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The relentless sun blazed in the distance, casting its golden heat over the dry plains. Sunbeams refracted against the arid landscape, painting the once-green grasses in hues of deep orange as the day surrendered to dusk. The clash of steel echoed through the heavy air, a harbinger of chaos.
Qarth, the jewel of Essos, was aflame. Its vibrant streets—once teeming with traders and laughter—descended into pandemonium. Screams filled the air as its people fled from the unrelenting storm of violence. Smoke and ash choked the skies, stinging the eyes of those desperate to escape. The city's opulent buildings, once painted with bright murals, dulled under the shadow of fire and destruction.
The cries of the Dothraki—sharp and wild—pierced the spirit of the city's defenders. Leading the chaos was Khal Drogo, astride his monstrous stallion, commanding the largest khalasar in recorded history. His promise of blood and glory had drawn thousands of Dothraki to his banner, inspiring them to cross the unforgiving Red Waste to plunder the fabled wealth of Qarth.
The earth trembled beneath the charge of horses as the eastern gate, torn asunder, welcomed the savages. Dothraki screamers surged forward, their bloodlust palpable, eager to paint their arakhs red.
Qarth's lords, warned of the horde weeks prior, had scoffed at the threat. Overconfident in their towering walls, they dismissed the possibility of an invasion. But lax security allowed a single Dothraki to scale the fortifications, slit the throats of unwary guards, and open the gates. Now, the city paid dearly for its hubris.
The defenders crumbled under the assault. For every Dothraki felled, four Qartheen soldiers lay dead in the dirt. The ground was soaked with blood and littered with the remnants of battle—shattered swords, broken bodies, and splintered shields. The once-mighty towers collapsed, sending rubble and dust cascading into the air.
As the city's forces faltered, the Dothraki unleashed their savagery. Screams of women echoed as the riders stormed homes and temples, leaving death and despair in their wake. Flames devoured everything in their path, and the streets became rivers of blood and ash.
Amidst the chaos, a thunderous rumble shook the ground. War elephants adorned with golden armor crashed through the remnants of the eastern gate. The Golden Company had arrived.
The mercenaries' disciplined ranks struck like a hammer. Armored elephants charged into the Dothraki, trampling horses and riders alike. The savages, clad in light tunics and armed with curved blades ill-suited against steel, found themselves at a disadvantage. In contrast, the sellswords' golden armor and swords carved through their enemies with precision.
Jon Snow moved through the fray like a specter of death. His long sword flashed as he cut down foe after foe, his movements fluid and efficient. Blood spattered his face and armor, but he pressed on, driven by purpose and adrenaline. He dispatched one warrior with a swift slash, then parried another's strike, countering with a lethal thrust to the throat.
Two Dothraki riders charged him, their arakhs glinting in the fading sunlight. The first lunged recklessly, and Jon sidestepped, driving his blade deep into the man's abdomen. The second clashed swords with him in a contest of strength. Jon feigned weakness, letting the man overextend before slashing his neck in a decisive riposte.
The tide of battle began to shift as the Golden Company pushed deeper into the city. A volley of arrows rained down, felling Dothraki riders and horses alike. The disciplined mercenaries exploited every weakness, their formations unyielding against the scattered chaos of the horde.
Jon's attention locked on a single figure amidst the chaos. A towering Dothraki, bare-chested and wielding dual arakhs with deadly precision, moved through the battlefield like a storm. His long braid, untouched by defeat, marked him as Khal Drogo. Jon watched as Drogo decapitated a man in a single swing, his savage grin framed by the blood of his enemies.
Jon retrieved a spear from the ground, narrowing his gaze. With a grunt, he hurled it toward the Khal. The spear veered off course, grazing Drogo's shoulder instead of piercing his heart. Staggering from the blow, Drogo snarled and turned, his furious gaze locking onto Jon.
The two warriors met like titans. Jon leaped forward, his sword aimed for Drogo's midsection, but the Khal deflected the strike and retaliated with a ferocious slash. Jon dodged, but the arakh nicked his brow, sending a stream of blood into his eye. He squinted, relying on his remaining vision as Drogo pressed the attack.
Their duel raged on, brutal and unrelenting. Jon's speed and agility countered Drogo's raw strength and aggression. Every strike was met with a parry, every blow with a counter. The clamor of battle faded into the background as their deadly dance continued.
With a calculated feint, Jon smashed the hilt of his sword into Drogo's face. The Khal responded with a savage kick to Jon's chest, sending him sprawling. Jon's dented armor dug into his ribs as he hit the ground, winded but undeterred. Drogo, bloodied but still formidable, loomed over him, his arakhs poised to deliver the killing blow.
Summoning his remaining strength, Jon surged upward, driving his blade into Drogo's chest. The Khal gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. "You didn't see that coming, did you?" Jon murmured coldly, twisting the sword before pulling it free.
Drogo crumpled to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring into oblivion. Jon severed his head with a final swing and hoisted it by the braid, presenting it to the battlefield. The sight of their fallen leader broke the Dothraki's spirit.
The Golden Company showed no mercy, cutting down the surrendering riders. The screams of the dying mingled with the cheers of Qarth's surviving citizens, a cacophony that reverberated through the ruined city.
