of pain and horror, 'weeping' blood-red sap from deep-set eyes.
The tree was so huge, so old, that its roots had long ago cut through the stone and sung with the neighbouring rock, and its dark scarlet leaves flew and fell over the whole Fort.
Seven old men were waiting for him.
- Come to the tree and it will show you everything,' said the seven at once, and Willis, no longer feeling afraid of them, complied with their request.
He walked slowly, never taking his eyes off the eyes of the Heart-Tree. The branches were making a strange noise-not the way trees should, especially when there was no wind.
Willis walked over and touched his face. Something gave him the knowledge that this was what was required of him.
Touched... and drowned in a thousand and one voices.
He found himself among the ruins of a hundred cities and castles.
He sailed on dozens of rivers and seas, seeing the shores of hitherto unknown lands.
He has flown over kingdoms and empires, seeing their rise and fall.
He has seen fire and cold clutching together far to the east.
He saw the earth shake and the ocean swallow the world.
He saw the sky open with burning stone, crashing down on all living things.
He saw everything and nothing.
And only a thousand and one told him of Fate and Necessity.
When Willis woke up, he realised he was lying on the fallen leaves, covered in sweat, with tears drying on his face.
And only the seven old men in the same spot were staring at him with unblinking eyes.
Now he understood. He understood everything. Brandon, Hodor, Three-Eyed Raven... those names blended into his mind, making him feel pain.
- Did you realise?
- Yes,' he only had the strength to answer, "I..." he swallowed, 'I get it.
The mighty and pungent smoke of a thousand fires filled the entire space above the countless tents and yurts. The plain had once been full of grass and life, but the Zorses who had come from the far east had plucked out every scrap of it, turning it into a dead wasteland that would not return to its former appearance for several years.
The ineffable odours of sweat, blood, excrement, human and animal, made him sick. Having already left his native Braavos, so close and tantalising now, a couple of days later he felt regret for accepting his powerful uncle's offer to go with him.
- 'Be steadfast, Gurro,' his uncle told him as they approached the huge camp of the Jogos-Nhaians. In front of the whole vast procession they were led by moon-singers, who raised the sacred symbol of the crescent moon above them, lest their brethren in faith should kill them. 'Make a stone of your face and endeavour to be kind, the fate of Braavos may depend on it!' said Gurro, as he nodded silently.
He nodded silently, still struggling within himself with the vile sensations.
'If this trip is so important, Uncle, then why did you bring the inexperienced and hot-tempered me along?'.
He guessed the reasons for this, for young Gurro had managed to become famous in his hometown.
He was like his mother in appearance, as his father had said. A clean, beardless face with high cheekbones, an eagle nose and a straight, not particularly masculine chin, turquoise eyes that beckoned to the eye with their unusualness and even mystery. Gurro, as a foolish teenager, had even tried to grow it down to his pelvis, for which he had been punished and immediately cut short, for they Volentines do not wear their hair long.
His hands were aristocratically delicate, never carrying anything heavier than a spoon, and his figure was surprisingly lean.
He had become an enviable bridegroom as early as twelve, but every engagement his father and uncle had made had either been thwarted by themselves or by Gurro.
Once he saw his eighth bride, a fat and ugly maiden of the allied family of Antarion, with a heap of pimples. Then he publicly insulted her in front of her relatives, with the mere insistence that he would never be in the same bed with an elephant in human skin.
The engagement was thwarted and his family nearly fought to the death with the Antarions, later buying off gifts as an apology.
But the frequent wedding scandals brought him to the attention of unusual persons. And when it became clear that Gurro himself, (by his own admission to his friends), was not a man who had tasted female flesh before, despite his appearance, he received his first invitation from... the Black Cat, a famous courtesan of Braavos, who offered to serve him for free.
He declined.
There were rumours and doubts about his manhood, but one festive evening, dead drunk, he exposed his dignity to the whole neighbourhood, full of desire and willingness, which quickly put those rumours to rest.
Gurro never confessed this to his beloved father or to his caring uncle. Only his mother guessed that the first son of the Volenten family was a naive romantic who wanted to be with the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
Perhaps he was too fond of books of fiction, whether they were from the lost Valyria, or written by fellow Braavosians.
Maybe it was influenced by the history of his father and mother, the latter a simple townswoman whose ancestors had come to Braavos from Volantis a century ago.
Braavos is a big city, but rumours and news spread faster than the winds. His refusal became common knowledge and other famous, notable courtesans began to offer themselves to him, more out of fun and competition to see who could charm one of the most beautiful men in the city.
He refused them all, feeling more and more irritated with each new invitation.
One day he received an invitation from the Lady in the Veil. The refusal came as an even bigger shock than all the previous ones - the most popular courtesan in Braavos chose her own lovers and no one had ever dared to refuse her before.
Gurro was the first.
This caused jealousy and anger among those who had repeatedly tried to capture the attention of these ladies and were rejected - famous bravi, wealthy merchants and bankers, rich and powerful captains: many of them did not like the fact that some whore enjoyed the popularity of elite courtesans, just because he refused them.
It was then that his father first became concerned and even demanded that he accept an invitation from one of them, with a stern admonition and warning that if he did not, he would soon become the target of many street thugs and duelists.
Young Wolenthen refused. He was willing to do all of his father's errands, but never would he share a bed with whores. His cousin Guccio even joked during another drinking session that Gurro might secretly prefer strong male hands to soft maiden hips.
It was then that he had his first fight with his cousin. After that, Guccio never joked about the subject, though he certainly harboured a grudge.
His uncle, Bario Volenten, the one the family had appointed Guardian of the Key of their family, intervened.
- I will take the boy with me on an important trip - if he agrees. By the time we return, Braavos will have cooled and Gurro will have been forgotten.
He clung to those words as a lifeline, not wondering where his kinsman was going or for what purpose.
Having spent months in the saddle, among the ever-croaking Volenten mercenaries, the mad moon singers with their strange heads and hairless faces, the not particularly caring but rather strict uncle and his many important friends, Gurro was already regretting the few words of agreement he had given then.
The only thing Gurro couldn't complain about was the chance to see Lorath - and that fog-covered, stone-banked city brought a certain sense of disappointment and hopeless longing. He had seen it from afar, and had already realised that the place could not even be closely compared to his native, powerful and influential Braavos.
'And this is the Free City?'.
They walked mostly along the coastal road, trying to stay as far away as possible from the temple-fortresses of Norvos and the Lorathian forts. Such caution made it necessary to ask questions, but Uncle was silent. Only he and the moon singers knew where their troop of a hundred mercenary fighters and Braavosians were keeping to.
Bario had assigned one of his men to him, a tanned and scarred Volantian with a perpetually sullen look. No one knew his real name except his uncle - everyone in the squad called him Frown. All Gurro could tell about the man was that he was probably either Myrian or Tyrosh, judging by his accent. Only Myrians and Tyroshians stretched the vowels in the Valyrian dialect.
The quiet long journey through the shores, mountains, and many forests of Quokhor ended when they reached the Dothraki Plains. But no one called these lands what they once had - they were now the Jogos-Nhai Fields, or the Bloodlands, as the Volantians had dubbed them.
As soon as they set foot on this land, the moon singers and pulled out their symbol, showing all comers who they were.
- The Jogos-Nhaians will never attack a unit with moon singers,' Bario informed him over one of the cold, disgusting breakfasts in the camp tent, 'but we can certainly expect a lot of people wanting to get a better look at us. Our troop is too colourful,' he complained, as if it were not up to him to choose the contingent that would follow them - a multitude of mercenaries from all corners of Essos.
His uncle had been right - in the first few days they had seen many small bands of nomads approaching them from afar, but immediately turning back as soon as they saw the moon singers in their robes with their sacred banners.
Gurro inwardly feared that one day they would come across a troop of Jogos-Nhaians that would not shy away from the singers and attack them. Or they would think them false and would massacre them for such a thing.
But even this did not happen.
During the journey to the Great Jattar's camp, several weeks had passed and they had never been attacked by the local hosts. Only the heat had become their enemy - ruthless and merciless.
They crossed the Sarna River, only to soon, and stumble upon this place - they were led in by moon singers who knew the exact location of the Great Stand from unknown sources.
Not far from Mardosh the Impregnable, an ancient city that had long since been reduced to ruins after a six-year siege by the Dothraki, was a settlement of Jogos Nhaians.
The noise from tens of thousands of throats cut into his ears. This was not the graceful and beautiful Braavos, no, it was not even comparable to the bazaars of Tyrosh and Myr he had once visited.
The place was as ugly to any citizen as it was decent and clean to any connoisseur of Dothraki culture.
- It's... too peaceful here,' Bario told him, 'believe me nephew, if you were among the Dothraki you would see a sea of blood, shit and dead bodies. The Jogos-Nhai even keep their shit separate from the camp, which says a lot about them.