As the celebration raged around him, Jon stood apart. His violet eyes scanned the carnage, a fleeting shadow of sorrow crossing his face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, unyielding indifference. The weight of victory bore down on him as he turned his back on the blood-soaked streets.
299 AC
Jon walked through the bustling streets of Braavos, his steps steady amidst the chaos. The screeches of quarrelling women and the gruff scolding of men filled the air—background noise he'd grown accustomed to. It was as predictable as the salty breeze carrying the pungent scent of fresh fish and oysters. Despite the enticing smells, Jon's appetite was absent today. The demons of his past felt too close, haunting his every thought. A drink would have to suffice. It usually did.
The inn he entered was old and unremarkable, but it offered what he sought—solitude. It was his usual haunt, a place to think or, if he were honest with himself, to brood. As he stepped inside, the familiar aromas of sweat and stale ale greeted him. Jon's lips curled into a faint, fleeting smile.
Choosing a quiet corner, he settled into a chair and waited. A young serving girl, dressed in a plain white dress, approached him, her cheeks flushing as their eyes met.
"Can I take your order?" she asked shyly.
"A pie and ale," Jon replied, his voice calm but firm. She nodded quickly, murmured a promise to return soon, and hastened away, still blushing.
Jon leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes following her retreating figure. He considered the idea of indulging in a brief distraction but shrugged it off. He'd see where the night led.
As he waited, memories of the Golden Company intruded on his thoughts—blood, betrayal, and the choices that weighed heavy on his soul. His hand tightened around his mug as he took a deep swig, the bitter ale doing little to wash away his guilt. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, of the lives he'd taken, or of the man he'd become.
The murmurs in the inn shifted, and Jon sensed someone's eyes on him. He looked up but saw no one close.
"I'm down here," a voice said.
Jon frowned and glanced under the table. A short man stared back at him, a dwarf dressed in fine red and gold silks. His mismatched eyes, one green and one black, glinted with intelligence, and he carried himself with the kind of confidence Jon rarely encountered in others.
"May I sit?" the dwarf asked.
Jon nodded, curiosity overriding his usual wariness. The man clambered onto the chair opposite him and grabbed Jon's mug, taking a long drink before setting it down with a satisfied sigh.
"Well, if it isn't the infamous Jon Snow," the dwarf said cheerily. "The bastard of Winterfell, now a rising star in the Golden Company. Quite the tale."
Jon watched him silently, his expression unreadable. "That's me."
The dwarf grinned. "Remarkable, truly. A northern bastard climbing the ranks of a sellsword company—it's the kind of story that gets tongues wagging across Essos."
Jon's patience began to wear thin. "What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
The man chuckled, unbothered by Jon's tone. "Patience, my good man. Let us enjoy a bit of conversation first." He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. "Ah, but where are my manners? I am Tyrion Lannister."
Jon's eyes narrowed. The fine clothes, the sharp wit—it all made sense now. "A Lannister. What are you doing in Essos?"
Tyrion shrugged, a sly smile on his lips. "I could ask the same of you, Snow. But to the point— I need your help."
Jon shook his head. "If help is what you're after, you've come to the wrong person."
"I think not," Tyrion replied confidently. "I've heard about you. A skilled warrior, a capable leader—exactly the kind of man I need for a rather ambitious journey."
Jon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What journey?"
Tyrion took a moment, savoring the build-up. "To Valyria."
The word landed like a thunderclap. Jon's muscles tensed, and his expression hardened. "You're mad," he hissed.
"Perhaps," Tyrion admitted, his grin unfaltering. "But madness and bravery often go hand in hand. Imagine what we might find in the ruins of the greatest civilization the world has ever known."
Jon stared at the dwarf, his mind racing. Valyria was a graveyard of legends, a place whispered about in fear and awe. No one who ventured there ever returned. "Why?" he demanded. "What could you possibly hope to gain?"
Tyrion's playful demeanor softened. "My uncle, Gerion Lannister, disappeared years ago, chasing a Valyrian treasure. I aim to find out what happened to him—and perhaps claim what he sought."
Jon leaned back, still wary but intrigued despite himself. "And you think I'd be foolish enough to join you?"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes met his with surprising earnestness. "I think you're a man with nothing left to lose. A man seeking purpose, even if he won't admit it."
Jon fell silent, his gaze dropping to the table. Tyrion's words hit closer to home than he cared to acknowledge. The heavy paw of Ghost resting on his leg brought him back to the present. The direwolf, massive and white as snow, growled softly, his red eyes watching Tyrion with caution.
Tyrion didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled in fascination. "A direwolf. The stories don't do him justice."
Jon stroked Ghost's fur, his thoughts still churning. Finally, he looked back at Tyrion. "If I agree, you'll owe me. A fortune."
The dwarf smirked, raising his mug in a mock toast. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
Jon watched him for a long moment before nodding. "I'll do it."
Tyrion's grin widened. "Then we leave at first light."
As the dwarf left the table, Jon sat back, the weight of his decision settling over him. Valyria. Madness. But perhaps, just perhaps, a chance at redemption.