It didn't save them from the horrible smell, though.
They had been spotted from afar and several squads were circling around them. The moon singers had said something to them in the rough dialect of this people and the nomads did not seek to kill them, but became more of an escort.
Short, stocky, the Nhai seemed dwarfed by their striped horses, but that was a false impression. Their small faces and pointed heads made it seem as if they were not human at all.
When Gurro looked closer, he was stunned. It was impossible to tell at a glance because the nomads were mostly clad in either armour or light clothing, but he was sure that his eyes did not deceive him.
There were enough of the smaller folk to be at least a head taller than he was. They were also dark-skinned, though Gurro could hardly recognise them as Dothraki, only lacking the hair on their heads and faces.
They were stopped again just before the entrance to the camp - the moon singers were having a long conversation with a dozen Jogos Nhaians, apparently quite important people. Uncle Bario was immediately beside him and listened carefully to the conversation - he could hardly understand the nomad's speech, having started his training in Braavos and continued it with the moon singers along the way.
A long, tense ten minutes of conversation ended with the arrival of several moon singers from the camp and again Gurro was stunned, for one of the singers was definitely a man! Devoid of facial hair, adorned beyond measure with gold, silver and jewels on his neck and arms unlike his fellow Braavos, he dressed with the precision of the rest of the priestesses of this nation. He wasn't the only one who noticed it - even his Uncle Bario was surprised for a second (he definitely noticed his eyebrows go up for a second!), but no one dared say anything, or laugh.
When you are surrounded by a thousand bloodthirsty savages who have destroyed dozens of mighty cities and armies, the desire to say something instantly evaporates and is replaced by an immediate desire to run, to run as far away from all this as possible!
Gurro once again regretted that he had agreed to go to his uncle's house - he would rather hide in his father's estate for months, waiting out the storm, than come here, a place where you could be made a slave in a couple of minutes or simply taken away from life.
The twin brothers, Semosh and Sellos, are too cruel to him!
They were missed, the whole squad. Back to him, Bario was brooding and tried to hide his excitement by putting on the mask of an amiable diplomat, as he once likes to joke after conversations with people he doesn't particularly like.
Passing through wide passages between small and large yurts, they soon found themselves in front of a huge tent, so large that it could hold a hundred people, if not a thousand! It was like a palace, but not of stone and marble, but of white and red felt, decorated with gilded pillars, paintings in a vaguely familiar language (Gurro realised later that it was Ii-Tian), and exquisite trophy decorations hung on the outside, showing the power and militancy of the Jattar.
Only here could they dismount - the Jogos Nhaians, as their priestesses explained, have a strange tradition of walking with their feet on the ground as little as possible and being in the saddle of their steed as much as possible. One of them even said that there were legends of those who had never dismounted in their entire lives, taking care of everything on their saddle, and had so merged with their zorse that they had become half-man-half-horse.
Gurro did not believe it - not that a man could do such a thing, much less tales of half-man-half-horse.
A mighty warrior emerged from the Jattar's tent, a stunted man in heavy armour - neither the heat nor the tent fires could make this man take it off. He said something in Jogos Nhai and his kneeling uncle immediately stepped forward. At his implicit command, everyone else followed.
Bario said something else and looked at Gurro. The warrior shifted his gaze to him and nodded as if accepting the information. Bario stood up, and beckoned Gurro over to him.
- You will come with me to their chief. Just you and I,' he said, switching to Valyrian, 'the others will stay outside.
He told the others that they were allowed to camp, but away from the main camp under the sacred banners of the moon singers.
They were allowed to leave their weapons behind, they weren't even checked before they entered - they were recognised as ambassadors, and they were already considered a different figure by the Jogos Nhaians as opposed to mere foreigners. At least they wouldn't be killed if the barbarians suddenly wanted them to!
Inside the tent it was stuffy and hot.
They were led to the local throne room - if you could call it that - reminiscent of Westerosi lords and kings.
Sitting on a throne of solid, black stone, the Great Jattar, Lord of all Jogos - Nhaians, Lord of All the Plains... was unimpressive. He even seemed to be shorter than the rest of his kin, clad in colourful Ii-Ti robes. Neither the crown on his head nor anything else indicated his power and authority - except perhaps his gaze, which made him stand out from the others.
Gurro only glanced at him for a few seconds to be sure that yes, this man was the lord of all these unrestrained savages. Such cruel, intelligent and cold eyes were possessed only by the greatest of the rulers of the entire oikumene.
Many powerful Jatt warlords sat on the carpets at the sides of the tent, at low tables filled with viands and Gurro felt envious of them - all the dishes were of a strange sophistication for the locals.
It was as if they had been prepared by a true master of their craft - which in fact was the case.
Jattar had already known of their arrival long before they got here. He silently eyed them, watching their faces, paying particular attention to Gurro, no doubt noting the beauty of the young man accompanying the ambassador.
At last the wave was given for the Authorisation of the Word, the time when a petitioner could ask.
- Mighty Jattar, Lord of the Plains, Razor of the Realms, Hbarak the Razor, we...
Uncle Bario tried to speak confidently, though he struggled to do so. Sometimes he mixed up his words, but, not a single Jogos Nkhai corrected or insulted him. No, there was silence in the tent, grave and eerie, interrupted only by the voice of one old Braavosian.
Gurro himself did not understand a word Bario said, trying to look confident and striving to look either at the floor or at the decorated walls of the tent.
He lifted his head for a moment, inwardly chastising himself, and met the gaze. One of the Jatt sitting closest to his lord was looking at him. He quickly lowered his gaze back down and only then realised it was a woman dressed as a man.
'Men dress up in women's clothes and women in men's. What a mad people!' - Gurro thought, either in disgust or admiration. It was wild to him.
Uncle Bario finished with a faint exhalation, and knelt down immediately. Gurro followed him.
Jattar remained motionless, watching them with cold eyes. Minute after minute passed and Bario, who dared not even raise his head, felt the whiff of death and how his plump body began to sweat with mad excitement. His nephew, on the other hand, felt only an extraordinary calmness.
For the first time in the whole journey he felt good and pleasant.
- I heard you, resident of Bravo.
Bario moved and fell silent again, waiting for the next words... and then froze in bewilderment as Jattar left his throne and tent. His courtiers continued to savour the viands in complete silence, looking on with indifferent eyes.
Uncle and nephew stared at each other, understanding nothing. Had they been rejected?
One of the moon singers approached them and led them out of the tent.
- The Great Jattar wishes to see you at the Evening Ramagan. You will sit beside him as guests of honour.
Bario sighed.
Gurro felt a chill. Only now did he feel the slight fear and the unusual calmness wash away.
Evening Ramagan turned out to be a sacred festival for nomads, one they celebrated every seventh-day moon, necessarily in the evening, when the sun had already left the horizon and darkness had taken over everything.
It was astonishing to learn that the Jogos-Nkhai had their own script, similar to the Ii-Tii script, their own account, their own chronology, which they traced back to the birth of a certain Father of All Horses, the legendary hero from whom, according to their legends, this people and all the horses of the world had descended.
By evening the whole camp had been transformed beyond recognition - all the slaves scurrying around had been herded into separate stalls by the nomads, and many of the tents and yurts of the common soldiers had been dismantled and put aside to make room for the feast. The only house not touched was that of the Great Jattar.
As soon as it began to set, the moon singers began to beat their drums and their rumbling sound was heard all around, in every place, in every tent, and every ear could hear it within many kilometres, scaring away the animals and the occasional travellers, who had probably never been here in the last hundred years...
They set up hundreds of low tables, ranging from crudely chiselled to fine wares taken from the conquered and ruined cities of the Gulf of Slave Traders. The multicoloured carpets that the nomads had thrown on the ground without any embarrassment or respect were rippling with colour - everything from the rich colour of blood to ivory and bright gold.
The Jogos-Nhaians had lit a huge bonfire in the centre. Gurro couldn't tell where they'd found so much wood for such a thing - there was steppe all around and the only sure answer was that they were burning trees from the Quokhora or more eastern forests.
He watched the fire mesmerised.
In all his life he had never seen anyone make such a fire.
The Great Jattar had not been deceived - he had seated his uncle beside him, which according to the moon singers accompanying them was an unprecedented generosity and show of respect.
He already knew who the Bravosians were, but the story of the creation of their city appealed to him so much that he even voiced his desire to come to a city surrounded by water and rocks without the desire to ravage it.
Gurro himself sat beside his uncle as his kinsman and one of his ambassadors, though he did not consider himself one.
The multitude of Jatt warlords looked on without approval, though many too had come to like the story of the moon singers who had shown the slaves a way of escape and shelter from the dragon lords.
Uncle Bario was eloquence itself, the quintessence of it, if it could be called that - words poured from his lips in a steady stream, as sweet and polite as could be done in the rough language of the Jogos-Nhaians.
- The sharpest blade, the sturdiest armour, the softest silk and the most exquisite carpet every Jogos-Nhai can find in the great city of Braavos.
Jattar looked at Bario with a silent gaze. He spoke sparsely and ingratiatingly, as if trying to draw out the envoy of one of the mighty cities of Essos.
- Braavos has much to give...
- And what in return? - Jattar asked.
In high Valyrian.
So pure that Bario froze with eyes round with shock, and Gurro nearly choked on a piece of meat he found favourable to his stomach.
Someone tapped him on the back and the young Bravosian was confronted with the sight of eyes the colour of silver.
A Jatt woman dressed as a man kicked away one of the people sitting next to Gurro and took a seat beside him. She said something to him, but Gurro understood nothing. He only muttered a 'Thank you' in Valyrian, to which the warrior woman grinned and handed him a cup filled with fine wine.
- Oh, Lord, you know the beautiful language of Valyria...' Bario muttered trying to steer Jattar away from his question, but he was adamant.
- And what in return? - he repeated, leaning back on his black throne, which his servants had carried away from the tent into the street, 'what do your tribesmen want from me?
Bario pulled himself together, at least he tried to do so with all the dignity of a noble citizen of a free city.
- Help, O Lord of the Plains.
- You speak of war,' Jattar's cold and intelligent eyes glittered with mockery. The shadows from the blazing tongues of the great pyre fell upon them, and Bario felt an incredible fear as he looked at the face of the Destroyer, which had suddenly become inhuman. But a moment and the obsession was washed away.
- Of war,' Bario confirmed, 'of dragons setting foot on this continent again, first to defeat you, greatest of lords, and then to break the will of my city.
Gurro listened to nothing. Frozen, he watched with mad eyes as a hundred Jogos Nhai began to circle and dance around the pyre, praising the God of Heaven. The drums, which had been silent earlier, resurfaced, and the wind, tongue and string instruments added to the bacchanalia, sounding chaotic and yet too harmonious for the poor young man's ears.
- Mąndөr, tengarain Kurhin! - sang the moon singer and thousands of throats echoed her in unrestrained praise.
- Tand Möndөr!
He felt a movement at his side and a soft but firm touch on his arm. Turning round, he encountered the silver gaze of the Jat woman. She slowly stood up and led him behind her, to where chaos and unbridled merriment was taking place.
To the campfire.
- Mądөr, tengarain Kurhin! - she sang to him, drawing him into the dance.
A strange sensation swept over him, something that could not be described in any human words. His feet danced as if not of their own free will, and Gurro joined the crowd with the woman as another brick of a great edifice whose true design is unknown even to its builders.
The faces of the people dancing in front of him blurred - it was just him and her. The song became an extension of his soul and body, and he danced, danced, danced, ignoring weakness, ignoring the fact that his legs were beginning to fail him.
Words are power, and power is power.
And now, Gurro felt the Words, previously incomprehensible and alien, now turned into native speech, closer than anything that had come before.
If we get on the horse, We'll burn everything around us to the ground. You'll turn into remains, Beneath the ruins of castles.
Your walls will not save you, Your swords and spears will not save you, Your wives will be ours, The cities under Jatha's rule!
So we mounted our horses, We rode forth. You'll be reduced to rubble, Beneath the ruins of castles.
We'll trample your banners, No matter how many armies you send We'll take the fields and the castles We'll take the cities!
Ride on, ride on to the towns, We're at the gates You'll be turned to rubble Beneath the ruins of the castles.
It was not until late at night that Gurro was able to return to his home tent. He paid no attention to his worried uncle, nor to the promising glance of the silver-eyed Nhaika that followed him. Tired, foggy-headed and feeling completely free at the same time, he immediately surrendered to the kingdom of Morpheus.
He remained alone in his tent, which Bario's men had set up far away from the nomadic camp. It was not until the very morning that he felt firm touches on his silky hair and soft face.
Through a hazy vision, he saw a familiar face, exotic silver in his eyes.
Gurro wanted to scream in fright, but he was gagged just in time. The Jatt woman gave him a predatory smile and said in understandable but gaunt Valyrian: 'I am stealing you. You will be my man.'
No one stood in her way - the camp seemed to die out and Gurro once again cursed himself the day he had agreed to this trip, his uncle, the whores of Braavos and all the gods he could remember.
He had been thrown onto the striped horse like prey, deprived of movement beforehand. All along the way, the woman turned and smiled at him.
Gurro couldn't stand it any longer and fell unconscious, falling asleep again to the rocking motion.